Traitor Page 4

  Stratton reacted in panic to his mouthpiece being ripped out. He fought with all his might to wrestle free from the other man’s clutches, his single aim to get to the surface so as not to perish. But the Russian was not only more powerful than Stratton, he was on top, could breathe, and had both of his fins.

  As Stratton twisted and wriggled in vain he slid from the side of the boulder. The Russian pushed him deeper into the crevice. Stratton stretched out an arm to push himself back up and it landed squarely on something immediately familiar. He quickly found the grip of the bolt gun, hauled it up, placed the muzzle against the Russian’s ribcage under his armpit, pushed it in to release the safety catch, and pulled the trigger.The bolt shot through the man’s lungs and aorta before punching its way out the other side, followed by a stream of blood and tissue. The fight instantly went out of the Russian and his body went limp. Stratton ripped out the man’s mouthpiece, shoved it into his own mouth and sucked on it, drawing in the air.

  The sound of the speedboat circling above reached down to him. Stratton removed his own flooded diving set, unfastened the Russian’s and tossed it over his own shoulders. He took one of the man’s fins and swam away, keeping low to the bottom.

  The compass helped him head straight out to sea away from the mole for a few hundred metres before changing direction back towards the cache. The icy water leaked in through the dart holes in his suit but he had to ignore it. He surfaced once to check he was on the correct bearing to his start point and then not again until he could look out of the water with his chest still on the seabed. After ensuring that the beach was deserted and that he was facing the spot where the cache was hidden, he pulled off the fins and got to his feet. The water in his suit filled the leggings as he hurried into the bushes.

  Stratton remained still for a moment to acquaint his ears to the surrounding sounds. He had to move fast and get as far out of the area as soon as possible. He would also have to contact his people to let them know what had happened in case a change in the exfiltration plans was required.

  His shoulder suddenly began to burn. The wound had stopped bleeding but it would need a few stitches. All things considered, he had got off lightly.

  He felt under his wrist seal and removed the memory card. All in all the operation had been a success, from his point of view. That was one more job he would never do again. Bloody bolts and rocks. If those boys in MI16 wanted to do it, they could have it.

  Stratton dumped all the equipment back in the black bag and hastily covered it. Whoever had buried it originally would be back to clear up, probably before dawn. His clothes were pretty much soaked through, but he had a change back in his room. He pulled on his shoes and after a brief scan up and down the beach stepped onto the sand and made his way along it. He combed his hair with his fingers, pressing out some of the water. He would take a quick shower to wash out the salt and then get on the road.

  Stratton’s thoughts turned to something more pleasant - the crockpot in his fridge that he was looking forward to heating up and digging into, and the glass of wine to go with it.

  3

  Stratton walked through Customs into the arrivals hall at London Heathrow Terminal Five wearing his battered leather jacket and with his holdall slung over one shoulder. He scanned along the line of faces waiting for arriving passengers, recognising Ted’s large head lurking at the end of the line.

  ‘How’s it going, Ted?’ Stratton asked as he came over to the driver.

  ‘I’m grand, Stratton,’ the man replied in a Belfast accent. ‘This way,’ he pointed, indicating a set of glass doors that led outside. Ted was a regular Royal Marine who had been attached to the SBS for half a dozen years. The dependable type, he took his job as driver to the unit most seriously. ‘Did you have a good trip?’ he asked, giving Stratton a knowing glance that suggested he was privy to the intimate details of the mission, which of course he had no clue about.

  ‘I did,’ Stratton replied, with a wink.

  ‘You look fine, so you do,’ Ted assured him. ‘It’s good to have you back in one piece again.’

  As they made their way through the hall, Stratton saw a man he thought he recognised walk in from outside. The man looked strong and burly and was wearing a heavy parka with a fur-lined hood. His long jet-black hair was unkempt. Most notably he had a limp: the mobility of his left leg was restricted as he moved to get on an ascending escalator. He looked older and heavier than Stratton would have expected him to be after the couple of years since he’d last seen him. Stratton might not have recognised the man at all had it not been for his disability.

