The Operative (2 page)

‘How soon?’

‘Pretty soon, I think.’ Seaton winked.

Stratton didn’t know Seaton very well. He was aware that the man was in CIA operations in the Middle East but was not a field operative like Stratton.

‘I have a present to deliver,’ Stratton said, holding up the gift.

‘We’ll catch up later.’

Stratton headed across the garden, wondering what kind of operation it would be that Seaton had hinted would be ‘pretty
soon’. But his thoughts were quickly interrupted. Most of the men greeted him as he passed and when Josh saw him he stopped in mid-battle and sprinted over at full speed.

‘Stratton!’ he shouted as he dived into his god father’s arms. ‘When’d you get back?’

‘This morning.’

‘Where’d you go? Are you allowed to tell?’

‘Only you, Josh.’

Josh looked around at his mates who had come over to join them. ‘Sorry, guys. Stratton can only tell me.’

The others looked downhearted as Josh pulled Stratton away from them. Stratton crouched so that his and Josh’s heads were close together.

The other kids looked on jealously as Josh nodded while Stratton talked. Then the boy’s eyes lit up and he looked at Stratton in disbelief. ‘True?’ he asked. ‘Bloody ’ellfire,’ he exclaimed, a bit of his mother’s northern accent sneaking into his despite the fact that he spent only a few weeks of each year with his grand -parents in Manchester.

‘Promise not to tell anyone,’ Stratton asked.

‘On pain of death,’ Josh said with immense sincerity. Stratton gave him the present and stood up as Jack joined them.

‘Thanks, Stratton,’ Josh said as he crouched to open the gift, quickly surrounded by his mates.

‘What crap did you spin him this time?’ Jack said into Stratton’s ear.

‘I took over a battle from a dying Afghan warlord and led a thousand of his men on a cavalry charge against a band of rogue Taliban insurgents coming over the border from Pakistan.’

‘Christ. He probably thinks his dad’s a complete loser while his godfather goes around winning every war single-handed.’

‘Yup,’ Stratton agreed.

Josh stood up holding the contents of his package. In one hand
he held a
pakol
, a traditional Afghani mujahedin hat, brown and shaped like a large pie, and in the other a Russian Army belt with a black buckle from the Second Armoured Division, a relic of Russia’s Afghan war.

‘What are they?’ Josh asked.

‘The hat’s from a certain Afghan warlord,’ he said, winking. ‘And the belt’s from a Russian soldier he killed in hand-to-hand combat.’

‘Wow!’ Josh exclaimed while his father rolled his eyes and shook his head.

‘Right. We’ve got a new game,’ Josh said, facing his troops with great seriousness. ‘I’m an Afghan warlord and you’re all my men. And we’re going to do a cavalry charge.’ Josh put the hat on, winked at Stratton and then ran away, followed by his obedient soldiers.

Jack sighed as he watched Josh race off. ‘If I told him you were his real dad he’d just shrug and say, “Okay, see ya, let’s go home, Stratton.” ’

‘Stratton?’ a voice called out from behind.

Stratton turned to see Bracken, Smiv and Smudge walking towards him. Smudge was a lanky SBS operative with an unusually large nose not unlike the keel of a yacht, and in his hand was a small green plastic briefcase.

‘I think I’ve got you this time,’ Smudge said.

‘Got me?’

‘Party trick,’ Smudge said, holding up the green briefcase. ‘I brought the fat.’

‘Here?’ Stratton exclaimed. ‘You must be joking.’

‘Joke I do not … Over here,’ Smudge said, heading across the garden.

‘No,’ Stratton said.

‘Just take a look,’ Smudge urged. ‘Come on – I’ve got some money to win back.’

‘Go on, Stratton,’ Bracken said. ‘At least take a look. It’s a good one.’

Stratton looked at Jack who simply shrugged, evidently in on whatever was going on.

Stratton reluctantly followed the group to the far corner of the garden where a small table stood all on its own. In the centre was a small tower of glass made of an empty champagne bottle and a slender champagne flute balanced upright on top of it.

