The Operative (24 page)

Stratton stepped into the cavernous crowded hall and paused to look around. The courthouse interior was an L-shaped
configuration with half a dozen doors staggered either side of the longer wing. The broader, shorter wing housed the entrances to three courtrooms that appeared to be in full swing with spec -tators and legal representatives milling in and out through the large double doors.

A police officer was crossing the lobby and Stratton moved to intercept him. ‘Excuse me, officer,’ he said in a southern accent. He wore a broad, innocent smile.

The officer glanced at him without slowing.

‘Where are the detainees awaiting arraignment kept?’ Stratton asked, moving to keep pace with him.

‘That door at the end,’ the officer said, pointing as he headed down the longer wing.

‘Thank you,’ Stratton said, stopping as the officer disappeared into the crowd. Stratton had rehearsed his American accents all morning while getting ready in his apartment and more loudly as he’d walked to the courthouse, trying to select one that was suitable. He eventually went for the Southern accent simply because, although it sounded almost ridiculous to him and far too exaggerated, he could hang on to it better than any of the others.

Stratton looked towards the door indicated by the cop. It was at the far end of the lobby, past the courtroom entrances. A guard was standing in front of it – obstacle number two.

Stratton was happy with the plan so far and decided to take it to the next stage, once he’d had a moment to compose himself and rethink his dialogue. As he moved through the crowd and approached the guard he put his broad smile back on. ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘I’m here to see Leka Bufi – he’s a prisoner awaiting arraignment.’

‘You his attorney?’

‘One of them. I’m from Myers and Carrington,’ Stratton said, quoting the company’s name from the file. But the officer didn’t seem interested in the information.

‘Raise your hands, please, sir,’ the officer asked.

‘Oh,’ Stratton said, acting surprised and maintaining his nerdy act. He held out his arms as if he was being crucified and a pain shot across his chest. He tried to disguise his wincing.

The guard noticed it and was also curious about Stratton’s bruises.

Stratton widened his grin. ‘I was having a fight and a game of hockey broke out,’ he said.

The officer ignored the weak attempt at humour as he ran a metal detector over Stratton’s body. It beeped at his buckle which was, as before, ignored and again when it detected the change in his pocket.

Stratton hurriedly took the money out to show the officer who checked the pocket again before running the detector over his case. Satisfied, he pushed a button and the door buzzed.

‘You can go through, sir,’ the officer said.

Stratton nodded his thanks and as he reached for the handle the door opened. A man in a suit and carrying an expensive leather briefcase pushed through.

‘Excuse me,’ the man said, almost bumping into Stratton as he hurried across the hall and into one of the courtrooms.

Stratton walked through the door and as it closed behind him he paused to look at the only way ahead: a flight of stairs going down. He followed them to the first landing where a woman with an armful of files and a pen gripped in her teeth made her way up past him. Then he carried on to the bottom and found himself facing a door with a small security window set in it.

He peered through the little window to see a long, clinical-looking hallway with four or five cubicles to a side. There was no sign of life. He turned the handle to find the door locked. On the wall was a button beneath a rectangular patch, evidence that a sign had once existed there. He pushed the button. A buzzer sounded inside and he waited a moment before hitting it again.
He watched patiently through the glass but there was no movement and the only sound was the muffled tread of foot traffic in the courthouse above. His finger was hovering over the button once again when a door opened at the far end of the hallway and a hatless police officer walked along it towards him.

Stratton stepped away from the window. A key turned in the lock and a second later the door opened. He faced the officer who looked at him dryly, a clipboard in his hand.

Stratton beamed his nerdy smile once again. ‘Hi,’ he said.

The officer just looked at him.

‘I’m Jud Bailey, assistant to Aaron Myers,’ he continued in his Southern accent, which all of a sudden sounded to him like a Scouser’s. The officer did not appear to notice.

‘Who do you represent, sir?’ the officer asked as he checked his clipboard.

‘Leka Bufi.’

‘What was your name again?’

‘Jud Bailey.’

‘You’re half an hour early,’ the officer said.

‘I must be eager, I guess. Okay if I wait?’

‘I can’t let you see your client without your attorney.’

‘That’s okay,’ Stratton said. ‘I gotta buncha paperwork to do anyhows.’

‘You can wait over there,’ the officer said, indicating a couple of lightweight plastic chairs against a wall in a small alcove. A water dispenser was the only other furnishing.

‘Thanks,’ Stratton said, stepping into the alcove as the officer locked the door behind him and placed the key, which was on a chain, in his pocket. ‘Where is he?’ Stratton asked.

‘Who, sir?’

‘Mister Bufi?’

‘I’m not sure if he’s come up yet, sir. They’ll put him in one of the booths when one’s free.’

‘Thanks again,’ Stratton said, beaming as he headed for one of the plastic chairs and sat on it. ‘You have yourself a good day.’

The officer walked away without replying and Stratton wondered if he’d been a little over the top with the accent. He heard the officer walk down the corridor and pass through the door at the end. A muffled sound seemed to rise gradually from the floor: he realised it was the noise of voices from some of the cubicles.

Stratton got up and leaned around the corner. The corridor was empty.

He sat back down, put his case on the seat beside him, took his packet of chewing gum from a pocket, removed a stick, unwrapped it, put it in his mouth and started to chew it. A door opened and closed somewhere and then it went quiet again but for the muffled conversations.

