The Operative (16 page)

Seaton got to his feet. ‘Well, I’m gonna hit the sack,’ he said, stifling a yawn. ‘You know where the beer is and the TV’s in the lounge. Your room is at the top of the stairs, straight across the hall.’

‘I don’t mind crashing on the couch,’ Stratton said, feeling awkward about being a house guest.

‘Julie will. Bed’s made up and ready to jump in. Shower’s at the end of the hall. See you in the morning,’ Seaton said as he walked out of the room. Then he paused in the doorway and looked back at Stratton. ‘What I said about controlling people like Skender – I didn’t mean they should get away with murder. Those freaks who killed Sally should fry.’

As Seaton made his way upstairs Stratton found himself unsure about the man’s sincerity. He felt alone in his desire to see justice done in its most basic form. He got to his feet, picked up the file and his pack and made his way through the house and up the stairs. He was tired, having slept little since arriving in the States. But there was far too much on his mind and the more he thought about things the more daunting it all appeared. Dealing with the rules for getting Josh home was going to be difficult enough but pressurising the FBI into prosecuting Sally’s killers felt beyond him. The more Stratton thought about the legal processes, the more he was tempted by the darker solutions, such as kidnapping Josh and killing Sally’s murderers. Due diligence was beyond him but cold-blooded execution was not. If Jack could speak he’d beg Stratton to tear those two creeps apart: the world could only be a better place without them.

After a couple of hours spent lying on the bed and reading through the file Stratton nodded off. But he awoke a few hours later because of the combination of jet lag and strange surroundings. Before he could get back to sleep he found himself speculating about how to deal with the two Albanians if he chose to – physically, not legally. It would not be the first action of its kind for Stratton although it would be the first time he had planned such a thing outside the remit of British military intelligence. The important difference was not lost on him: he would be operating without the support of his government so he’d be out in the cold
and alone if anything went wrong. But that safety net had always been largely a psychological one because in just about every operation of its kind that he’d been part of in the past he would have been killed if he’d been caught.

Stratton kept pushing the idea out of his head, believing it to be bravado, but it returned each time demanding further examination. He eventually decided to humour the demons for one reason, namely that the best way to dump a plan was to prove that it couldn’t work. He began by breaking it down into phases: target assessment and vulnerabilities, methods and options, feasibility studies, equipment procurement, and evacuation plan. But he could neither dismiss nor approve any scheme due to lack of the one thing that was the key to any operation: information. He went back to the file. But it did not have sufficient detail and Stratton slowly dozed off again with it open on his chest.

When Stratton finally fell asleep for the second time it seemed like only minutes later that a knock on the bedroom door woke him up again. As he sat up tiredly it opened and Seaton stepped into the room wearing running shorts, T-shirt and trainers.

‘Want to go for a run?’ he asked.

Stratton rubbed his face in an effort to push the sleep away. ‘Sure,’ he said, not entirely meaning it. It was practically instinctive for an SF operative to say yes to such an offer, especially when it came from a foreign host in a similar profession.

‘You got any kit with you?’ Seaton asked.

‘Yeah. Give me five minutes.’

‘Great. The boys want to meet you. They’re fans of British special forces and,’ lowering his voice, ‘I’ve told them some stories about you, maybe a little polished in places, but you know what kids are like.’

Stratton forced a smile which disappeared as Seaton stepped forward and picked the file up off the floor. ‘See you in a couple minutes,’ he said as he left the room with the file tucked under one arm.

As Seaton closed the door behind him Stratton dangled his legs over the side of the bed and breathed a sigh. He wasn’t quite sure how he felt about Seaton taking the file: it seemed a little like withdrawing a gift. But perhaps he was being oversensitive. The file wasn’t his to keep anyway and he put thoughts of it out of his head.

Five minutes later Stratton walked down the stairs in running gear to see the front door open and Seaton outside stretching his legs. He was talking with two boys, both of them on BMX-type bicycles and wearing helmets, as well as knee and shin pads.

‘Hi,’ Stratton said as he stepped outside. The two boys immediately went serious and looked up at him in some kind of awe.

‘This is Bobby,’ Seaton said, introducing the older boy. Stratton shook his hand.

‘Pleased to meet you, Bobby.’

‘And your namesake, John.’

‘John,’ Stratton said as he shook the youngster’s hand.

‘They’re gonna come with us, see if they can keep up with us old-timers. But we’re going to give you guys a run for your money,’ Seaton challenged them.

‘You’re on, Dad,’ Bobby said. Both boys were grinning. ‘Which way you going?’ he asked as he pointed his bike up the path. His younger brother followed suit.

‘Ah, well, that’s the catch,’ Seaton said. ‘We get to choose the route as and when and you’ve got to see if you can hang on in there.’

‘No cheatin’ and goin’ over fences this time,’ the smaller boy piped up.

‘Okay. No fences,’ Seaton said, winking at Stratton. ‘You ready?’

‘Whenever,’ Stratton replied, getting a quick stretch in.

‘Let’s go.’

They set off down the sidewalk towards a large patch of woodland in the distance. Seaton led them across a main road empty of traffic and onto a wide earth track, moving at an easy pace. Stratton felt cold and a little stiff at first but soon warmed up and came alongside Seaton as they entered the wood. The boys pedalled along behind, hot on their heels, watching their father like young hawks as if at any moment he might attempt to make a break for it.

Stratton was feeling in good shape, having managed to get a fair bit of running in since returning from Iraq and he moved easily along. Within a mile he felt completely awake and warmed up. The two boys cruised happily behind, their little legs going like the clappers with seemingly limitless energy. Stratton wondered if Seaton’s earlier wink indicated that he had some sort of surprise in store for them. Then, as if he’d read Stratton’s thoughts, Seaton picked up the pace and suddenly darted off the track onto a narrow, muddy footpath. Stratton moved up a gear behind him, as did the boys.