They all stared at it in silence, the others glancing between Stratton and the table as if he knew what this was all about.

‘I don’t get it,’ Stratton finally said.

‘You’ve got to get the glass inside the bottle,’ Smudge revealed.

‘What?’ Stratton asked, unsure whether he had heard correctly.

‘The champagne glass inside the bottle … May I remind you that you were the one who said that the use of explosives was not brutality but a delicate science and that with the right formula and chemistry anything could be achieved.’

‘I never said that.’

‘Something like that,’ Smudge insisted.

‘The universe was started with a big bang,’ Bracken commented. The others ignored him.

‘All you have to do is get the glass into the bottle,’ Smudge repeated. ‘And there has to be a recognisable amount of the bottle left.’

‘The glass inside the bottle,’ Stratton said, unable to stop himself from calculating a solution.

‘One hit only,’ Smudge added, sensing that Stratton might already have a plan.

Stratton looked around at the garden, estimating the dangers. But Smudge was ahead of him.

‘Everyone goes into the house,’ Smudge said. ‘Won’t be more than like a large banger going off.’

Stratton looked at Jack who shrugged his indifference. Then
he peered closely at the bottle and flute again. ‘The glass inside the bottle,’ he said.

‘’E ’as a plan, methinks,’ Bracken said, grinning, the comment denting Smudge’s confidence.

‘You can’t touch any of the glass other than with fat,’ Smudge said. ‘One explosion, and the flute has to end up inside the bottle … You owe me a chance to get my money back.’

‘For what?’ Stratton asked.

‘That Sunni cleric in Mosul – what was ’is name?’

‘Mohamed Sah,’ Jack offered.

‘That’s ’im. You had to blow his car off the street and onto the roof of his house.’

‘He did that,’ Jack said.

‘Yeah, but I should’ve won on a technicality,’ Smudge argued. ‘The guy was supposed to have been in it at the time.’

‘You’re a sore loser, Smudge,’ Smiv chimed in.

‘I accepted it, didn’t I? I’m moving on. Stratton was the one who said he could do anything with explosives and I’m offering him another chance to prove it. What do you say? Double the Mosul bet? Two hundred quid says you can’t do it.’

Stratton was more interested in the challenge than the money.

‘I’ll match Smudge’s two ’undred,’ Bracken said.

‘I’ll ’ave some of that,’ added Smiv. ‘I can’t see how he can do that.’

‘You in, Jack?’ Smudge asked.

‘If Stratton says it can be done,’ Jack said.

They all looked at Stratton who was still studying the problem.

‘What do you think?’ Smudge asked him.

‘The question is not if, but how,’ Stratton answered.

‘No,’ Smudge said, challenging him. ‘The question is, my friend,
can
you do it?’

They watched Stratton study the table, the glass, the air above, and even the surrounding area. Finally he stood back, put his
hands on his hips, exhaled deeply and nodded to himself.

‘Is that a yes?’ Smudge asked.

‘Yes,’ Stratton finally said.

Smudge immediately looked concerned. He knew that Stratton was a master when it came to explosives but he was also canny and Smudge did not trust him. ‘One bang only,’ he reiterated.

Stratton nodded.

‘No touching any of the glass afterwards,’ Smudge added.

Stratton nodded again.

‘No picking the glass up with anything and putting it inside the bottle,’ Smudge added, trying to cover every possible catch he could think of.

‘No picking the glass up afterwards,’ Stratton said, his eyes never leaving the table as he finalised his solution. ‘Any more rules?’

Smudge looked around at the others in case they had any to add, hoping that someone had thought of something. But there was only silence. ‘Okay,’ he said.

‘I’ll match the two hundred, then,’ Jack said. ‘But my money’s on Stratton.’

‘Easy money.’ Smudge smirked.

‘Gotta go with the track record,’ Jack said.

‘Can I get in on this?’ Seaton asked, making his way into the group.

‘Absolutely,’ Smudge said. ‘’Ow much?’

‘What’s the going bet?’ the American asked.

