The Hostage (27 page)

‘What do you think happened?’ Jardene asked eventually.

Stratton shrugged. ‘Henri sussed us.’

‘When?’

‘At the café. He wouldn’t have gone there if he’d twigged before. He would have ran as soon as he smelled us.’

‘Then the café was the rendezvous?’

Stratton nodded; he was certain of that. If you’re twigged on the walk you don’t stop for a coffee and let the enemy gather its forces. You take them away from your objective, keep them strung out, and you fly the first chance you get. Henri flew, the first chance he got, which was at the café. He went from there directly to the métro, the best place to screw with communications and to thin out any followers. If he flew from the café, that meant he twigged at the café.

‘Was he playing Russian, do you think?’ Jardene asked.

Playing Russian referred to the way the Russians liked to carry out anti-surveillance. Stratton had worked against them in London more than once. They were the hardest in the business to follow because they often sent a tag to shadow the hare. Jardene was suggesting that Henri had a partner experienced in surveillance who followed him from far enough back with the specific task of watching to see if anyone was following him. If he detected any suspicious behaviour his job would have been to warn Henri off.

‘It’s possible,’ Stratton said.

‘But you don’t think so.’

‘We were so god-awful I thought Henri would twig us on the first leg to the café. But he didn’t, otherwise he wouldn’t have gone there and risk exposing his contact. A half-blind tag would’ve seen the shambles and called him long before he reached the café.’

‘I see,’ Jardene said.

‘It doesn’t look as if Henri used a tag in the past since up until now he’s been followed by just two tails. A tag would’ve seen that.’

‘Right,’ Jardene said, accepting the argument. Then he voiced a notion. ‘Unless the tag had comms problems and couldn’t contact Henri until he was at the café.’

Stratton didn’t say anything. Jardene knew he was reaching. ‘I know it’s far-fetched but it could have been something like that.’

‘And maybe Henri got a call from his doctor and found out he had cancer . . . Keep it simple. Save the complicated hypothesis for your memoirs.’

Jardene flashed him a look, then thought better of telling him not to be so insubordinate. Stratton was right anyway. There were a thousand possibilities. It had to be kept to the basics otherwise the thread might be lost.

‘You don’t think there was a tag, then?’ Jardene asked.

‘No.’

‘Then Henri became suspicious at the café. How?’

Stratton would have loved to know the answer to that. ‘No one did a pass,’ Jardene added. ‘How did he know? . . . ’ he trailed off to himself. He paced the room to help him think but it wasn’t working. He was feeling the pressure and preparing himself for what was to come. He checked his watch. ‘Hank wouldn’t go to the American Embassy if he ran into trouble, would he?’ Jardene asked.

‘He’s not stupid,’ Stratton said. ‘He knew he shouldn’t have been on the ground with us. He did what he did to try and save the day and because he was the only one in the right place who could. It wasn’t his fault. It was mine.’

‘He might still turn up,’ Jardene said, trying once again to believe in his own optimism. ‘Let’s just pray he does.’ He headed for the door. ‘I expect London will call us in soon, before they talk to the French. We’ll get everyone together here first, then I expect we’ll head back as soon as we can and debrief.’

Stratton continued looking out of the window and did not acknowledge he’d heard. Jardene left the room.

Stratton went back over the day once again. He pictured Henri sitting outside the café looking calm and relaxed. Brent saw the waiter come out and speak to him, then moments later Henri followed him back into the café. A few minutes after that Henri flew from the area taking the team with him. Henri must have learned he was blown when he left the patio and went inside. Stratton was certain if he questioned the waiter he’d find out that Henri had received a telephone call. It was the caller who warned Henri he was being followed. Someone who knew about the meeting was watching the café and the surrounding streets. That someone in all probability was the actual contact. Stratton would ask for a trace on the call, as soon as the French were brought in and had calmed down enough to co-operate, but he didn’t expect to gain much from it. Anyone involved at this level of the game would know how to make a ‘safe’ call. A public phone, or a sterile mobile. Stratton had been hard on the team and didn’t in truth think they had been all that bad. They had been bunched and clumsy at times but quick to react if they felt Henri had glanced at them even once. Stratton was the one in the street nearest the café. Him and Hank. They were the ones most likely seen. Whoever it was probably walked straight past them, became suspicious and watched them. Then after seeing them hang about the corner they blew the rendezvous. That had to be it, or something like it.

