Jardene was not in denial, but it was his responsibility to remain optimistic.‘We’ll have to tell the French soon.They’ll have to know . . . We’ll need their help in finding him.’
Stratton’s phone vibrated and he raised it to his ear. ‘Yes?’ he said and listened for a moment. Jardene watched Stratton’s eyes, looking for any sign of good news even though he knew the man well enough to know his expression would give nothing away. Stratton would tell him they had found Hank alive and well or brutally murdered in the same casual manner.
‘Okay,’ Stratton said to the caller. ‘Stay there until you’re recalled.’ He thumbed the end-call button, pocketed the phone and said nothing to Jardene.
‘London’s going bloody apeshit,’ Jardene said.
Stratton could sense something accusatory in his tone. Or perhaps he was being overly sensitive to the inevitable. The first question they would ask was who the ground team leader was. His name would have been the first that they cursed. Screw them, he thought.They couldn’t be any harder on him than he’d been on himself.
‘I wouldn’t want to be in the boss’s shoes when the call is made to Washington,’ Jardene said.‘The Yanks’ll go through the roof . . . God, it doesn’t even bear thinking about. American Special Forces operative unofficially working for the Brits kidnapped while on illegal surveillance operation in France, and technically against the IRA.’ He couldn’t believe it himself. ‘The implications just go on and on. We can always tell the French to sod off and pipe down but the Americans are going to want someone’s head on a pike.’
And shit rolls downhill, Stratton thought. He knew where a good part of the British shit would ultimately settle though. Around Hank himself. He would be buried in the stuff, especially if he wasn’t able to defend himself. London would wriggle all it could to focus much of the blame on poor old Hank, despite the fact he should not have been on the ground in the first place. The head most likely to roll in the unit itself was Jardene’s. He was the officer in command. Stratton would get dragged over the coals at the court of inquiry as the ground supervisor, but at the end of the day he was a field operative. It was one of the advantages of being a non-commissioned officer when commissioned ranks were on the ground. They got the glory that came with success - and the crap that came with failure. Jardene had been in the embassy throughout the op and therefore as good as in the field. He didn’t interfere with the ground op because he trusted Stratton, not that there was anything he could have done to help direct the operation anyhow. His experience of foot surveillance was virtually zero. If an operation came up next week somewhere in the world and Stratton was available he’d probably be on it. Life would soon be back to normal for him apart from the occasional dig from other operatives. It would not be long before it became an amusing story; such was the sick humour of the service. But it would be a serious bump in Jardene’s career. Jardene undoubtedly had dreams of commanding the squadron one day. He was capable enough. But if there was competition for the post, what happened today might be the foot to kick the chair out from under him. The Yanks would not forget and might even be offended if the officer who lost one of their boys became CO of a unit they considered a sister.
‘What do you think happened?’ Jardene asked eventually.
Stratton shrugged. ‘Henri sussed us.’
‘When?’
‘At the cafe. He wouldn’t have gone there if he’d twigged before. He would have ran as soon as he smelled us.’
‘Then the cafe was the rendezvous?’
Stratton nodded; he was certain of that. If you’re twigged on the walk you don’t stop for a coffee and let the enemy gather its forces. You take them away from your objective, keep them strung out, and you fly the first chance you get. Henri flew, the first chance he got, which was at the cafe. He went from there directly to the metro, the best place to screw with communications and to thin out any followers. If he flew from the cafe, that meant he twigged at the cafe.
‘Was he playing Russian, do you think?’ Jardene asked.
Playing Russian referred to the way the Russians liked to carry out anti-surveillance. Stratton had worked against them in London more than once. They were the hardest in the business to follow because they often sent a tag to shadow the hare. Jardene was suggesting that Henri had a partner experienced in surveillance who followed him from far enough back with the specific task of watching to see if anyone was following him. If he detected any suspicious behaviour his job would have been to warn Henri off.
‘It’s possible,’ Stratton said.
‘But you don’t think so.’
‘We were so god-awful I thought Henri would twig us on the first leg to the cafe. But he didn’t, otherwise he wouldn’t have gone there and risk exposing his contact. A half-blind tag would’ve seen the shambles and called him long before he reached the cafe.’
‘I see,’ Jardene said.
‘It doesn’t look as if Henri used a tag in the past since up until now he’s been followed by just two tails. A tag would’ve seen that.’
‘Right,’ Jardene said, accepting the argument. Then he voiced a notion. ‘Unless the tag had comms problems and couldn’t contact Henri until he was at the cafe.’
Stratton didn’t say anything. Jardene knew he was reaching. ‘I know it’s far-fetched but it could have been something like that.’
‘And maybe Henri got a call from his doctor and found out he had cancer . . . Keep it simple. Save the complicated hypothesis for your memoirs.’
Jardene flashed him a look, then thought better of telling him not to be so insubordinate. Stratton was right anyway. There were a thousand possibilities. It had to be kept to the basics otherwise the thread might be lost.
‘You don’t think there was a tag, then?’ Jardene asked.
‘No.’
‘Then Henri became suspicious at the cafe. How?’
Stratton would have loved to know the answer to that. ‘No one did a pass,’ Jardene added. ‘How did he know? . . . ’ he trailed off to himself. He paced the room to help him think but it wasn’t working. He was feeling the pressure and preparing himself for what was to come. He checked his watch. ‘Hank wouldn’t go to the American Embassy if he ran into trouble, would he?’ Jardene asked.
‘He’s not stupid,’ Stratton said. ‘He knew he shouldn’t have been on the ground with us. He did what he did to try and save the day and because he was the only one in the right place who could. It wasn’t his fault. It was mine.’
‘He might still turn up,’ Jardene said, trying once again to believe in his own optimism. ‘Let’s just pray he does.’ He headed for the door. ‘I expect London will call us in soon, before they talk to the French. We’ll get everyone together here first, then I expect we’ll head back as soon as we can and debrief.’
Stratton continued looking out of the window and did not acknowledge he’d heard. Jardene left the room.
Stratton went back over the day once again. He pictured Henri sitting outside the cafe looking calm and relaxed. Brent saw the waiter come out and speak to him, then moments later Henri followed him back into the cafe. A few minutes after that Henri flew from the area taking the team with him. Henri must have learned he was blown when he left the patio and went inside. Stratton was certain if he questioned the waiter he’d find out that Henri had received a telephone call. It was the caller who warned Henri he was being followed. Someone who knew about the meeting was watching the cafe and the surrounding streets. That someone in all probability was the actual contact. Stratton would ask for a trace on the call, as soon as the French were brought in and had calmed down enough to co-operate, but he didn’t expect to gain much from it. Anyone involved at this level of the game would know how to make a ‘safe’ call. A public phone, or a sterile mobile. Stratton had been hard on the team and didn’t in truth think they had been all that bad. They had been bunched and clumsy at times but quick to react if they felt Henri had glanced at them even once. Stratton was the one in the street nearest the cafe. Him and Hank. They were the ones most likely seen. Whoever it was probably walked straight past them, became suspicious and watched them. Then after seeing them hang about the corner they blew the rendezvous. That had to be it, or something like it.
Stratton felt suddenly drained. But it wasn’t just the day’s mess that was weighing heavily. It was the feeling that something was unravelling inside of him. He was tiring of his life as it was. He felt like bits of him had broken off over the past few years and he didn’t like what was left. The day rattled him on more than one front. The one
