Norway and a three-week skiing holiday, taking some long overdue leave. To spend it mulling over his failure was pointless and the time would be far better spent planning the holiday.
He would start off in the north of the country, above the tree line, cross-country skiing, of course. He fancied the idea of revisiting some of the old routes he used to take with his team while shadowing the Russian Special Forces units that frequented the fjords during the winter months. Stratton had enjoyed those days working against the Eastern Bloc, especially when it involved diplomat surveillance.The Norwegian and Swedish fjords were favourite locations for Russian spies and diplomats to move documents, equipment and people in and out of the West. On one memorable operation Stratton and his team followed a Russian diplomat from Oslo to a lonely fjord miles from the nearest habitation on a route that covered hundreds of miles. The extremely paranoid man had taken months to house, or to discover his final destination, from the Russian embassy without him knowing. It had to be taken step by step, following him for only part of each trip, pulling off before he became even remotely suspicious, piecing together his various routes and dummy runs and recognising the tricks designed to catch would-be followers. The diplomat practised anti-surveillance at every opportunity, such as doubling back along a route, pausing periodically, taking loops to check if anyone was following, suddenly stopping and getting out of his car to scan the skies and horizon with binoculars, looking for aircraft or vehicles on mountainsides and regularly having his car swept for electronic devices which made it impossible to bug him. Such was the painstaking technique of surveillance.
Finally, one day, while Stratton was shadowing the diplomat’s car from a hilltop using a skidoo, it stopped by the edge of the lonely fjord and he climbed out. It was a quiet road with hardly more than a vehicle an hour, less during winter. Stratton climbed off the skidoo and took out his petrol cooker and makings so he could have a quick brew while he kept an eye on his man several hundred feet below.
After a quick check around him the diplomat busied himself removing several items from his boot and set about constructing something. He was moving quickly and positively, having obviously rehearsed whatever he was doing. His next noticeable step was to start pushing something up and down with his foot that turned out to be a pump. Within minutes a rubber dinghy began to grow on the verge beside his car. When it was fully inflated, he placed a pair of paddles in it and carried it down a rocky bank to the water’s edge a few feet away. He came back to the car, collected his briefcase and a fishing rod, and went back to the boat.
He climbed in, paddled into the fjord for several hundred metres, picked up the fishing rod and lowered a device of some kind on the end of the line into the water. He sat there for quite some time as if fishing, waiting for a bite, when eventually the end of the rod bowed to the water several times and the diplomat quickly reeled in his line, removed the device and replaced it with his briefcase, which he then lowered into the water. A moment later he retrieved the end of his line, now minus the briefcase, and paddled back to his car. Within a few minutes, he had deflated the boat, packed everything back into the boot and was driving down the road on his way back to Oslo.
The diplomat had obviously made a drop to a mini submarine and, as a result, two months later Stratton’s team took part in the capture of a Russian submarine, a full-sized one, which was the mother ship of the mini-subs used to rendezvous with Russian spies and diplomats. It was not a complete success though. Two Russian mini-sub drivers, Russian Special Forces or Spetsnaz, got away after the trap was sprung. Stratton and several of his team gave chase along the bank of ankle-breaking rocks and ice but the Spetsnaz ran with a recklessness the SBS were not prepared to match that day. The Russians had far more to lose than their freedom if they were caught, and had the SBS closed in, the fight would have been a bitter one with survivors on one side only. They had an ambiguous respect for the Spetsnaz, mainly because hardly anything was known about them. It was assumed they were of a high standard although there was no evidence to support that. They were undoubtedly tough, illustrated by the operations they mounted, and, like their British counterparts, preferred training in the worst possible conditions. Stratton had met members of most country’s Special Forces but never a Spetsnaz.
As he pondered his route across Norway, his phone vibrated in his pocket. He took it out and checked the screen but there was no indication of the number. His first thought was the camp and one of the secure lines. Perhaps it was an operational recall. He was technically on standby, even though on leave, since he was attached to an operational squadron. It continued to ring. There was a time when he would never have considered not answering. It was indicative of his mood these days that he would forgo the opportunity of an operation just to go skiing. He might have continued to let it ring but he was cursed, and, like a drug addict, could never resist a fix.
He pushed a button and put it to his ear. ‘This is Stratton,’ he said.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’
It was Sumners. Stratton could only wonder what the man wanted. He had given him every piece of information during the debrief, at which he was cross-examined by Sumners and two other MI6 non-ops. Stratton had an urge to ignore him and turn off the phone, which would piss him off no end. He might be Stratton’s superior but he was Military Intelligence and Stratton was SF field ops, and, frankly, Stratton could say what he wanted to the man without any real fear of repercussion. But the very same reasons that made him answer the phone in the first place pushed him to find out what Sumners wanted.
‘I’m at Heathrow Airport.’
‘I know where you are.You work for me now, and if you want to go anywhere you ask me first, or have you forgotten how the system works?’
‘But I thought—’
‘What? That you’re off the assignment? Stop acting like some prima donna for God’s sake. I’ll tell you when you’re off the assignment. Have you checked in yet? Or are you in the departure lounge?’
‘I’m in the departure lounge,’ Stratton said.
‘I need you to get over to terminal one. You’ve got half an hour. You’re booked on an Olympic Airlines flight to Athens then on to Rhodes. You know Rhodes?’ Sumners asked.
‘The largest of the Dodecanese islands. Rhodes is also the name of the old fortress city which was built by the Knights of Saint John in the fourteenth century.’
‘I’m impressed,’ Sumners said, though he might not have been had he known Stratton had just read as much in his Templar book which was still open at the relevant page.
Stratton was about to ask what the job was and decided against it. The message was clear. He was back in the game and he could not help feeling good about it.
‘I’ll have your baggage transferred to the Olympic flight.’
‘Not my skis,’ Stratton said. He did not want to look a complete wally walking around Rhodes carrying a pair of cross-country skis.
‘That might be too much for the system but I’ll try. I’m going to give you a ticket re-locater number,’ Sumners said.
Stratton took out his pen and notepad and scribbled down the number.
‘They’re expecting you.They’ll hold the plane but don’t take all day.’
‘Do I get to know what this is about?’
‘Can’t say anything on this means, other than you’ll be meeting a familiar face who you recently had a little adventure with.’
Stratton’s heart sank. He thought he had seen the back of Gabriel.
‘Your friend’s been in Turkey the past few days and now he needs to go to the Mediterranean. Stratton. Listen to me. I stuck my neck out for you on this. The Boss voiced doubts about you but I assured him you were up to it. I’ve never done that for any operative before in my life. The Agency assigned one of their own people to him in Turkey but nothing came of it. Despite your misgivings about him, it seems you made some kind of connection. He asked for you personally.’
This was not particularly good news for Stratton. He wanted to ask if anyone else could do the task, but it did not take much to work out that either he went on the assignment or he let the side down. The facts were obvious. He was familiar with the job and its linch-pin, namely Gabriel. Saying no to Sumners now would be saying no to any other MI job in the future.
Stratton stood up with the phone to his ear. ‘I’m on my way,’ he said sighing to himself.
‘Stratton. One more thing.You still have your ID, don’t you?’
Stratton automatically felt his pocket where his wallet was, not so much with his hand as with his mind. ‘Yes,’ he said.