Stratton felt suddenly drained. But it wasn’t just the day’s mess that was weighing heavily. It was the feeling that something was unravelling inside of him. He was tiring of his life as it was. He felt like bits of him had broken off over the past few years and he didn’t like what was left. The day rattled him on more than one front. The one area in his life he remained confident in was on the ground, on an operation, but today had proved that there were limitations. Perhaps it was being in a team. Operating alone had become his work of choice. There were signs that he had grown much more reclusive. It was only too obvious in the way he reacted to others and the way they acted towards him. Another danger sign was he didn’t care about what his colleagues thought. The work used to have a purpose for him but it had grown blurred over time. The spirit of team ethos he liked to champion in his earlier days appeared to be lost to him now.

He could not remember when it all began to go sour. It wasn’t because of Sally. He had forced that relationship, thinking it was what he wanted or needed. When she left he felt no remorse. He didn’t miss her. Perhaps she knew he wouldn’t, which was why she left. No one knew how he felt, not even Doles who liked to think he knew Stratton so well.The stubborn Jock know-it-all would remain unconvinced no matter what Stratton said.

He wondered where it would end. Perhaps when he no longer had something to aim for. If that was true, what was he aiming for now? The cracks were already starting to appear. For the present at least he could concentrate on finding whoever was responsible for Hank’s abduction. They were tied to those who tried to kidnap Spinks, and the spy was tied to them all. He was the key. There was still more to be had from this day than he had found, he knew that. He had come within inches of the spy and there was a clue out there as to who it was. But then there was a clue to every mystery in the world somewhere. Stratton only cared about this one.

Aggy sat alone in a restaurant at a small table set for two, with her back to the wall. Positioning herself so that she could watch the door and where no one could come up behind her was a habit she had developed since working over the water. She was feeling uneasy. Not because of the dinner date but about the way she was dressed. She was wearing a silk T-shirt and no bra under a small, tailored leather jacket, and a short skirt, all newly bought that afternoon. She’d given it the once-over in the hall mirror before stepping out of the house but that was while standing still. When she saw her reflection walking towards her in a shop window, she realised how provocative she looked. The T-shirt clung to her breasts, accentuating her nipples as they bounced with a freedom that left nothing to the imagination. Add to that her short lycra skirt riding up her thighs - it was far too feminine a look for her. She didn’t do sexy. If she’d had the time she might have gone back home and changed.

She pulled the sides of the jacket together to cover her breasts but as soon as she released them they fell back open and her breasts poked out again. She couldn’t sit holding her jacket closed all night. She considered not turning up but then dismissed that as cowardice. Bill might get the wrong message. She didn’t know him very well but sensed he was a bit of a tomcat. Her plans were dinner, maybe a bar or club afterwards, but nothing else, not that she was worried about him getting out of line. She was more than capable of taking care of herself.

She sensed a young man at the bar a few feet away looking at her. A quick glance at him and her immediate thought was had she seen him on the street while walking to the restaurant? Perhaps he had followed her. She looked at him again, catching his eye. He smiled and his eyes moved down her body and beneath the table, where he had enough of an angle to see her legs disappearing into her short skirt. She looked away and pressed her knees together. Why do women wear short skirts? she wondered. They’re so impractical.