Obstacle three dealt with, Stratton thought to himself. All he needed to do now was locate Leka. But this was supposed to be only a test run: there was no point in attempting the next phase now unless he was going to go through with it. He’d gone far enough for the day and it was time to call the guard. But there was one slight snag. If he did decide to return the following day – the last opportunity he’d have, in fact – there might be a problem since he had given the legal assistant’s name to the officer. If the real guy turned up after Stratton left, Stratton might not be able to return.

That was no small problem, Stratton decided, and one that he should have anticipated. But he’d been too keen to test his plan. The truth was that few plans got to be tested in this way and deep down Stratton was still struggling against the notion of carrying it out for real. He was torn between thinking it was the right thing to do and the cautious inclination not to take pointless risks just to satisfy a need for revenge.

Stratton decided to carry on with the test and see where it led. The chances were that it would prove to be impossible
anyway. He shut off the disputing voices in his head, opened his briefcase, removed a file, stepped into the corridor dividing the cubicles and walked slowly along it.

As he drew level with the first two cubicles he paused to look inside through their security-glass windows set in the walls. All the cubicles were the same design: there were two heavy metal doors, one to the corridor, the other no doubt leading to the cells, a small table and two lightweight plastic chairs either side of it. These first cubicles were empty. Stratton tapped the window which was, he reckoned, some thirty millimetres thick and doubtless bullet-proof.

He carried on walking, pretending to read the file, and glanced into the next cubicle where two men were seated at the table opposite each other. The one facing him was dressed in a business suit, the other, small and red-haired, was wearing an orange one-piece prisoner overall. The guy in the suit glanced up at Stratton who moved on.

The opposite cubicle was also occupied by a lawyer and a prisoner who did not resemble Bufi either.

The next cubicle was empty. The one opposite contained a female prisoner and a lawyer.

The second-to-last cubicle was also empty but as Stratton was about to pass it the inside door opened and a prisoner was led in. Stratton saw that it was Bufi. An officer stood in the doorway, indicating for him to sit in the far chair. The officer glanced up at Stratton who went back to pretending to read his file and carried on out of view.

A moment later Stratton heard the cubicle door close and he turned around, walked back and stopped outside the window to look into the room again. Bufi was seated with his back to the glass.

Stratton studied the man who was large and ape-like. In that moment all he could see was him beating Sally with his powerful
hands. It was obvious there would never be a time better than this to kill the man – Stratton had seconds to make a decision. He decided that fate had put him in this position and that he could not pass the chance by.

He checked quickly to see that no one was looking from any of the other cubicles, stepped away from the glass and put the file on the floor. Then he removed the pack of gum from his pocket, shook out the remaining stick and unwrapped it. He rolled it around quickly in his hands until it was soft and then fashioned it into a small conical pyramid. He selected a quarter from his change, pushed the SX carefully onto one of its faces, took the chewing gum from his mouth, stuck it to the other side of the coin and pushed it against the glass directly behind Bufi’s head which was only inches away.

Stratton quickly turned his belt buckle over to reveal a small length of metal, no bigger than half a matchstick and held in place by gum. As he removed it a tail of black string attached to one end uncoiled: he carefully pushed the end no more than a couple of millimetres into the top of the conical pyramid.

He made another quick sweep of the cubicles as he took out a folding packet of matches, tore one from the strip and checked Bufi – he had not moved. This was it, the moment of no return. The hell with it, Stratton decided and struck the match.

As it burst into flame a loud buzzer sounded. Stratton looked up to see a lawyer inside one of the cubicles standing at the door to the corridor. Stratton shook the match out and headed back down the corridor to the seating area as the officer entered from the door at the opposite end. Stratton barely made it around the corner as the officer headed for the cubicle. The sound of a key turning in a lock was followed by voices as the lawyer thanked the officer.

Stratton could only pray that neither man saw the quarter stuck to the glass. Then he remembered his file on the floor. A second
later the officer and lawyer arrived at the main door, which the officer then unlocked. The lawyer passed through and as the officer closed the door and locked it again he glanced at Stratton who smiled pathetically.

The officer walked away and Stratton listened intently, waiting for his footsteps to pause. But they continued to the end of the corridor and passed through the door there which clanged as it shut. Then there was silence.

Stratton got to his feet and looked round the corner to see the quarter and file where he had left them. He prepared another match as he approached. Bufi had not moved but as Stratton was about to strike the match the Albanian turned to look at him. He could not see the matches in Stratton’s hand below the level of the window and if he noticed the quarter stuck to the glass he did not react to it, more interested in Stratton who was staring at him.

Stratton smiled. Bufi gave him a chilling look before turning his back on him again.

Stratton lost his smile and struck the match. Back at the point of no return, he mused. From here on the plan was in its weakest phase: it relied on several factors that were hopeful rather than probable. The choice was a simple enough one: quit now or get the hell on with it. He chose to follow his heart and get on with it but felt suddenly and uncharacteristically nervous. His stomach began to churn. It was strange but he reckoned he knew why. Working against an enemy of his country was, after all, his job and the support he had from his government under such circumstances gave him the confidence he needed. But on this mission he was truly on his own – especially if he was caught.

Then Stratton looked at the man who had slaughtered Sally. He remembered her voice on the phone followed by her screams and then the sound of Josh crying. He touched the match’s flame to the bottom of the length of black string, which immediately ignited.
He extinguished the match, picked the file off the floor and hurried back to the seating area.

The explosion was surprisingly loud for such a small piece of plastic, accentuated by the flat surfaces and confined space. Seconds later an alarm bell sounded as smoke began to drift along the corridor.

Stratton dropped to the floor as the sound of buzzers joined the alarm bell. The lawyers and defendants in the cubicles wanted out. The door beside Stratton opened and an officer stepped in, holding his gun.