the wrong time, would you’ve had second thoughts about tearing them apart?’
Seaton didn’t say anything. Some of the wind had been taken out of his sails.
‘Jack and Sally were the closest I’ve had to family for as long as I can remember. Their kid is in a child- protection centre at this very minute, wondering what the hell just happened to his life. Now, I don’t know what the hell I want to do or what I’m supposed to do. Maybe I came here because I thought
Stratton stepped back and started to walk away.
‘Why didn’t you ask me for my help?’ Seaton shouted.
Stratton stopped and looked back at him.
‘You don’t think I’m good enough, do you?’ Seaton said.
Stratton suddenly saw something in Seaton that he had not expected to find, though he had seen it many times in others. Bizarre as it might seem, Seaton was trying to prove himself. It was not uncommon when working with non-SF to find them trying to prove themselves, sometimes in odd ways, or acting in what they assumed was an SF manner. But Seaton was an established CIA operative, an enviable position for most, yet he was displaying classic signs of resentful inferiority.
‘You’re not in a position to help me,’ Stratton said, avoiding the real issue.
‘What does that mean?’
‘You have a family, for one thing,’ Stratton said. ‘Anyway, when I have the choice I work alone.’
‘What if I was to tell you that I think those Albanians should pay?’ Seaton said.
‘I’d say that makes little difference since I don’t know if I should or could do anything about it.’
‘So why don’t you ask me for my help?’
‘You don’t get it, do you, Seaton? This belongs to no one but me. If you want to help, I don’t want anyone to know.’
Seaton looked confused but at least he was no longer taking it personally – or at least Stratton hoped not. Whatever was happening here, Stratton wanted to keep Seaton on his side. Part of the job, after all, was making allies.
‘Let’s just forget this visit ever happened, okay?’ Stratton said. He then turned away and broke into a jog along the track, leaving Seaton to watch him go.
When Stratton was out of sight he checked through the trees to find the sun which had been at their backs on leaving the house. Following it should eventually bring him back to the main road that they had initially crossed and then it was either left or right to Seaton’s street.
Stratton soon emerged from the wood onto the highway and found the house shortly after. The boys were out the back, hosing down their bikes as he took off his shoes and socks and went into the house. He could hear someone in the lounge, caught a glimpse of Seaton’s wife and went up the stairs to avoid her. Within ten minutes he had showered and got dressed. Without saying goodbye to anyone he headed out of the house and up the road. Within half a mile a taxi appeared. Thirty-five minutes later he was stepping into the airport departure lounge and heading for check-in.
The next flight to Los Angeles was in an hour and a half. Stratton made his way to the gate, took a seat in the waiting area and tried to relax. But his thoughts would not allow him a second’s rest: Josh and the problem of getting him back home, Vicky and his hopes of making her into an ally, and Jack’s ghost sitting behind him wondering what Stratton was going to do about the two Albanian thugs – all these concerns threatened to overwhelm him.
The time dragged by and eventually the gate came to life with the arrival of airline staff. This was followed shortly by an announcement for all Los Angeles-bound passengers to proceed to the gate and board the plane.
Stratton waited for the last few people to head down the tunnel towards the entrance to the plane, which he could see outside through the large plate-glass windows. As he stood and picked up his bag he saw Seaton, dressed in a tracksuit, his face still smudged with dirt, heading towards him, carrying a manila envelope.
They stared at each other. Seaton stopped in front of him, a smear of dried blood still on the side of his mouth where he had wiped it.
‘I’ve been called a few things in my life but never a hypocrite,’ Seaton said.
He held the manila envelope out to Stratton. ‘It’s the complete file, Ardian and Leka’s details and the latest FBI report. If you decide to do something you’re probably gonna have to forget Leka. He’s in a Santa Monica lock-up awaiting arraignment for beating up his girlfriend a couple of nights ago. He did it in public and she’s still in hospital. The police are pressing the charges and he’s going to go down for it.’
Stratton took the envelope.
‘When you’re done with the file, burn it,’ Seaton urged.
The last call for Stratton’s flight blared over the speaker system. Stratton and Seaton stood in awkward silence for a moment.
‘Would you promise me one thing?’ Seaton asked.
Stratton looked at him, unsure if the CIA agent was stable or not.
‘Try the peaceful way first. Give the law a chance.’
‘Look, I – er – I don’t think I’m going to do anything—’
‘I know,’ Seaton interrupted. ‘I’m just asking that if you do … whatever you do, try the legal route first.’
Stratton shrugged, feeling most uncomfortable talking this way with Seaton now that he had lost confidence in the man.
Seaton held out a baggage stub with the usual computer printout of numbers against the flight details. ‘Something for you. It’s already on the plane – we have a special relationship with the security here. You wouldn’t have gotten it on board on your own.’
Stratton could only wonder what ‘it’ was.
‘There are four numbers written on the back. You’ll know what they mean. When you see it you’ll wonder why the hell I gave it to you – I’m not even sure myself. Maybe I want you to know that I’m on your side. Maybe I just want to impress you. I don’t know. I was there too when Jack died, remember that. It was my op. Maybe I owe him … Christ, will you get the hell outta here before I change my mind.’
Stratton looked into Seaton’s strangely sad eyes a moment before walking away.
Seaton watched until Stratton disappeared down the tunnel. Then the CIA man headed across the hall, looking a little lost.
Five and a half hours later Stratton stood in the baggage hall of LAX, staring at the conveyor belt as suitcases and holdalls dropped out through a hatch to move slowly around the moving oval track. He had no idea what he was looking for and expected to have to wait until all the luggage had been claimed before he could compare the stub to its other half on the last remaining bag. Then a briefcase made of heavy-duty black plastic popped from the hatch and he knew that it was his.
Stratton watched the briefcase slide down the delivery ramp and onto the conveyor belt where it made its way past expectant passengers towards him. No one else reached for it and as it came alongside he picked it up and inspected the tag. The numbers matched. He shouldered his pack casually and headed towards the exit. A security officer checked the tag against his stub and waved him through the double doors which led directly outside and onto the four-lane one-way ring road that connected all the terminals of LAX. Within a few minutes he was in a taxi and heading out of the airport. The traffic was light as he passed through Marina Del Rey to the beach road and north towards Santa Monica.
When Stratton arrived inside his rented apartment he dropped his pack, placed the case on the dining table, went into the kitchen and filled the kettle. He put it on, dropped two Lipton tea bags in a mug and looked back at the case as the water came to the boil. The single clasp that secured the case required a four-digit combination to open it – the numbers written on the baggage stub, no doubt.
The kettle automatically clicked off as the water boiled. He filled the cup, poured in some milk from a carton in the fridge, stirred the liquid for a moment and then sipped it. The tea was hopeless, a combination of cheap leaves and vitamin D milk, he decided.
Stratton walked to the table and placed the mug on it. Then he tilted the case onto its rear edge, rolled the combination numbers to correspond with those on the stub and pressed the release catch. It flicked open and he