She checked her watch and looked at the entrance. Bill was late. Tardiness was one of her pet hates. She considered how much quieter Covent Garden was tonight than the last time she had been to this part of town. But then it was summer, when it was daylight until gone ten and filled with tourists and shoppers. Now it was dark and cold. Aggy didn’t mind either, not since joining the detachment. She had changed in many ways over the past year. The most noticeable, according to her mum, was how much she had mellowed. She still had a temper but the job had taught her to keep it holstered. Tolerance was what she had acquired, and not just with people. She had learned to endure harsh conditions such as bad weather and discomfort. As for darkness, being out in it alone, she had developed a weird kind of attraction for it. It had taken several months to actually feel comfortable walking by herself through a wood in the middle of the night. There was something predatory about it that fascinated her. She wondered if she had stirred some primeval instinct. Before the selection course she hadn’t done a night exercise period, never mind alone. The instructors did not take such risks with women recruits; the aim was not to discourage them since so few applied for the job. Her very first night task was not only on her own but on an actual operation to re-supply an observation post in South Armagh. It was her second week on the job and not the kind of task a female operative was normally employed to do. But all the men were otherwise engaged and the ops officer wanted to test her. If she screwed up they would know her limitations.

After being dropped off by car in a quiet country lane she walked a mile and a half across fields and through woodland to the rendezvous point with one of the operatives, who had been in the field for days. On completion of the drop she continued on another memorised route for a mile to a different location, where she met the car again, driven by the ops officer himself, and they returned to the base. The gun she always carried helped her confidence but within a few months she felt she no longer needed even that psychological comfort, although she would go nowhere outside the camp without it. She had learned the key to operating alone at night was to control the imagination and understand the tricks the eyes could play.

As she took another sip of her sparkling water the man at the bar got off his stool and came over. He stopped quite close to her. ‘You waiting for someone then?’ he asked.

She looked up at him tiredly. ‘Yes,’ she said as if the answer was a glaringly obvious one.

‘He late or are you early?’

She wondered why he assumed it was a he.

‘Or is it a woman you’re waiting for?’ he added. ‘Must be. That would make more sense. I mean, I couldn’t imagine a bloke being late for a babe like you.’

She telegraphed her disinterest as best she could but he remained, undeterred. She couldn’t understand why he was unable to sense how much she wanted him to go away. It never failed to surprise her how some men could not read such obvious vibes.

‘If he doesn’t turn up, can I buy you dinner?’

‘I can afford my own dinner,’ she said.

He grinned. ‘Great. Maybe you can buy me dinner then.’

What a tit, she thought. Are there girls who actually tolerate morons like him?

She looked up at him, about to tell him to get lost, when a figure moved in behind the man. It was Bill, with a smirk on his face. The smile was for her but she did not respond. The man suddenly sensed Bill’s presence and looked around. Bill kept the grin while shifting his focus to the man.

‘Hi,’ Bill said. ‘We’ll have a couple of menus. And while you’re at it get us a nice chilled bottle of Sancerre. You do a pretty good ’96 for fifteen quid, or you did a couple months ago.’

‘I’m not a waiter,’ the man said with an attitude, not easily intimidated.

‘I’m sorry,’ Bill said with clear insincerity, looking over the man’s clothes with a critical eye. ‘I thought you were.’

They stared at each other, Bill’s smile unwavering, but his eyes had hardened.

‘Would you mind excusing us then, pal?’ Bill said. Men have different ways of sending out a warning signal. Some use body language, a tensing of the shoulders, clenched fists, a scowl, the placement of feet for balance. Bill’s warning was in his language, but it was not obvious. Those who knew him well enough would advise caution when he used the word ‘pal’ in such a way. The man sensed Bill’s confidence but he was not entirely unfamiliar with situations such as this and was not about to let himself be stepped on. He was pissing on another man’s territory, which disadvantaged him, but he nevertheless stared into Bill’s eyes long enough to retain his machismo honour then looked back at Aggy, winked and walked away.

Bill’s grin spread further across his face now that he finally had her to himself.

‘How’re you doing?’ he said and leaned down to kiss her cheek. But she turned her head to avoid it and all he got was a clumsy kiss of her ear.

It stalled him.‘I’m a naturally affectionate person,’ he said, making an excuse for his forwardness. ‘I kiss everyone hello and goodbye.’ A flush of embarrassment remained in the air between them as he sat down. ‘It’s getting chilly, don’t you think?’