‘Why wouldn’t they?’ Seaton asked, not getting Stratton’s drift.
‘I want to know why the Feds have taken over the case and are withholding the name of the killer from the cops. It bothers me.’
Seaton considered the request for a moment. Stratton could almost hear him thinking on the end of the line. He kept quiet in the hope that Seaton was heading in the right direction.
‘I might be able to find out something. I’m heading into the office in an hour. I’ll see what I can do.’
A computer voice broke into the conversation: ‘You have thirty seconds remaining for this call.’
‘You still there, Stratton?’
‘I don’t have any more change,’ Stratton said. ‘I’ll call you later.’
‘Hey – why don’t you come over?’ Seaton suggested. ‘Stay a couple days. You know some of the guys here. Where you staying?’
‘Santa Monica.’
‘Getting Josh outta there isn’t gonna be an overnight job. You can hop on a plane. Only take a few hours. We can talk about it when you get here.’
Stratton’s immediate thought was to stay close to Josh. But he knew that he had a better chance of getting help from Seaton if he spent some time with him. ‘Sounds like a good idea,’ he said.
‘Great. It’ll be good to see you. We’ll work this out. Let me know your flight soon as you can and I’ll pick you up.’
‘Will do,’ Stratton said as the phone automatically disconnected.
Seaton lowered the phone and pondered the situ ation. He had been a CIA agent for a couple of years longer than Stratton had been in special forces and his natural cunning and wit had been honed by those years in the business. He didn’t know Stratton very well but he had spent enough time with the SBS to know that the man was one of their top go-to operatives and had also made the Secret Intelligence Services’ full-time roster, which was unusual for anyone still in SF. Seaton reasoned that it was perfectly natural for someone to want to know who had killed a close friend of theirs. But when that someone was a man like Stratton the picture had the potential to get darker. Seaton was aware that he was probably being overly suspicious, a natural enough response in his line of work, but there was still always a need to be cautious. For instance, he did not ignore the fact that Stratton had called from a payphone.
Seaton decided that he would help Stratton but only in a way that would keep his own profile way out of any snooping spotlight.
Stratton carried on down Main Street towards his hotel, wondering if Seaton would change his mind once he had thought it through – not that Stratton reckoned he had asked for anything too unreasonable. Snooping around the FBI was only wrong because the FBI wouldn’t like it, but there had to be some perks to the business of clandestine ops and that was what the old-boy network was for. Stratton dearly wanted to know who was responsible for Sally’s death, but more importantly he wanted to ensure that they were going to pay for it, preferably with their lives. But if there was no other option he would accept indefinite incarceration for the killers.
The top floors of the pink towers came into sight. Stratton checked his watch as he picked up his speed, estimating that he could get his bag, catch a taxi, and be at the airport in about an hour – ample time, he hoped, to catch a domestic flight to Washington DC.
9
Stratton made it to LAX in time to catch the 1:55 p.m. US Airways flight that arrived at Ronald Reagan National Airport at twenty minutes to midnight local time. As he stepped through the gate Seaton was waiting at the far side of the arrivals hall watching him, a welcoming smile appearing on his face as they made eye contact.
‘Good flight?’ Seaton asked as Stratton approached.
‘Quiet,’ Stratton replied. They shook hands.
As the plane touched down both men had begun to feel uncomfortable about meeting each other, and not just because of Sally’s and Jack’s recent deaths. Seaton and Stratton were very different animals. Although they were compatible in their work they were not well matched socially. Seaton was essentially a suit, although he had the option to join his men in the field on occasion, as he had during the Iraq operation. Whether or not he did depended on the risk rating, which needed to be fairly low. He was a planner and information collator by trade, having entered the organisation with an MBA in Middle East studies, and he had risen through the ranks, gaining enough experi ence over the years to become a consultant on East European and Middle Eastern anti-terror affairs. He was a little bigger than Stratton, as fit as him and probably stronger physically, but front-line operators always left him with an unmistakable feeling of inadequacy that he hated but was unable to rationalise away. A self- analysis had revealed a latent desire to be one of them, which was not exactly astounding. But the truth was that had he been granted a genie’s wish he would not have chosen that calling. He honestly felt that he was in the far better job but he still could not explain why he continued to feel that twinge of envy.
‘It’s good to see you again,’ Seaton said, leading Stratton through the hall that was practically empty compared with its usual daytime bustle. The majority of the people around were night-shift cleaners. ‘You got any other baggage?’
‘No,’ Stratton said, shouldering his pack.
‘Julie, my wife, has made some food. She won’t be up by the time we get home, though. You’ll see her and the kids in the morning.’
‘I never thought of you as married,’ Stratton said.
‘Thirteen years.’ Seaton sounded neither regretful nor proud.
‘Long time.’
‘Yep.’
They headed out of the terminal to the short-term car park where Seaton’s car was waiting practically alone in the concrete-pillared cavern. A few minutes later they were driving along the George Washington Memorial Parkway that followed the south bank of the Potomac as it curved north-west.
Stratton decided not to mention his request for help in making contact with the FBI. He’d leave it to Seaton to broach the subject. There was no point in pushing him. He would either play ball or not, depending on his own concerns – which he’d had ample time to contemplate.
The airport was a good ten minutes behind them when, neither men having said a word since leaving the terminal, Stratton felt Seaton glance at him.
‘Well, it sure is a small world,’ Seaton said. ‘How true is that in our business?’
Stratton could only wonder what he was referring to.
‘Never ceases to amaze me how everything is connected to everything else if you examine it long enough,’ Seaton went on. ‘Ever hear the name Skender before – Daut Skender?’
‘That a person?’ Stratton asked dryly, assuming that it was.
‘A man. That job you did in Kazakhstan – if you’d been involved at ops level you’d have heard his name.’
Stratton glanced at Seaton, wondering why he had mentioned that assignment.
‘Lit my eyes up when I saw his name on the FBI report,’ Seaton continued. ‘He’s Albanian Mafia, hence the connection to your Almaty adventure – they were the crew ferrying the heroin through the mountains. Skender is a very big fish in a very big pond of organised crime. The Albanians don’t get as much airtime as the Russian and Italian Mafias mainly because of their political position but also because no one knows who most of the bosses are. Skender is the head of one of fifteen clans that have ruled Albania for centuries. They got big, and they stay big, by working with everyone: Italian N’dranheta, Comorra, Stidda and the Russian Solsentskya mob. When the FBI finally broke up the pizza connection all the Eastern European mobs moved in to fill the void, in America as well as Italy. But it was easier for the Albanians to take over because of their traditional ties with the Sicilian Mafia. They’re into every kind of smuggling you can imagine, including heroin and arms. Skender was big in the early 1990s but his
