Several of the newspapers provided drawings, a couple of which resembled Stratton a little, but only to those few who knew it had been him. One news programme went to great lengths to create computer graphics illustrating how the special operative might have got aboard the Morpheus in the brutal storm, risking life and limb to scale the platform after having been parachuted into the ocean some distance away. And then the superhero vanished as mysteriously as he had arrived. There was mention of another two men and a mini-submarine and an effort was made to connect the destruction of the rig with their arrival. One newspaper suggested that the operative’s attack had caused a last-stand action by the hijackers. The media knew when they were onto a good thing with the mysterious character and they made the most out of him that they could.
Stratton suspected that MI16 might be closed down, for the moment at least, and would be undergoing a thorough investigation. If anyone was being hammered about the corruption within its ranks it was Jason. He would obviously be a suspect too, something that would do nothing for his ego. But he had done well from the moment Jordan had been killed and Stratton had given a good account of his actions. Stratton was no longer sure how he felt about the man. The bloke had an inflated sense of his own importance and his plans to create a team of super-intelligent field operators proved it. No doubt that project had gone down in flames with the Morpheus. He hoped the man had seen the flaws in his ambitions. But then, Mansfield wasn’t the type to show humility - certainly not to Stratton, at least. He couldn’t see them sharing a pint.
Stratton’s phone rang. An unusual sound for him at the moment. Word had spread throughout the service that he was on suspension and was not to be contacted unless it was done through the command structure. He decided to leave the phone rather than answer it and explain to whoever it was that he couldn’t talk. After several rings it ceased. He took another sip of wine and went back to his stew. The phone rang again.
A persistent caller was unusual. Stratton took the phone out of his pocket and looked at the screen. There was no caller ID. He pushed the receive button and put the phone to his ear.
‘This is Mike. You’re allowed to talk to me, Stratton.’
It was nice to hear a friendly voice. ‘Hi. How you doing?’
‘Fine. You?’
‘Can’t remember the last time I sat around doing nothing for so long.’
‘How about that ten-day stake-out you and I did in Crossmaglen?’
‘Ah. Those good old days in South Armagh. They seem like a million years ago.’
‘This isn’t a chatty call, John. Where are you right now?’
‘Blue Boar.’
‘I hope you haven’t had much to drink.’
‘Half a glass of the Boar’s finest claret.’
‘I need you to get your arse in here. You probably look like shit with a beard ’n’ all.’
‘I may look more relaxed than normal,’ Stratton said, scratching his beard.
‘You have time to get home and clean up. There’s a couple people still on their way from London.’
Stratton could only wonder what it was all about. He checked his watch.
‘Yes, I know it’s late,’ Mike said, as if reading Stratton’s thoughts. ‘Come straight to the ops room. Oh, and put your crockpot in the freezer this time.’
The line went dead.
The crockpot reference used to be Mike’s private code for going away on an op. Perhaps now it just meant going away, as in to jail.
Stratton brushed the thoughts aside. He knew Mike well enough and could tell his mood from the tone of his voice. He’d sounded upbeat and energetic, as if he was keen to get on with something positive. Something was up. The crockpot in the freezer indicated more than a short job.
Stratton felt suddenly energised. This was good, he hoped. If it was an op, it meant he had been forgiven. Perhaps that was stretching it a little too far but it would do for the time being. He got to his feet, grabbed the old leather jacket off the back of the chair and headed to the bar to pay his bill. His favourite piece of clothing had arrived at his house from London a week before, along with the other belongings that he’d left at MI16. Stratton suspected that it had all been checked by forensics for any evidence of his involvement in the plot. They’d even examined his Jeep before it was returned by some innocuous delivery man, again from London.
Fifty minutes later he pulled into the SBS car park and climbed out of the Jeep. As he headed for the main building, fine flakes of snow began to float down from a sky the colour of wet concrete. Yet the snow refreshed him, mentally as well as physically. It conjured up memories, all of them operational in his case - days spent living in hedgerows or on mountaintops, sipping a hot drink and always watching for someone or something. He hoped that, if this meeting was all about a trip somewhere, he might be back in time to enjoy the white stuff.
He walked in through the front doors of the SBS HQ, swiped his ID card that registered his arrival as well as automatically unlocking the inner door, and headed to the ops room door. He did not have access to this one. As he reached for the buzzer the door opened and Mike stood looking at him.
Neither man moved, each studying the other, both with glib expressions. Mike’s face then cracked into a smile. ‘I think you’re going to like this one,’ he said.
Stratton didn’t return the smile. ‘You said that about the last job and I didn’t like it much at all.’
‘You only think you didn’t. You’ll be boring us all with your stories about it when you’re retired. Let’s go meet the gang.’
Stratton followed Mike through the ops room door into the curtain cubicle. Once more they stepped through into the spacious operations room with its myriad flatscreens, charts, maps and communications systems.
The tall, white-haired SBS commanding officer stood in civilian clothes talking to the operations officer and a man in a suit who had his back to Stratton. The CO glanced at Stratton on seeing the men enter and went back to his conversation.
Mike went to the immaculate young operations officer, also dressed in civvies, taking him aside for a quiet word. Stratton stood in the room feeling self-conscious. He hadn’t seen the CO since before the operation and felt something akin to shame, like the feelings he’d had years ago when he’d found himself waiting outside the headmaster’s office for a reprimand.
‘Stratton,’ the CO finally said as he moved to a group of chairs and sat down. ‘How is everything?’ he asked, wearing a thin, knowing smile.
Stratton was about to answer when the suited gentleman turned to face him. It was Sumners, his operational MI6 handler.
Sumners studied him coldly. The sight of Stratton conjured up all sorts of disagreeable thoughts, and not just about the more recent disaster. The man had a track record. Sumners despised the operative. With good reason, as far as he was concerned.
Stratton didn’t share the same degree of distaste for his London superior but he was well aware of Sumners’s feelings. It was a private hatred, though. No one else in the room knew the history behind it. In fact there were probably only a handful of people in MI6 who knew about the potentially disastrous operation that had climaxed in Jerusalem a few years back and had caused the rift between them - and they were all senior mandarins who knew how to keep a secret. Not that Stratton and Sumners had been particularly chummy before that incident. Sumners wasn’t chummy with anyone.
If Sumners had come all the way to Poole that pretty much confirmed to Stratton there was a job on. As the main liaison between MI6 and UK special forces Sumners was usually responsible for giving the intelligence outline before someone else covered an operation’s nuts and bolts.
‘You know Sumners, of course,’ the CO said.