The Hostage

The police officer was suddenly flushed with pride, ready to fly to the moon if this lot asked him to. ‘Anything you need, just ask,’ he said.

Stratton looked around. Everyone was wearing black assault gear under civilian coats, except for him and the three Americans. ‘Lieutenant Stewart,’ he called out. Stewart was helping load a box into one of the vans and looked up to see it was Stratton calling him. Stewart walked over to him.

‘What’s your first name?’ Stratton asked.

‘Tom.’

‘Tom. Get your two guys into black and tooled up. You come with me. We’re gonna do a recce of the boat,’ Stratton said as he grabbed his bag and put it on the back seat of the car.

Tough as Stewart was, he couldn’t help but feel somewhat jazzed at being invited to accompany Stratton on the initial recce. Not only was it a compliment, it communicated that he and his boys were every bit a part of the team. It was becoming obvious Stratton had a way with soldiers.

‘Superintendent. Do you have a card?’ Stratton asked. The Superintendent reached into his pocket and found one. Stratton checked it. ‘I can get you on this mobile number?’ he asked.

‘Any time.’

Stratton climbed into the car. Stewart returned from instructing his men and climbed in beside him. Stratton handed him his own map that he had folded to show the area. ‘We’re there,’ he indicated. ‘Sandringham House.’

‘Yeah. Place looks great. Wish I’d brought my camera.’

‘We can probably wangle a discount on the tour later. I want to get on to this road, the A149. We’ll take it down to this roundabout here. Knight’s Hill. Then find our way to here, where the boat is. You all set?’

‘Yep.’

‘Tooled?’

Stewart opened his coat to reveal a regular cannon: a black, long-barrelled, 20-round 45 Magnum semi- automatic with dewdrop nose recoil stabiliser tightly secured in a quick-release shoulder holster. ‘Fucking Yanks,’ Stratton said, shaking his head with a smirk. ‘Don’t fire that thing at the boat or you’ll sink it.’

‘Just let me know,’ Stewart said, grinning for the first time since arriving in England. Stratton started the car and drove across the green on to a road that led to one of the huge ornate gates. Behind him the vans were already starting their engines as the last operative climbed in.

Twenty minutes later, Stratton and Stewart were standing on the cobbled stone quay, with the old customs house at their backs as they looked towards the southern end of the quay where the Alpha Star was moored. Stratton took a small, flat radio from his pocket, stuck a wireless earpiece inside his ear and clipped a microphone to his sweatshirt, hiding it under his jacket. ‘Let’s see who we’ve got with us.’

He turned on the radio, set the channel to 4, and put it inside his breast pocket. He faced Stewart and looked at him as if he was talking to him. ‘All stations, this is Stratton. Who’ve we got?’

There was the familiar sound of the secure communications system kicking in, his words being scrambled, then a voice unscrambling back to him. ‘Hello, Stratton. This is Ed, ’ere.’

‘Good to hear you, Ed,’ Stratton said. ‘Where are you?’

‘South of target, three fishing boats. I’m on one of ’em.’

‘What have we got?’

Ed was sitting back on the deck of the deserted fishing boat, hidden from view with a pair of binoculars pressed up against his eyes. ‘It’s a good possible,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen one face I think I recognise. Sean McKennen?’

‘Of the Warrenpoint McKennens,’ Stratton replied.

‘That’s right. He was out on deck just for a moment. ’Ad something bulky under ’is coat. Wouldn’t be surprised if it was an SMG.’

‘Any movement on or off the boat?’

‘Not since I got ’ere ’bout twenty minutes ago, but the boat ’ad been alongside a while, I think.’

‘Who else we got?’ asked Stratton.

‘Bobby’s up on the roof of the corn exchange. Says ’e’s got a good view of the boat deck.’

‘Bobby,’ Stratton said. ‘You hear me?’

‘Loud and clear, Stratton. This is a good location for a sniper. Can’t see faces too clearly.’

‘Roger that. Who else?’

‘Take a guess,’ Ed said.‘’E’s on the west bank, in the water, under a fuckin’ sewage pipe covered in shite.’

‘’Allo, Stratton,’ came a voice.

‘That you, Spinksy?’

Spinks, wearing a dry-bag and facemask, was tucked into the opposite bank to the boat, in the water up to his chin, some flotsam arranged nicely in front of him, with a dripping sewage pipe above him. ‘It’s me,’ he said.

‘What’s that location like?’

‘Fuckin’ ’orrible. No one’ll find me ’ere. Got the water side of the boat covered. Nothing’ll come off or on it without me seein’ it.’

‘Anything?’ Stratton asked.

‘I’m pretty sure that was McKennen too. Saw a bloke on the bridge who looked like he ’ad an SMG. ’Ard to say ’ow many on board. Seen five or six different blokes so far.’

‘How long you good for there?’

‘Fuck it. All night if you want. Got me flask and a bag a sarnies. ’Ad a piss already. Me right leg’s a bit cold. Might need a shit in a minute, but I don’t need to go anywhere for that, do I? I’m in a sewer.’

Stratton shook his head.

‘When are the super soldiers gettin’ ’ere?’ Ed asked in his usual sarcastic manner.

‘Soon.You’ll have at least one in each of your positions, except you, Spinks. You’re on your own.’

‘It’s the way I like it,’ said Spinks, as a large, black slimy something or other fell out of the pipe and landed in the water in front of him, splashing his face. He wiped a piece of muck off his facemask and maintained his vigil.

Stewart did a fine job of acting as if he was in conversation, with a nod here and there.

‘We need the police cut-offs and the guys in position asap,’ Stratton said. Lieutenant Stewart nodded automatically, but his mind was on the boat as he studied it over Stratton’s shoulder. ‘I’m talking to you, Tom.’

Stewart snapped out of his trance-like stare. ‘Right.’

They started back towards the car when Stratton’s mobile phone vibrated in his pocket. He checked the caller, hit a button and put it to his ear. ‘Yes,’ he said. It was Singen telling him they had located a mounting area in the back of the corn exchange not more than a hundred yards from the boat and that a police officer was waiting for Stratton at the church to guide him in. Stratton told him the police could go ahead and start laying in their invisible cordon.

Stratton climbed into the car, Stewart the other side. ‘I’ll drop you off at the church where a cop’ll take you into the mounting area,’ Stratton said.

‘Where you going?’ Stewart asked.

‘The train station. Nothing’s going to happen here for a while and one of my det operatives should be arriving there now.’

Stratton pulled up in front of King’s Lynn train station and Aggy climbed in.

‘Hi,’ she said, offering a slight smile but unable to control a sudden awkward feeling.

‘Good trip?’ Stratton asked, at a loss for any other words of greeting.Their previous comments about looking forward to seeing each other hung thickly in the air.

‘So, what’s this all about?’ she said, getting down to business.

‘A RIRA weapons boat,’ Stratton said. ‘It’s in the town. You know about the Yank who was kidnapped in Paris?’

‘He’s on it?’