  ‘Jordan!’ Stratton called out above the cacophony of the hall.

  The man, carrying a backpack, turned his head. He glanced in Stratton’s direction before looking back up the escalator.

  ‘Jordan!’ Stratton repeated. This time the man did not respond.

  ‘That Jordan Mackay?’ Ted asked. ‘That is ’im, ain’t it,’ he decided quickly.

  Stratton dropped his bag at Ted’s feet. ‘Be back in a minute,’ he said, setting off towards a flight of stairs to the departure level where Jordan was headed.

  ‘I’ll wait right here for you,’ Ted called out.

  Stratton ran up the stairs and paused on reaching the top landing. The man was limping briskly across the not too crowded hall. ‘Jordan,’ Stratton called out again after significantly closing the gap between them.

  This time Jordan looked directly at him, appearing surprised as he stopped to face his old friend. His initially blank expression turned into a slight, vaguely tense smile. ‘Stratton.’

  ‘How are you, my old mate?’ Stratton asked, holding out a hand.

  Jordan shook it firmly, appearing to warm to the meeting, if somewhat reluctantly. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘You look well,’ Stratton offered. ‘A little heavier around the middle, perhaps,’ he added to remain honest.

  Stratton suddenly suspected that Jordan had heard him call his name the first time but had wanted to avoid their meeting. In truth, Stratton shared some of that reluctance himself but would not succumb to it. His feeling of guilt formed an effective pyschological barrier between them but a strong sense of old loyalty had pushed him through it. Despite Jordan’s unease, he did not regret meeting him.

  ‘You look tired,’ Jordan said. ‘They still working you every hour God sends?’

  ‘Is it any easier being a civilian?’

  Jordan shrugged. ‘When you’re off the clock nobody bothers you, at least.’

  ‘There’s something to be said for that.You off on holiday or work?’

  Jordan hesitated. ‘North Sea,’ he answered finally. ‘I’m a dive supervisor.’

  ‘On a platform?’

  ‘One you know well enough. The Morpheus.’

  ‘Crawled all over that a few times, haven’t we? How does it feel? I mean, working on it as a civvy.’

  ‘I’d rather land on it by chopper on a nice sunny afternoon than climb it from the ogin in a Force Twelve in the middle of the bloody night.’

  They laughed at the memories, Jordan enjoying the moment more than he felt comfortable with.

  ‘Pay’s better, too,’ Jordan added. ‘That’s all that counts these days.’

  Stratton maintained a smile. Jordan had never used to be interested in the money beyond providing for his basic needs. It was obvious what was missing in him. Stratton looked into Jordan’s now soulless eyes and could only remember the good times - his hearty laughter at even the poorest of jokes, his tenacity as an underweight prop on the rugby field, always giving as good as he got. That was long before he’d got the duff leg that had ended his career in the SBS.

  Jordan looked at his watch and glanced over his shoulder towards the check-in counters.

  ‘I’ve got to get going too,’ Stratton said. ‘It was good to see you. Do you ever get down to the reunions?’

  ‘Nah. Maybe one day. Too soon for me.’

  Stratton understood. ‘Where you liv
ing now?’

  ‘I’m in the middle of moving,’ Jordan said, stepping back to end the conversation. ‘Maybe I’ll surprise you in Poole one day.’ He gave Stratton a wave and turned away.

  Stratton watched Jordan cross the hall. The sight of the man limping caused him a fresh pang of guilt. He couldn’t help wondering what things would have been like had that fateful day never occurred. Jordan would without a doubt have remained in the SBS, as well as staying one of Stratton’s firm friends.

  Stratton turned and made his way back to Ted. The two of them went out to the car park.

  ‘How is he?’ Ted asked.

  ‘Seems fine.’

  The driver nodded. ‘Real shame about his leg.’

  Stratton glanced at the driver, who gave nothing away. Jordan’s injury had been officially judged as an operational acceptability but a lot of people believed it had been Stratton’s fault.

