the same direction as Aggy and Lawton. The person was the other side of the road and Stratton couldn’t make out any features. He could see it was a man with a limp but not much more. Stratton waited for the figure to move on before leaving the alley, crossing the road and heading for Lawton’s apartment block.
As he turned the corner he checked Aggy, Lawton, and the other figure were still walking away. Then he entered Lawton’s building and jogged up the stairs. When he got to the top floor he was a little out of breath, a reminder he had not been working out much lately because of all that had been happening. A month ago a couple flights of stairs would have been nothing. He needed to start putting the miles in again, just one more reason he wanted to see the back of this operation.
He stopped on the landing and paused a moment to survey the scene and listen. There were four doors on this top floor: three apartments and a grey door marked ‘ROOF EXIT’. He walked over and opened the grey door. A flight of stairs led up to another door. He quickly went up the steps and tried the handle. It opened on to the roof. That would be useful if anyone came.
He returned to Lawton’s door and took the small leather case from his pocket and unzipped it. Inside were several finely crafted tools that could easily be mistaken for a dentist’s travel set, each in its own little sleeve. He examined the lock. It was a Yale dead bolt with a fixed collar and several years old. The older the better. He selected a tension spring, a slender piece of flat metal bent at one end, and inserted the short end into the keyhole, bending the other end to apply pressure to the tumblers. He decided to rake the six tumblers first. If that didn’t work he would have to choose a fine pick and push each individual tumbler up until they all cleared the revolver. He slid the rake in, teeth upwards, and pulled it out swiftly while maintaining the spring pressure. He repeated the action without a result. He then raked it back and forth swiftly and suddenly the lock turned under the pressure from the spring and the door opened.
Stratton moved inside and closed the door behind him. He replaced the tools in the case and put it back in his pocket.
Lawton had left the light on. That meant Stratton had to be careful moving around or he would be seen from the street. First rule of searching was to stand and look, divide the room up into quadrants and furnishings and search each section in turn with his eyes before moving from the door. He looked in the bathroom beside the front door and noticed the holdall. He checked it. It was full of clothes. He closed it and took another look at the room. On the floor was a hatbox that fitted Aggy’s description. Beside it was a small briefcase. He’d seen enough and it was time to physically search.
Keeping low he moved to the case, put it on the coffee table and opened it. He noted the two halves filled with sponge one of which had a bottle-shaped cut-out. If he had had any doubts about Lawton’s involvement with the bio this quickly eliminated them. He checked the hatbox. In it was a polystyrene mould that had a similar sized cut-out in the centre. The most cynical intelligence expert would have to concede this was damning evidence. The briefcase obviously didn’t come with the box since there wasn’t enough room in it with the polystyrene, therefore it was quite likely intended to supersede the hatbox as a carriage for the bio. But where was the bio? There was no time to search the entire flat before Aggy and Lawton returned. If he knew for certain the bio was in the building he could close the operation there and then, take care of Lawton, and leave the rest up to a search team. But the bio could be anywhere, hidden outside in a garden or in a car. And so the op would have to go on until they could pin it down. He couldn’t afford to be caught in the apartment or leave any sign he’d been there.
Stratton had to get going, but something was holding him back. He needed some kind of insurance. He just about had time for that.
He took one of the sponges out of the briefcase. There was plenty of it and it was a snug fit. Using a pocketknife he cut a piece out of the back of the sponge and put it in his pocket. He took the three small black hexagonal blocks from a pocket and pulled off the magnets that were stuck to the back of each. They were even lighter now. He flicked a tiny switch on one, arming it, placed them snugly into the sponge, and fitted it back into the briefcase. He weighed the case in his hands to feel if it was noticeably heavier. A person would have to be supersensitive to detect a difference. If it was discovered the game was up but his need for some kind of contingency outweighed the risk he was taking. He put the case back on the floor as it was.
After a quick double-check to make sure he had everything he left the apartment.
He walked down the stairs to the glass entrance, paused to see if the street was clear, and walked out of the building and away.
He pulled out his mobile phone, hit a key and put it to his ear. ‘Sumners? Stratton. No bio but wait. There’s a briefcase with a bottle-sized sponge mould in it. The hatbox is there. All signs indicate the bio is close and that Lawton still has it. I’m pretty sure we can close this down here.’
‘Okay,’ Sumners said, thinking as he listened. He trusted Stratton, but if anything went wrong it was on his shoulders, and there was another set of shoulders above him. And after all, Stratton was just a ground operative. Sumners respected his opinions and usually went with his recommendations, but Stratton would never know the whole picture. And Stratton had his own views on the outcome, and his own politics, which were not always shared by those above. Then there was the operation value, the price one was prepared to pay to have an op succeed. It varied from op to op. Usually the value just referred to equipment and money, but sometimes the price was higher. A ground operative could not be expected to give his life for an operation, but someone else could give it.
‘The wheels are in motion and going as fast as they can,’ Sumners said. ‘We’re setting up a chemical hazard centre about a mile from you. Every biohazard team within two hundred miles is on its way to that centre. The police have been prepped that something big could be going down, though they don’t know what yet. All leave is cancelled and they have literally hundreds of teams earmarked to move to any area in London and seal it off.’
‘And my teams?
‘I understand some are already on the way to you. The others are still on the outskirts of London. When they get to you the package will include an eye in the sky and a link into the traffic camera surveillance system.’
Stratton hoped they would get to him soon. ‘There’s something else,’ Stratton said. ‘I’ve mined the case.’
‘You’ve what?’ Sumners said.
‘I’m flying by the seat of my pants here.’
‘If they find it they’ll know we’re on to them.’
‘If we lose them or the bio we lose everything.’
‘You don’t even know if an explosive charge is enough to destroy the bio.’
‘That’s right. But I should by now.’ Stratton was politely scolding Sumners. Fortunately, in this business, rank was not in your face. Everyone was a professional working their own part of the complex game and it was not inconceivable to ball out the boss if he did something wrong.
‘What kind of charge?’ Sumners asked. He sympathised with Stratton. He was out there on his own and, given the circumstances, the charge was not a bad idea.
‘American Super “X”. Their new lightweight door charge.’
‘I’ll find out and get back to you asap. Don’t use it unless I tell you to, no matter what. It’s possible all it will do is spread the damned virus into the air.’
‘I’m aware of that,’ Stratton said as he approached a major road. A couple turned the corner towards him. ‘Get me my team,’ he said quickly and killed the phone.
All things considered, he felt the balance of control was in his favour, despite the fact he was without a team. His gut feeling was things were okay. He needed to stay lucky; although that was not a good place to be - an op of this magnitude being dependent on luck.
Hank was in the corridor that ran port to starboard, standing at the top of the stairs that led down to the deck where he had been held captive. The door at the far starboard end was closed but the port side door was open. Hank made his way towards it. Holding the SMG close to his chest, the end of the barrel inches from his face, he paused halfway along the corridor outside a cabin door to press his ear against it. There was no sound above the gentle hum of the generator that vibrated the entire ship. He continued on to the port door and peeked out on to the brightly lit deck without extending his head through the doorway. Whatever was beyond the rail and the bright
