The Operative (45 page)

Hobart nodded, though he had a niggling doubt about something which he put down to the whole military thing.

As the HRT unit moved off around the van and strung themselves out along the track towards the mine Hobart joined Seaton. ‘How big a blast is ninety pounds of RDX?’ he asked, keeping his voice low. ‘I mean, if these guys are around the mine and it goes up, can they get hurt?’

Seaton shrugged. ‘Depends where the blast is. If it’s in the mine, they could be fine as long as nothing falls on them. If it’s on the surface, say, in the vehicle, I wouldn’t want to be within five hundred yards of it.’

That was not good, Hobart thought as he looked down the track where he could make out the black silhouettes heading slowly along it.

Stratton watched the line of men move down the track while the other small group from the sedan remained at the vehicles. He headed quietly back towards his pick-up and located the white cord on the ground. He picked it up, dragged it with some care to the truck and gently opened the door so as not to make any noise.

Seaton sighed internally, wondering how this was going to turn out. He walked around the car to look back the way they’d come, his thoughts on where Stratton was at that moment. Seaton expected him to be miles away but if he was at the mine he would know that these guys were coming: their approach was not exactly stealthy.

As he turned to head back to the front of the sedan and rejoin Hobart his eyes made out a thin grey line on the ground running between the vehicles. Curious as to what it could be he crouched to take a closer look.

Stratton wound the end of the cord a couple of times around the catch inside the pick-up’s door frame and looked back through the trees at the silhouettes on the track.

Seaton reached a hand out for the cord, noting that it ran beneath both vehicles. He raised it off the ground a couple of inches, felt the abrasive crystals, released it and put his fingers to his nose. He inhaled the odour that seemed familiar.

‘Hobart!’ Seaton said as he stood up and moved away from the cord, his stare following it first into the distance towards the mine, then back the other way along the track.

Hobart, Hendrickson and the driver looked round at him, bemused by his raised voice.

‘I think you’d better move away from the vehicles,’ Seaton said as he closed on Hobart who was practically standing on the cord. Seaton reached out a hand to grab the FBI man’s arm.

Stratton pulled open the door as far as it would go, gripped it with both hands and planted his feet to get a solid purchase. Explosives are measured by the speed at which they burn and RDX combusts at around 24,000 feet per second – the speed it would travel if it was stretched out in a line, as it was in this case.

Stratton gathered himself and then swung the door as hard as he could so that it slammed shut, while at the same time turning his back to the cord and ducking away. The blast ripped outwards from the point where the cord had been struck and the door burst back open.

The explosion came out of the wood and down the track like a thunderbolt, tearing beneath both vehicles, rupturing and igniting their fuel tanks at the instant when Seaton grabbed Hobart’s shoulder. It shot along the track, swatting the entire HRT unit aside like flies. Less than a second after Stratton slammed the door the mine exploded, rocking the very ground and sending a blast of rubble and dust from the mouth of the entrance shaft like grapeshot from a giant cannon.

Stratton climbed inside the vehicle, started the engine which was still warm and drove forward through the wood all the while holding the door shut since the latch was now broken. He passed out the other side of the wood and across the stretch of rugged open ground towards the road. He kept the speed down while avoiding any large dips or bumps, conscious of the sensitivity of his cargo. Then he mounted the road and sped along it towards Twin Oaks.

As he approached the bar he could see that the lights were on and a dozen or so vehicles were parked in a haphazard manner on the open ground outside.

He slowed as he turned off the road, pulled in tightly alongside a white pick-up slightly smaller than his and stopped. He looked in through the passenger window, saw the key in the ignition and killed his engine. He shuffled across the seat, climbed out of his passenger door, grabbing his gear, and climbed up onto the truck’s bed. The white pick-up was empty and as quickly as he could he transferred his load onto it.

A few minutes later Stratton was back on the road in the white pick-up and tearing along as fast as was safe. Caliente was the last
bottleneck he had to pass through and from there he had half a dozen choices of roads to the highway and after that a hundred different routes to LA.

As he reached the end of the town he saw a white car parked on the side of the road up ahead and slowed. As he suspected, it was a police patrol car and the state trooper seated behind the steering wheel looked at Stratton as he drove past.

Stratton watched the patrol car in his rear-view mirror, waiting to see if its lights came on. Then it was out of sight.

Stratton knew better than to celebrate prematurely but he had the feeling that for the moment he had slipped the net. But now he knew for sure that the net was indeed there – and closing. He had been lucky so far, there was no doubt about it, and if he was to continue the pursuit of his objective the chances were high that he would fail.

Seaton and Hobart, on the ground beside each other, shuffled away from the heat of the flames from the burning vehicles. Hendrickson’s coat was on fire and he rolled over and over, yelling ‘Holy shit! Holy shit!’ until the flames were out.

None of the HRT crew was seriously hurt, though one had broken an ankle. Another, who had been standing on the cord when it detonated, miraculously only lost the heel of his boot.

Hobart got to his feet as his mind came back into focus. Frustration and anger began to rise in him as he realised that they had walked right into a trap. ‘Hendrickson?’ he shouted. ‘Hendrickson!’ he repeated in irritation, looking for his assistant who was beating his smoking clothing and apparently ignoring him.

‘Hendrickson!’ he shouted again, moving towards him.

Hendrickson looked up, squinting at his boss.

