‘The boss is on his way back,’ Stratton said. ‘I’m checking out.’
‘You be gone long?’ Morgan asked.
‘No idea . . . Take care of yourself.’
Stratton headed for the door.
‘Stratton?’
Stratton paused in the doorway to look at him.
‘How . . . what do you have to do to . . . you know . . . get in the job?’ Morgan asked, unsure how to form the words. It was a sensitive subject that due to protocol allowed no questions, but he felt he knew Stratton well enough to dip a toe into it.
‘They call you.’
‘And if they don’t? I mean. Is there any way I can get them to call . . . let ’em know I want in?’
‘I can’t help you, Morgan.’
Morgan nodded, disappointment on his face. He understood, or thought he did. ‘See ya, then.’
Stratton left the room.
Morgan sighed as he sat back, put his feet up on the desk and tried to imagine what on earth Stratton did when he went away on his private little trips. His hand subconsciously moved to his ear and searched inside it for a hair to pluck.
Stratton headed down the stairs, crossed the hangar floor to the main entrance and stepped out into the rain. In his opinion, Morgan, because he was black, had a better chance than most of getting a call. MI6 was short of dark-skinned operators. The job was dangerous, but Morgan was canny and more than capable of handling himself. He wondered about putting in a good word for him, then decided against it. If anything bad ever happened to Morgan, Stratton didn’t want it on his conscience.
Two and a half hours later Stratton walked out of Waterloo Station and paused to look at the taxi rank. The queue was some twenty long with more people tacking on to the end every few seconds, although taxis appeared to be arriving in an endless stream to cope with the demand. He checked his watch. There was plenty of time to walk the mile or so to the meeting place, which he preferred to do anyway. He would spend the time thinking about his return to military intelligence. Savouring it might be a better description. There was no doubting the mild euphoria he was now feeling. He fastened the front buttons of his old leather jacket, shoved the Templars book he had read throughout the train journey into a side pocket, pulled up his collar against a chill wind and headed in the direction of the Thames.
At five minutes to seven, Stratton paused in a quiet back street a couple of blocks from the main road. It was several years since he had been to this location. There was a small park across the street and in its centre was the little knoll from which the Real IRA had fired an RPG7 antitank missile at the MI6 headquarters building quite visible a quarter of a mile away. It struck a window halfway up, doing little more than smashing some glass and scarring a wall inside. The media had billed it as a bold demonstration of the Real IRA’s willingness and capability to take over from the Provisional IRA and to carry the conflict directly into the heart of England and military intelligence. MI saw it as a perfect illustration of how pathetic the fight with the IRA had become: in the grand scheme of things, the best they were now capable of was smashing a window.
Stratton left the railings that surrounded the park and continued on to the pub.
The high-ceilinged bar was spacious with that characteristic turn-of-the-century feel. The thirty or so people spread about gave it a busy atmosphere but it was by no means crowded. A quick scan revealed Sumners at a table on the far side of the room beside another man who was well-groomed, intelligent looking and wearing a Savile Row suit. They had not yet seen him. Stratton thought Sumners had aged more than expected in the year since he last saw him. His hair had always been white-grey but his face was more drawn and his eyes darker. Perhaps he had pulled a few late nights lately. The difference between the two men sitting together was interesting. Their body language said a lot about them. The other man had an air of superiority and not just by the cut of his clothes. It was the way he was sitting: legs crossed, hands flat together on his thigh, back straight, chin slightly raised, eyes looking down his nose and staring straight ahead as if he were royalty. He was definitely the private-club type and did not look as if he frequented alehouses such as this one. Sumners on the other hand had his hands in his coat pockets, chin against his chest, feet apart and on the ground and brow furrowed in deep thought. He stared at nothing but in the same direction as his companion. The half full glasses on the table in front of them both contained ice and a slice of lemon.
It was not unusual for spymasters to meet in a public place for a pre-briefing, especially in the evening, before moving on to a secure place to conduct a more thorough brief. Stratton checked his watch. It was exactly seven.
He walked over to the table. Sumners spotted him just before he arrived and got to his feet.
‘Ahh, Stratton,’ Sumners said, offering his hand. His smile was thin and as cold as always. Stratton shook his hand, which was also cold despite being in his pocket. ‘This is my department chief,’ he said.
The man produced his own version of a smiling mask and offered his hand without getting to his feet.
‘Stratton,’ he said.‘Heard a bit about you. Glad you could come along. Can I get you a drink?’
‘I’m fine, thank you,’ Stratton said, and took a seat at the table. Sumners moved around to form a triangle.
‘How was your journey up from Poole?’ the unnamed man asked cordially.Talking to people much lower than him was a part of his profession and he oozed confidence. Stratton wondered what the man was doing here. He doubted Sumners needed him to give his brief. It was just possible he happened to be in the bar for another reason and since he was Sumners’ boss, Sumners had joined him. Stratton wondered which type of MI officer he was: either one of the brilliant ones snapped up from a top university to be groomed for the higher echelons, or titled and just doing his stint in MI, which was a very traditional pastime for some families. If he was the latter there was a chance he was an idiot. Some things didn’t change in jolly old England and fools could still find their way into the inner circles of power simply because of their birth or connections. Judging by the cut of his suit and his expensive watch, he was independently wealthy. That was not at all unusual. No one joined MI6 for the money. The pay scale was about equal to the regular army. In Stratton’s case, because his parent unit was Special Forces, he was paid far higher than any MI5 or MI6 operative. He probably earned more than Sumners, who was not independently wealthy and obviously did the job purely for the love of it.
‘Do you go to Lulworth Cove much?’ the MI officer asked. ‘Delightful part of the country.’
‘Nice place to dive,’ Stratton said.
‘Clams,’ the man said. ‘Very good clams.’
‘One of the reasons we like to dive there.’
‘Very sensible.’
The conversation paused there and a silence hung between them. It was for Sumners’ boss to lead the talking and so Stratton and Sumners sat quietly, waiting for him to continue.The man leaned forward to pick up his glass and took a sip. He inspected the contents for a second then put it back on the table. Stratton wasn’t sure if he caught a faint look of disapproval.
‘Are you superstitious, Stratton?’ the man eventually asked.
‘Superstitious?’ Stratton echoed. He expected the man to get on with the operation pre-brief but it sounded as if he was still making idle chit-chat. ‘You mean walking under ladders and breaking mirrors?’
‘That sort of thing,’ the man said.
‘No.’
‘What about the supernatural?’ the man asked.
Stratton glanced at Sumners wondering where this line of questioning was leading but his old boss was firmly in the back seat and keeping quiet, staring straight ahead deep in his own thoughts as if he were not part of the conversation.
‘You mean ghosts?’ Stratton asked.
‘If you like. How do you feel about ghosts? Do you believe they exist?’
‘It’s like the question of life on another planet. I don’t give it much thought.’
‘But you’re not opposed to the idea. Things like ghosts. You don’t believe it’s all a load of rubbish?’
Stratton was tempted to ask what this was about but decided to play the man’s game. These types weren’t known for wasting much time on idle talk, especially with the likes of Stratton, a mere field operative. The questions had to have something to do with the op but Stratton couldn’t begin to imagine what.