The path narrowed even more as it moved out of the wood and threaded through a large patch of dense bushes. Yards before it went back into the wood Seaton bounded up a steep bank and into the trees where the ground foliage was sparse with no defined path.

The boys had trouble peddling up the bank and John had to dismount to push his bike with his brother’s help. But they quickly remounted at the top and were soon closing in.

Seaton did not relax his pace and Stratton began to wonder who he was challenging – Stratton or the boys. Whatever, Stratton felt he was up for it and with several gears still in reserve he pushed up onto Seaton’s heels.

The ground dropped away suddenly to reveal a large puddle that could not be circumnavigated without diverting through large bushes and Seaton ploughed into it. The water was only a few inches deep but the soft muddy bottom dropped the level to just below their knees and their feet were covered in a thick black sludge when they emerged on the other side.

Stratton glanced back to see the boys enter the mud pit, keeping as close to the edge as possible. It immedi ately slowed them but perseverance pulled them through. Once again they shot up to speed and closed the gap.

Seaton took a second to check on his boys. Then, as if disappointed
that he had not yet lost them, he abruptly changed direction again and speeded up.

The ground rose up a steep incline to where the trees gave way to a thick heather-like shrub and they pressed on across a large patch of open ground before descending into the wood once more. The sun had failed to break through the heavy cloud and it began to look dark enough for rain. But at this stage of the run it might have been welcome as Stratton was beginning to sweat from the humidity.

The boys had suffered a little with the lumpy undergrowth and, unable to find a rhythm, started to drop further back. Seaton was aware of this and put on another spurt.

A stream some twelve feet wide appeared across their front with a steep bank on the far side. Seaton did not slow as he leaped in up to his hips and waded through the fast-moving water. Stratton was halfway across when Seaton scrambled up the other side and pushed off at the run without looking back. When Stratton made the top of the bank he paused to look back and see the boys sliding to a halt at the edge of the stream. Bobby looked up at him, frowning. Stratton shrugged and sped off in pursuit of Seaton.

Seaton had put some distance between him and Stratton and kept the pace up across a stretch of open ground towards a line of trees. It was now obvious to Stratton that he was the focus of the race since Seaton must have been aware that his boys had stopped as he pushed on into the trees. Stratton accelerated after the other man and kept up the pace until he was at his heels again, lowering his hands in an effort to relax his shoulders and control his breathing whose rate had markedly increased. They were pounding along at a fair trot and Stratton began to wonder how much more Seaton had left in him. The man was obviously a regular runner and both were playing a game of who would break first, though Stratton was aware that Seaton’s main advantage was his knowledge of the terrain.

They hit a muddy path used by horses and Seaton kept up the pressure along it until they hit a dryer patch where it opened up as it dropped down a steep incline. Stratton put on a spurt to come alongside Seaton but as the path began to narrow again Seaton elbowed him hard in the side in a bid to take the lead. Stratton’s hackles immediately rose as he almost tripped, unsure whether or not it had been an accident.

The dip bottomed out and the path widened again. It looked straight now for a good half-mile or so. Stratton moved alongside Seaton to let him know that he was up to the pace and Seaton responded by increasing it still more. Stratton kept up with him, moving up into what he felt was probably his last gear short of an all-out and very limited sprint, doubting that he could keep up with Seaton if he increased the pace any more.

Seaton in turn, was digging as deep into his heart and lungs as he could but he knew that if Stratton pushed on ahead one step more he would not be able to stay up with him. His motivation for the race was anger and frustration but with himself, not with Stratton. The night before, talking with Stratton in the kitchen, had been the first time he’d lied to anyone about his military career and how he’d got into the CIA and he was not sure why he had done so. In the past, when the subject had come up, he’d simply avoided the details, which was only to be expected of him and befitted his clandestine aura.

Why Seaton had felt the need to build up his image in Stratton’s eyes was something that he could not understand at the time. Lying in bed later that night, unable to sleep because of it, he had finally had to accept that it was because Stratton intimidated him. Stratton made Seaton’s own perceived shortcomings more obvious and appeared to do with ease what Seaton had failed at with every effort. Normally, Seaton was confident, often ebullient and even inclined to act superior about who he was, what he did for a living and for his country. In many ways there was no reason
for him to feel otherwise for he occupied an important and privileged position. But his importance became invisible as far as he was concerned when in the company of men like Stratton. He knew it was ridiculous but he could not help it because the feeling couldn’t be dismissed as entirely psychological.

Seaton had gone to the Rangers but he had never actually joined them as he had said, and that had been after, not before attending a SEAL selection or BUDS (Basic Underwater Demolition). The biggest lie – by omission, that was – was that he had failed the selection during Hell Week, the most distressing and painful five and a half days that took place three weeks into the course. After limited sleep, endless beastings and constant berating from the SEAL directing staff Seaton began to complain of a gut problem. He was invited by the duty corman to step down from the course and start another at a later date, which was standard practice for a candidate suffering from any malady. But the thought of having to go through it all again only filled Seaton with dread. The stomach disorder had been a fabrication and he had hoped that as an officer he might somehow slide through. But it didn’t work like that in the SEALs.

Faced with no other way out Seaton went to the ‘drop area’, a decision he was to regret eternally, and rang the infamous ship’s bell that announced to all who heard it that the student whose hand gripped the white toggle had quit. For weeks after, Seaton stuck to his story of a painful gut and even managed to gain some sympathy from friends when a doctor recommended rest and medication. But what Seaton had failed to comprehend at the time, although he did some years later, was that no matter what the physi cal dilemma, no one ever gave up, and to actually ring the bell in order to quit was regarded by some as a more cowardly option than suicide – which would have been cowardly enough.