  It was still dark outside when the operative got out of bed the following morning, feeling the aches and pains from the underwater battle. Stratton’s shoulder throbbed a little and he removed the bandage to reveal a clean, stitched wound. He picked a heavy sweatshirt up off the floor, pulled it on against the cold and walked into the kitchen to make a brew. He opened the fridge, took out the crockpot, inspected the contents with approval and plugged it into a socket.

  A flapping sound. He looked through the window in time to see the pheasant bowl in over the snow-coated hedge. Stratton quietly opened the back door and threw out some bread. The bird see-sawed over to the crust and took a peck at it just as Stratton’s phone rang. The pheasant took flight.

  Stratton sighed as he looked at the phone. ‘Some things are just not meant to be,’ he muttered and put it to his ear. ‘This is Stratton on his day off. How can I help?’

  ‘It’s Mike.’

  ‘Morning, Mike,’ the operative said. The kettle boiled and clicked off.

  ‘I need you to come in.’

  Stratton sensed the urgency in his voice. ‘Is this an unplug-your-crockpot-and-come-in call?’

  ‘No. You can leave it plugged in this time.’

  ‘It’s not urgent, then?’

  ‘We need to have a conversation. But not over the phone.’

  Stratton poured boiling water into a mug. ‘Okay. I’ll see you in a bit.’

  The phone went dead. Stratton dumped his tea bag in the bin, added some milk to the mug and took a sip, wondering what it could be about.

  When Mike saw Stratton in the doorway of his office an hour later his expression matched his earlier tone. ‘Come in and close the door.’

  The sergeant major took a moment to decide how to introduce the subject. He would have been utterly direct with just about anyone else. But Stratton was not only an old friend, he was a thoroughbred in the business and although not a prima donna he demanded a level of respect. ‘The op in Sevastopol . . . when you dumped the recorder, did you see if it self-destructed?’

  ‘Is that a joke?’ Stratton asked. He already had an idea where the conversation was going.

  ‘The Russians found it, apparently. The self-destruct device didn’t work.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Stratton said. ‘Anything else?’ He went cold. It was obvious the blame-shifting had begun.

  ‘Yes,’ Mike answered. This would be even more difficult. ‘The memory card was blank.’

  Stratton stared at the man. All the effort and his own near-death experience had been for nothing. London must be going mental.

  ‘The boffins at MI16 are saying that the device was in perfect working condition when you received it and that it failed to record or self-destruct because you didn’t turn it on properly.’

  Stratton’s hackles rose and he leaned forward, his dark green eyes narrowing. ‘I don’t give a monkey’s backside what those pricks say. My post-operational report gives specific details of every step I took. I turned it on. I armed it. I used it. I removed the memory card.’

  ‘No one’s suggesting that you’re lying.’

  ‘No. Just that I’m a wanker.’

  ‘Come on, John.’

  ‘Then why am I here?’

  ‘Your report does reveal that you didn’t follow every step precisely.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘You didn’t check to see if the device had remained armed after you removed the card.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said—’

  ‘I heard what you said. I want to know where it’s coming from.’

  ‘The recorder’s instructions clearly state that when the card—’

  ‘Those instructions were written by someone who’s never done anything except sit behind a bloody desk. If it needed double-checking in the middle of a scrap it shouldn’t have been used in the field.’

  ‘Okay, okay,’ Mike said, holding up his hands. ‘Don’t have a go at me. I just want you to know what’s being said, that’s all.’

  ‘By those tossers in Sixteen?’

  ‘No. Not just by them . . . Perhaps someone is trying to discredit us.’

  Stratton sat back, his mood still simmering.

  ‘Everything’s becoming specialised these days. There seems to be a new unit springing up for every type of task. Look how the surveillance roles have changed. Us and the lads in Hereford used to do it all outside London. Now that’s been compartmentalised and we hardly get a look-in. SRR does it all. Maybe we’re getting squeezed out of other specialised roles.’