‘Jack has two hundred,’ Smudge said.

‘Two hundred it is, then,’ Seaton said, getting out his money.

‘Right. Two hundred against,’ Smudge said as he reached for the notes.

‘No. I’d never bet against Stratton,’ Seaton said, handing the money over.

Smudge’s confidence was rocked a little once again, but he recovered. ‘Your money … Right, then,’ Smudge said as he picked
a flower from the tree and put it into the flute. ‘That has to stay in the glass that ends up in the bottle.’

‘You can’t add on things after the bet,’ Jack said.

‘The flower doesn’t matter,’ Stratton said. ‘Nice touch, Smudge.’

Smudge frowned as he held out the briefcase, insisting to himself that Stratton was bluffing.

Stratton took the case, placed it on the table and opened it up. Inside was a series of neatly organised compartments, a pristine surgical pack filled with an assortment of micro-explosives that included: a metre reel of detonator cord or cortex no thicker than a piece of spaghetti, a two-metre reel of very fine slow-burning fuse, a cartridge of four micro-detonators, a pack of PE5 (Super-X) plastic explosive packed in thin cellophane sheets like sliced processed cheese, three timers, one electronic, one mechanical and one chemical, two radio-receiver detonators, a ceramic surgical knife (non-metallic), a heavy-duty multi-tool ‘work man’ that included pliers, scissors and various other utensils, a roll of electrician’s tape, a spool of nylon fishing line, an assortment of screws and tacks, several paper-thin magnetic strips, and a remote-detonation transmitter and continuity tester.

Stratton removed the detonating cord, unravelled a short length which he cut off using the ceramic blade, then began pulling it carefully through his fingers.

‘Why’s he doing that?’ Bracken asked.

‘He’s stretching it to thin it out,’ Jack informed him.

‘I see.’ Bracken nodded. ‘Why?’

‘He’s making it a weaker charge, I suppose.’

Stratton eased the cortex through his fingers, being careful not to break it. When it was half its original thickness he wrapped it once around the neck of the bottle, just above its widest point, and cut it precisely where the ends met. The men were joined by several others and they watched with interest as Stratton removed a small piece of electrician’s tape which he stuck to the
face of his wristwatch. Then he cut two lengths of slow-burning fuse, one twelve inches long, the other double that. He attached the shorter fuse to a micro-detonator and carefully placed its tip where the two ends of the cortex met, securing it in place with the tape where it sat like a bracelet.

Stratton reached for the glass.

‘Uh-uh,’ Smudge quickly interrupted. ‘You can’t move anything. You gotta leave it in place as is.’

Stratton didn’t appear bothered about the rule revision and went back to the briefcase. He removed the reel of fishing line, unwound a couple of metres and looked up into the tree that loomed over the table. The men followed his gaze and watched the end of the line float skywards over a branch and back into his hand. He flicked the line along the branch until it was above the glass. Then he cut it, tied a slip knot and pulled it to the top of the line where it tightened in place. He released the line to check that it dangled directly above the glass, which it did nicely, then turned the line several times around the thickest part of the glass and tied it off with a knot.

‘What’s he doing?’ Smudge asked.

‘Shut up, Smudge,’ Smiv said. ‘He’s not doing anything you said he couldn’t.’

‘Whose side are you on, anyway?’ Smudge asked him.

‘I still don’t think he can do it but I’d like to see him try.’

Smudge frowned.

Josh’s head rose up between the men beside Stratton. ‘What you doing, Stratton?’

‘I’m going to blow some fat.’

‘Wow,’ Josh replied, eyes wide.

‘Would you like to light the fuse?’

Josh’s eyes lit up even more. No other reply was necessary.

The final touch was the long piece of fuse, which Stratton wrapped one end of around the nylon line just above the champagne
glass. He placed the other end beside the end of the smaller fuse-line attached to the detonator.

Several discussions immediately broke out among the men – descriptions of what was meant to happen and estimates of varying degrees of success. The general consensus seemed to be that it was an interesting idea but a doomed one.