‘I don’t get it,’ Stratton finally said.
‘You’ve got to get the glass inside the bottle,’ Smudge revealed.
‘What?’ Stratton asked, unsure whether he had heard correctly.
‘The champagne glass inside the bottle … May I remind you that you were the one who said that the use of explosives was not brutality but a delicate science and that with the right formula and chemistry anything could be achieved.’
‘I never said that.’
‘Something like that,’ Smudge insisted.
‘The universe was started with a big bang,’ Bracken commented. The others ignored him.
‘All you have to do is get the glass into the bottle,’ Smudge repeated. ‘And there has to be a recognisable amount of the bottle left.’
‘The glass inside the bottle,’ Stratton said, unable to stop himself from calculating a solution.
‘One hit only,’ Smudge added, sensing that Stratton might already have a plan.
Stratton looked around at the garden, estimating the dangers. But Smudge was ahead of him.
‘Everyone goes into the house,’ Smudge said. ‘Won’t be more than like a large banger going off.’
Stratton looked at Jack who shrugged his indifference. Then he peered closely at the bottle and flute again. ‘The glass inside the bottle,’ he said.
‘’E ’as a plan, methinks,’ Bracken said, grinning, the comment denting Smudge’s confidence.
‘You can’t touch any of the glass other than with fat,’ Smudge said. ‘One explosion, and the flute has to end up inside the bottle … You owe me a chance to get my money back.’
‘For what?’ Stratton asked.
‘That Sunni cleric in Mosul – what was ’is name?’
‘Mohamed Sah,’ Jack offered.
‘That’s ’im. You had to blow his car off the street and onto the roof of his house.’
‘He did that,’ Jack said.
‘Yeah, but I should’ve won on a technicality,’ Smudge argued. ‘The guy was supposed to have been in it at the time.’
‘You’re a sore loser, Smudge,’ Smiv chimed in.
‘I accepted it, didn’t I? I’m moving on. Stratton was the one who said he could do anything with explosives and I’m offering him another chance to prove it. What do you say? Double the Mosul bet? Two hundred quid says you can’t do it.’
Stratton was more interested in the challenge than the money.
‘I’ll match Smudge’s two ’undred,’ Bracken said.
‘I’ll ’ave some of that,’ added Smiv. ‘I can’t see how he can do that.’
‘You in, Jack?’ Smudge asked.
‘If Stratton says it can be done,’ Jack said.
They all looked at Stratton who was still studying the problem.
‘What do you think?’ Smudge asked him.
‘The question is not if, but how,’ Stratton answered.
‘No,’ Smudge said, challenging him. ‘The question is, my friend,
They watched Stratton study the table, the glass, the air above, and even the surrounding area. Finally he stood back, put his hands on his hips, exhaled deeply and nodded to himself.
‘Is that a yes?’ Smudge asked.
‘Yes,’ Stratton finally said.
Smudge immediately looked concerned. He knew that Stratton was a master when it came to explosives but he was also canny and Smudge did not trust him. ‘One bang only,’ he reiterated.
Stratton nodded.
‘No touching any of the glass afterwards,’ Smudge added.
Stratton nodded again.
‘No picking the glass up with anything and putting it inside the bottle,’ Smudge added, trying to cover every possible catch he could think of.
‘No picking the glass up afterwards,’ Stratton said, his eyes never leaving the table as he finalised his solution. ‘Any more rules?’
Smudge looked around at the others in case they had any to add, hoping that someone had thought of something. But there was only silence. ‘Okay,’ he said.
‘I’ll match the two hundred, then,’ Jack said. ‘But my money’s on Stratton.’
‘Easy money.’ Smudge smirked.
‘Gotta go with the track record,’ Jack said.
‘Can I get in on this?’ Seaton asked, making his way into the group.
‘Absolutely,’ Smudge said. ‘’Ow much?’
‘What’s the going bet?’ the American asked.
‘Jack has two hundred,’ Smudge said.
‘Two hundred it is, then,’ Seaton said, getting out his money.
‘Right. Two hundred against,’ Smudge said as he reached for the notes.
‘No. I’d never bet against Stratton,’ Seaton said, handing the money over.
Smudge’s confidence was rocked a little once again, but he recovered. ‘Your money … Right, then,’ Smudge said as he picked a flower from the tree and put it into the flute. ‘That has to stay in the glass that ends up in the bottle.’
‘You can’t add on things after the bet,’ Jack said.
‘The flower doesn’t matter,’ Stratton said. ‘Nice touch, Smudge.’
Smudge frowned as he held out the briefcase, insisting to himself that Stratton was bluffing.
Stratton took the case, placed it on the table and opened it up. Inside was a series of neatly organised compartments, a pristine surgical pack filled with an assortment of micro-explosives that included: a metre reel of detonator cord or cortex no thicker than a piece of spaghetti, a two-metre reel of very fine slow-burning fuse, a cartridge of four micro-detonators, a pack of PE5 (Super-X) plastic explosive packed in thin cellophane sheets like sliced processed cheese, three timers, one electronic, one mechanical and one chemical, two radio-receiver detonators, a ceramic surgical knife (non-metallic), a heavy-duty multi-tool ‘work man’ that included pliers, scissors and various other utensils, a roll of electrician’s tape, a spool of nylon fishing line, an assortment of screws and tacks, several paper-thin magnetic strips, and a remote-detonation transmitter and continuity tester.
Stratton removed the detonating cord, unravelled a short length which he cut off using the ceramic blade, then began pulling it carefully through his fingers.
‘Why’s he doing that?’ Bracken asked.
‘He’s stretching it to thin it out,’ Jack informed him.
‘I see.’ Bracken nodded. ‘Why?’
‘He’s making it a weaker charge, I suppose.’
Stratton eased the cortex through his fingers, being careful not to break it. When it was half its original thickness he wrapped it once around the neck of the bottle, just above its widest point, and cut it precisely where the ends met. The men were joined by several others and they watched with interest as Stratton removed a small piece of electrician’s tape which he stuck to the face of his wristwatch. Then he cut two lengths of slow-burning fuse, one twelve inches long, the other double that. He attached the shorter fuse to a micro-detonator and carefully placed its tip where the two ends of the cortex met, securing it in place with the tape where it sat like a bracelet.
Stratton reached for the glass.
‘Uh-uh,’ Smudge quickly interrupted. ‘You can’t move anything. You gotta leave it in place as is.’
Stratton didn’t appear bothered about the rule revision and went back to the briefcase. He removed the reel of fishing line, unwound a couple of metres and looked up into the tree that loomed over the table. The men followed his gaze and watched the end of the line float skywards over a branch and back into his hand. He flicked the line along the branch until it was above the glass. Then he cut it, tied a slip knot and pulled it to the top of the