  ‘Mike, I don’t give a toss. But I do when I’m blamed for screwing up when I didn’t . . . What has London said?’

  ‘Nothing yet. Calm before the storm, probably. The Russians probably think we completed the mission since they found the recorder without the memory card. I don’t know if that makes it easier to go back in again or not.’

  ‘I’m not doing that.’

  ‘I think that’s the point. They won’t ask again.’

  Stratton felt psychologically wounded. He would have liked them to ask him to go back in again, which would have proved their confidence in him. He would have refused happily.

  ‘There’s something else that’s going to piss you off, I’m afraid. You’re to spend a day at MI16.’

  Stratton eyed him, his look asking the obvious question.

  ‘Let’s call it a bit of cross-training.’

  ‘They’re teaching me or I’m teaching them?’

  ‘They’re going to talk to you about the kit.’

  ‘They’re training me?’

  ‘It’s politics.’

  ‘It’s an admission of guilt.’

  ‘It’s a compromise.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘Perhaps you’re going to help start up their operations side.’

  ‘That’s another joke, right?’

  ‘It was when I said it. Now I’m not sure if it is.’

  Stratton shook his head, displeased with the whole subject.

  ‘We can’t halt progress. Spend a day or two up there. Charm them. Don’t let them wind you up. And don’t fill any of ’em in.’

  Stratton had a sudden thought. ‘Tell me something. Be honest. Do people think I’m losing my touch?’

  Mike averted his eyes, as if Stratton had hit on something.

  Stratton read it like a poster on the wall. ‘Is that what you think?’

  ‘No. But I do wonder if you might be getting complacent. It’s not so much that you’ve lost your edge as that the edge has lost you.’

  Stratton could not deny that Mike might have a point. It would explain his feelings of late. It wasn’t boredom, as he sometimes thought. But whatever it was, complacency could well be a symptom.

  Mike leaned forward and softened his voice to hammer the point home. ‘You’ve done more of these kinds of ops than anyone. You’ve flown too close to the sun too many times, my friend. Maybe it’s time to be honest with yourself. I’ll believe you if you tell me you’re fine. But just take a while to think about it. You know better than anyone.
Compare yourself, your enthusiasm now, with your glory days. And don’t let laid-back and blasé become confused with experienced. We both know the difference.’

  Stratton considered this. He didn’t believe he was so far gone as to risk screwing up an operation. But his cynicism had increased over the years. And this wasn’t the first time accusations like these had been levelled at him. Either way he couldn’t bully his way out of it. If people thought he was losing it they had to change their own minds. He would not be able to do it for them. Even Mike obviously had his doubts, and he knew Stratton better than most. Stratton reckoned he had two choices. He could throw his teddies out of his pram and get all upset about it or he could toe the line. Perhaps he needed a new perspective on things. He didn’t think that visiting those twats in Sixteen would help any.Yet something positive could come out of it. He might even be able to prove the recorder was faulty and not him. And London might look favourably on him for going up there. Better than moping around in Poole.

  ‘When do you want me to go?’ Stratton asked.

  Mike wondered if it was an admission of some kind or if Stratton was just playing the game. ‘You plugged in that crockpot of yours?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Mike smiled. ‘Take a few days off, then. How’s the shoulder?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Go for a long run . . . a couple of long runs. I’ll tell ’em you’ll be up there first thing Monday morning.’

  Stratton got to his feet and went to the door.

  ‘Everyone has dips and bumps, Stratton. Don’t take it so hard.’

  ‘This isn’t a rugby club, Mike.’ He opened the door and walked out.

  Mike had to ask himself whether he would give Stratton a call if a special landed on his desk tomorrow morning. For the first time he wondered if he would.

  4

  A white and red Super Puma Eurocopter thundered across the blue-grey waters of the North Sea into the Beryl Oil Field, midway between the Shetlands and the Norwegian coastline. Without a cloud in the sky the sunlight reflected off the sea like the glittering of a million crystals.