Stratton held the device and scanned the first page of the instructions. He put them both down, more interested in the harness. That was the part his life would depend on.
‘Any burning questions?’ Binning asked.
Stratton picked up a bolt and placed it through one of the holes on the frame.
‘You’ll need all five in place to ensure stability,’ Binning advised him.
‘How do you release the frame afterwards?’ Stratton asked.
‘Good question,’ the young scientist said. ‘The eyelets detach from the frame itself,’ he said, demonstrating how.
‘You’re still left with the bolts in the rock,’ Stratton pointed out.
‘It’s the best we could do in the time we had. All I can suggest is that you cover the bolts with stones. I understand the value of the information gained on this operation will not be comprom - ised by the other side knowing we have it. Only complete deniability was on the wish list.’
Stratton wasn’t overjoyed. Masking an operative’s presence on target reduced the risk of pursuit. But he didn’t expect a scientist to think like an operative so he kept his criticisms to himself.
‘It’s all pretty straightforward,’ Binning added.
‘I’m glad you think so,’ Stratton muttered.
Mike scrutinised the scientist. ‘Who did the live trials on this?’
‘I did.’
‘How many?’
‘Five runs in all. On the last two the propeller was barely a metre above me.’
Stratton looked quizzically at the scientist who was wearing a cocky grin.
Binning picked his coat up from the back of a chair. ‘Why don’t I leave you to look it all over?’ he said. ‘I’ll be outside getting some fresh air if you need me.’ He paused at the door to look back at them. ‘If you don’t feel up to it, I’ll do it.’ Then he went out.
Stratton and Mike looked at each other, both wondering the same thing: was Binning Jervis’s alternative underwater specialist?
‘Couldn’t be,’ Mike said.
Stratton shrugged. ‘Jervis is a civvy as well, remember. That means he thinks like one.’ He went back to the equipment.
‘What do you think?’ Mike asked, holding up the frame and testing its strength.
‘It’s not a great plan,’ Stratton mused. ‘I hope the infil and exfil are tighter.’
‘Does that mean you’ll do it?’
Stratton was well aware of his own natural inability to refuse practically any operation, especially an unusual one. And as always he justified the decision by telling himself that he could pull out if things did not go to plan. But then, he wasn’t very good at doing that either. Other factors came into play in this case, though. The high-intensity work he had been busy with of late had become mundane. It was relatively simple. The weather and terrain of Afghanistan made the tasks challenging and their nature, either hits or observation posts, made them highly dangerous, yet they had become repetitive. The diving task sounded different. And it had something else that Stratton prized: he would be doing it alone. That gave the job a high score as far as he was concerned. If he passed on this he could be back in Afghanistan within the week. ‘We’ll give it a go,’ he said.
‘I’ll let the team know,’ Mike said, heading for the door. ‘The detailed briefing will be in about an hour. You’ll have to be on the road by midday.’
Stratton nodded, despite a distant concern tugging at him.
‘You’re a total tart, aren’t you? You can never say no,’ Mike said as he went out.
Stratton picked up the recorder’s operating instructions and began to read them.
2
The operative walked along an empty beach in near-darkness, his breath misting with each exhalation. White and gold lights from distant boats and a far-off shoreline glinted on the water. A light wind toyed with the harsh hinterland grass, the sound it made giving way to the lapping waves and the noise of his boots crunching the sand beneath, breaking the grains bonded by frozen moisture.
Stratton pulled up the collar of his jacket against the biting cold. The temperature must have been in the double minus digits now that the sun had dropped out of sight. He kept away from the water’s edge, walking close to the scrubland to reduce his silhouette.
The end of the northern mole that formed one side of the entrance to Sevastopol harbour lay less than a mile up ahead. The harbour’s illuminations had been quite visible when Stratton started out, in particular the bright red intermittent beacon at the far end of the northern mole and the green one on the tip of the southern one. A gentle bend in the coastline had put them out of sight for the moment. He did not expect to see either one again until he was in the water.
He checked the glowing face of the small GPS in his hand. The directional arrow had been pointing directly ahead when he’d first stepped onto the beach after leaving the rental car outside a quiet bar. Over the last dozen or so metres it had begun to turn towards the dense vegetation.
When the arrow pointed at a right angle to the shore Stratton stopped and took a moment to look around. He could not see another living soul. The sounds of the wind and the surf seemed to grow louder.
He sat down at the edge of the sand and looked out over the water, as if taking in the stark scenery. The bell of a distant buoy clanged somewhere across the black, shimmering water. Stratton felt conscious of the possibility that someone was watching him. Whoever it was would not be obvious. But he had reason to feel confident that he was not being monitored - not by the Russians, at least. Someone had followed him from the airport that afternoon to the small villa where he was staying. When he went out an hour or so later he identified his watcher, an old man who looked like a schoolteacher. The tail appeared to be quite good, not looking at Stratton even once. The watcher worked for MI6 and was not so much keeping tabs on the operative as looking for others who might be. Stratton had been warned to expect a friendly shadow. If the man had followed him along the beach there was no sign.
Stratton leaned back and eased himself into the scrub. He was most vulnerable now. He couldn’t play the tourist card if security forces interrupted him. Once he’d made contact with the equipment he would be screwed if they found him. Stratton didn’t hesitate.
Once he was completely hidden he turned onto his front and crawled through the tall grass. A check of the GPS indicated a waypoint five metres away. Stratton slithered into a tiny clearing and towards a patch of freshly disturbed earth. He dug at it with his hands. It did not take long to reveal a black canvas bag similar to the one Binning had brought to the SBS HQ.
Stratton unbuckled the straps and unzipped the bag. Clouds shielded most of the starlight but he could identify the familiar contents by touch: a dry diving bag, a complete set of diving accessories, a Lar 5 bubble-less rebreather primed and ready for use, lightweight body armour, a bolt gun and the now familiar frame and harness system. He took two final items from the bag: the electronic recorder inside its protective plastic casing and a P11 underwater pistol in a plastic holster. The sole weapon he had been permitted fired just as well on land. With only six rounds and no reload, its main advantage other than being able to fire underwater was a good one: because it had no moving parts and fired the slender tungsten darts electronically it was a truly silent weapon.
Stratton checked his watch. He had ample time to get ready. He took off his boots and coat and rolled out the rubber diving bag, a one-piece outfit with a long waterproof zip that ran across the back from elbow to elbow. He eased his feet all the way inside to the thin rubber booties on the ends of the leggings and pushed his hands through the wrist seals. The roomy bag could accommodate his clothes, including a thick woolly fleece to protect him against the cold temperature of the water. Before pulling his head through the neck seal that had been dutifully powdered by whoever had packed the equipment bag, he tucked his boots into the diving bag, placing one either side of his thighs, and wrapped his coat around his abdomen.