‘Call the goddamned cops and tell them to put out their road-blocks! And where’s that damned helicopter?’

Hendrickson shook his head and rotated a finger alongside his ear. ‘I can’t hear a thing,’ he shouted. ‘Just ringing.’

It was only when Hobart saw Hendrickson’s lips moving and could hear hardly anything he was saying that he realised his ears were ringing, too.

Stratton spent the rest of the night in a motel on the outskirts of Los Angeles and early the next morning, after grabbing a bite at a local diner, he made his way into the bustling city. Morning traffic was heavy but by nine a.m. he was parked outside a construction-equipment hire company in Mar Vista, waiting for it to open. He was the first customer to enter the reception office after the man running the desk had drawn up the blinds and turned on the computer. Ten minutes later, on completion of the paperwork, Stratton was directed to an assistant across the yard who explained how to operate the mobile work platform – or cherry-picker, as it was affectionately known – that he had hired for the day. Stratton was happy to leave a credit-card imprint for the final bill because it would not show up on any police trace for at least twenty-four hours, by which time it would all be over. One way or another.

After a brief run-through of the controls, the assistant helped him attach the mobile platform to the back of the pick-up. Minutes later Stratton was making his way through the side streets that led to Culver City.

He came to a final stop just short of an intersection that was at one of the corners of what, according to a brand new sign, was now called Skender Square. He climbed out and walked to the corner to take a look.

The east face of the pyramid shone dazzlingly as it reflected the sun’s morning rays, particularly the golden pinnacle that
looked as if it was on fire. The concourse bustled with preparations for the forthcoming ceremonies. Colourful banners connected palm trees and street lamps within the square. Several catering trucks were parked near the entrance with dozens of uniformed staff carrying in chairs, tables, linen and endless trays of food and crates of bottles. The back of a flower truck was open with a jungle of flora outside it waiting to be ferried into the building and a van drawing into the crowded drive bore a sign on its side advertising ‘Event Productions Fireworks’. In among all this and surrounding the building were dozens of security guards and the ever-present suited thugs watching all. Several of them stood on the first-floor balconies that surrounded the building, from where they could survey the scene.

Stratton walked back to the cab of the pick-up and dug into his pack for the overalls he had bought in the army-surplus store days before. He pulled them on and filled the pockets with long nylon zip-ties. In a side pouch of his pack he dug out bits and pieces of facial disguises from his first day’s shopping in LA and put on a pair of glasses. His face was already darkened by several days’ growth of facial hair. The last item was his baseball cap which he pulled down low over his forehead before walking around to the back of the pick-up, unhitching the cherry-picker and loading all the sandwich boxes onto the mobile platform itself.

The rig pushed along easily on its four wheels. Stratton waited for a break in the traffic before crossing the intersection to the corner of the square where a metal lamp-post stood, a banner hanging from its top celebrating the opening of LA’s newest and most exciting business centre.

The platform was sturdy enough to be raised without stabilisers as long as it was moved directly up and down. Stratton climbed aboard and pushed the up lever. The system, which was electrically operated and would last for hours before it needed recharging,
jerked into action as the hydraulic pumps hissed and the platform hummed skywards. He toggled the ascent lever on and off, getting used to the controls.

Stratton took a moment to look at the goings-on from his vantage point. His first observation was that every entrance of the pyramid was guarded by at least three guards and all personnel going into the building – florists, waiters, event staff – were directed to the main entrance only. Here they were searched by hand as well as by metal detector.

Stratton’s thoughts had never strayed far from Josh since the day he’d arrived in LA. His heart suddenly began to ache as he wondered where the little boy might be at that moment and how he was being treated. If the Albanians’ history was anything to go by they would care little for his well-being and there was no doubt in Stratton’s mind that they aimed to kill him eventually – if, heaven forbid, he was not dead already. Josh was insignificant to them and simply a possible means to an end. Life had no value to those animals other than the pain its loss caused others. He doubted that the boy was being kept in the office building since that would be stupid and Skender was anything but that.

Stratton had at one time considered attacking Skender’s home, not that he expected Josh to be there either, but had decided against it because the place would be well protected and it would be difficult to guarantee when the man himself would be in. In many ways the office building was an easier target because of its size and the amount of traffic in and out of it. But the main reason for going after it was that it embodied everything Skender was attempting to do in America: his change from drug, arms and human trafficker to legitimate businessman. The edifice was more than a symbol and headquarters of his new empire, it was a homage to himself, to his own vast ego. Most absurdly, it was meant as a snub to the civilised, to those who for centuries had
pursued justice, who had fought against wrong for what was plainly right. Stratton was going to hit Skender where he believed it would hurt most and, more importantly, impress upon him that there were lines that he could not cross with impunity, that a single human life had a value, and that, despite a corrupt bureaucratic and judicial system, one man
could
make a difference.

Stratton picked up the first sandwich box, removed it from its cardboard container, attached the loose wire to the battery and then, using a couple of the zip-ties, fastened it securely to the top of the lamp-post. He adjusted it so that the face with the ball-bearings packed beneath it was aimed squarely at the building.

The operation took less than a minute, once he got started. On completion he toggled the descent lever, climbed off the plat-form as it came to a final stop and pushed the cherry-picker along the street, conveniently cleared of cars for the event, to the next lamp-post.