Stratton had at one time considered attacking Skender’s home, not that he expected Josh to be there either, but had decided against it because the place would be well protected and it would be difficult to guarantee when the man himself would be in. In many ways the office building was an easier target because of its size and the amount of traffic in and out of it. But the main reason for going after it was that it embodied everything Skender was attempting to do in America: his change from drug, arms and human trafficker to legitimate businessman. The edifice was more than a symbol and headquarters of his new empire, it was a homage to himself, to his own vast ego. Most absurdly, it was meant as a snub to the civilised, to those who for centuries had pursued justice, who had fought against wrong for what was plainly right. Stratton was going to hit Skender where he believed it would hurt most and, more importantly, impress upon him that there were lines that he could not cross with impunity, that a single human life had a value, and that, despite a corrupt bureaucratic and judicial system, one man could make a difference.
Stratton picked up the first sandwich box, removed it from its cardboard container, attached the loose wire to the battery and then, using a couple of the zip-ties, fastened it securely to the top of the lamp-post. He adjusted it so that the face with the ball-bearings packed beneath it was aimed squarely at the building.
The operation took less than a minute, once he got started. On completion he toggled the descent lever, climbed off the plat-form as it came to a final stop and pushed the cherry-picker along the street, conveniently cleared of cars for the event, to the next lamp-post.
By the third installation Stratton had the working of the plat-form down pat and was able to increase the speed of attaching the claymores. It took a little over two hours to arm all thirty-two lamp-posts that surrounded the building. He did this without drawing any attention from the several cop cars that passed. Even a security guard who watched him for several minutes as he prepped the lamp-posts in front of the driveway entrance obviously wasn’t suspicious.
On completion of the final claymore installation Stratton crossed the road back to the pick-up and pushed the platform in to the kerb behind it.
The pick-up was a concern to him: he needed to take it some-where soon and abandon it. But the next phase of the operation weighed heavier on his mind. His original plan had been to get inside the building as a contractor. The file he had taken from the engineer’s car revealed that a cable company had yet to wire in an audio/visual system and Stratton had contemplated posing as a technician. But that would have meant making an appointment and there was the risk that if his credentials were checked he could find himself in a trap. Stratton was once more contemplating the prospects of postponing the operation until he could come up with a new idea but more delay meant more suffering for Josh. His anxiety level rose in proportion to his frustration.
A car screeched to a halt behind the platform and Stratton spun around, adrenalin pumping. It was a beat-up old Lincoln town car and the driver’s door burst open as a young black guy pulled himself out. He was wearing a red waistcoat, white shirt and black slacks, the same uniform worn by the dozens of staff in attendance at Skender’s building. Stratton instantly saw a way through his dilemma.
As the man slammed his car door and hurried towards Stratton to pass him by, Stratton jumped out in front of him with his hands up as if he was a basketball referee stopping play. ‘Hey, hey, wait up, wait up,’ Stratton said.
‘What?’ the man said in surprise, adjusting his forward momentum to move around Stratton. ‘Outta my way, man. I’m late for work.’
‘No, wait. Just one minute. One minute,’ Stratton said, shuffling backwards to keep in front of him. ‘I’ll make it worth your while,’ he said in an American twang, not wanting to confuse the issue further by appearing to be a foreigner.
‘What’s your problem, man?’ the black man said, slowing a little. ‘I gotta get to work.’
‘How much you getting paid for this gig?’ Stratton asked, his accent now the Southern slur that he seemed to feel more comfortable with.
‘What?’ the man said, bemused by the question. But the lure of easy money was powerful and even anindirect hint of it could shift a person’s focus.
‘You’re part of the catering staff for this opening ceremony behind me, right? How much you getting paid?’ Stratton asked. ‘I’ll pay you what you’re getting just for telling me.’
The offer, although bizarre, blunted the man’s enthusiasm to get away quite so quickly. He took a longer look at Stratton. ‘Say what?’
‘Tell me how much you’re getting paid and I’ll pay you the same, right now, right here.’
The temptation then gave way to suspicion since the man had been brought up to know that there was easy money and then there was too-easy money. ‘You a crazy motherfucker?’
‘I’m not crazy. I’ll prove it. How much are you getting paid?’
The man looked Stratton up and down, knowing there was only one way to finish this conversation. ‘Hunnerd and fifty bucks.’
‘Hundred and fifty?’
‘That’s what I said. Let’s see the money, then,’ he said with a contemptuous, doubting smirk.
Stratton reached into his back pocket, took out a wedge of bills, counted a hundred and fifty and handed them to the man who was frankly stunned. ‘You sure you ain’t crazy?’ he asked.
‘Not at all,’ Stratton said. ‘How would you like to earn another five hundred? In fact, make that a thousand.’
‘What?’
‘You heard what I said.’
‘What I gotta do, kill some motherfucker?’
‘Nope. Nothing illegal. Just a favour.’
‘What favour?’
‘See that platform? I need you to take it back to the place I hired it from, drop it off, and that’s it.’
‘Take that back to the hire company?’ the black man said, glancing at the platform.
‘That’s right,’ Stratton said, taking the invoice from his pocket and showing the man. ‘It’s on Venice and Overland.’
‘Venice and Overland?’ the man said, inspecting the invoice. ‘That’s a buncha motherfucken’ miles from here.’
‘I’ll give you five hundred dollars now, and when you get there they’ll give you my five hundred dollars deposit, which you can keep,’ Stratton said, lying about the deposit. But any incentive he could think of to sweeten the deal could only help.
The man was almost hooked but a doubt still lingered. ‘I don’t get it. Why you gonna give me a thousand dollars to wheel that motherfucker back to the hire company?’
‘Okay, I’m gonna tell you, but it’s confidential. What’s your name?’
‘Grant.’
‘I’m gonna tell you a secret, Grant, but you gotta promise to keep it to yourself or the deal’s off.’
Grant remained confused but the offer of more money had a positive effect. ‘Okay.’
‘Promise?’
‘I promise,’ he said, as if he was talking to his kid brother.
‘I’m a photographer for People magazine. You heard of People magazine?’
‘Sure.’
‘Well, I hired this platform so I could take photos of the celebri-ties going into the gig, but when I got here I found out they won’t let me push it in close enough. So I’m standing here trying to figure out how I’m gonna get in there, and I see you.’
Grant looked at Stratton, then down at his own clothes. ‘You wanna get in as a waiter,’ he said, figuring it out, a smile growing on his face.