The Operative

Stratton flicked through the file and stopped at the report on Leka where it indicated that the Albanian was incarcerated at the Santa Monica court awaiting arraignment on the twenty-first. Stratton checked the date on his watch to confirm that it was now the eighteenth, which did not give his battered body very long to heal. The report also indicated the law firm representing Leka and detailed their scheduled meetings. A feasible way of gaining entry to the lock-up facility came to Stratton almost immediately. The main problem was how to deal with a target who was inside a jail and probably the other side of bars when there was no way of getting weapons into the building.

As Stratton stared at several coins on the table an idea began to germinate. He reached for the largest coin, a quarter, put down the file, got stiffly to his feet, and went to the table where he sat down carefully in front of the explosives box, all the while gingerly nursing his aching ribcage.

He opened the container, removed the pack of SX – a concentrated RDX compound with almost twice the explosive power of PE4 or C4 – and peeled away a portion that resembled a slice of processed cheese. He removed the plastic wrapping, laid it flat on the table and, using the small graphic knife from the kit, sliced off a length and began to roll it into a ball. It was similar to plasticine: the more he manipulated it in his hands the warmer it got and the easier it was to mould. When it was soft Stratton pressed it against one side of the quarter and shaped it into a small conical pyramid in the centre of the coin. Then he laid it on the table to evaluate it.

The packet of chewing gum that he’d bought from the Korean shop was on the table. He removed one of the strips, slid off the paper and unwrapped the silver foil. He placed the stick of gum on the sheet of remaining SX, traced around the edge with the knife, cut away a strip the exact size of the gum and wrapped it carefully in the silver foil. Then he slid it into the paper sheath and placed it back in the packet.

The plan was workable, Stratton decided, but it needed a test run. The key elements were that he should not be seen or, more importantly, recognised and should leave nothing like fingerprints or DNA behind.

Stratton remembered seeing a Yellow Pages in the entrance cupboard. He got up, found the directory and took it to the couch where he sat back and thumbed through it. Just as he found a shop in Santa Monica that claimed to have the widest range of Hallowe’en and other costumes on the West Side he was suddenly overcome by a need to sleep. The day had caught up with him and he decided to work on the rest of the plan later. The urge to remain on the couch was strong but he wanted to lie flat. He put down the directory, pushed himself up, moved into the bedroom and lowered himself slowly onto the bed, his grazes stinging where the scabs that had already formed cracked with every move. He rested his head on the pillow, pulled the bloodstained towel over him and closed his eyes. Ideally he would have liked to rest for a week and recover fully but he did not have the time. There was a lot to do, most of all where Josh was concerned.

As Stratton closed his eyes the plan took shape in his mind. He realised that he was enjoying this part of the process. Preparing an operation, especially one that he was going to carry out alone, was satisfying. But before he could get properly into it Cano’s face appeared in front of him and Stratton’s eyes jerked open. Realising that the image was not real, he closed his eyes once more, forcing himself to relax so that he could fall asleep.

At that moment Stratton wanted Cano at his mercy more than anything else. He was certain, should his wish be granted, that mercy would be the last thing he’d show the bastard.

14

Stratton stood in front of the court buildings. He was wearing a tan jacket, ironed trousers and polished brown shoes. His hair was dyed blond and had a parting for the first time in probably more than a decade. Heavy spectacles partly covered his bruised eyes, a false hombre moustache more or less concealed the wounds on his lips and a goatee – or as much of one as he had been able to grow in the three days since his beating – completed the disguise. He carried a small laptop case. As he adjusted his colourful tie he headed for the entrance of the Santa Monica District courthouse and the security checkpoint where half a dozen people were waiting to be processed.

Stratton joined the queue and watched as two security guards took their time checking each person thoroughly. After passing through a standard frame detector the contents of each person’s baggage were checked and before entering the building another electronic sensor was run up and down the lengths of their bodies. Stratton passed through the frame without triggering an alarm and his laptop case was opened to reveal some pens and paperwork. He raised his hands, wincing as his cracked ribs complained. The hand-held sensor swept over his body, beeping at his trouser-belt buckle – the noise was ignored – and again alongside his jacket pocket. He produced some small change which satisfied the security guard who allowed him through.

Stratton stepped into the cavernous crowded hall and paused to look around. The courthouse interior was an L-shaped configuration with half a dozen doors staggered either side of the longer wing. The broader, shorter wing housed the entrances to three courtrooms that appeared to be in full swing with spec -tators and legal representatives milling in and out through the large double doors.

A police officer was crossing the lobby and Stratton moved to intercept him. ‘Excuse me, officer,’ he said in a southern accent. He wore a broad, innocent smile.

The officer glanced at him without slowing.

‘Where are the detainees awaiting arraignment kept?’ Stratton asked, moving to keep pace with him.

‘That door at the end,’ the officer said, pointing as he headed down the longer wing.

‘Thank you,’ Stratton said, stopping as the officer disappeared into the crowd. Stratton had rehearsed his American accents all morning while getting ready in his apartment and more loudly as he’d walked to the courthouse, trying to select one that was suitable. He eventually went for the Southern accent simply because, although it sounded almost ridiculous to him and far too exaggerated, he could hang on to it better than any of the others.

Stratton looked towards the door indicated by the cop. It was at the far end of the lobby, past the courtroom entrances. A guard was standing in front of it – obstacle number two.

Stratton was happy with the plan so far and decided to take it to the next stage, once he’d had a moment to compose himself and rethink his dialogue. As he moved through the crowd and approached the guard he put his broad smile back on. ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘I’m here to see Leka Bufi – he’s a prisoner awaiting arraignment.’

‘You his attorney?’

‘One of them. I’m from Myers and Carrington,’ Stratton said, quoting the company’s name from the file. But the officer didn’t seem interested in the information.

‘Raise your hands, please, sir,’ the officer asked.

‘Oh,’ Stratton said, acting surprised and maintaining his nerdy act. He held out his arms as if he was being crucified and a pain shot across his chest. He tried to disguise his wincing.

The guard noticed it and was also curious about Stratton’s bruises.

Stratton widened his grin. ‘I was having a fight and a game of hockey broke out,’ he said.

The officer ignored the weak attempt at humour as he ran a metal detector over Stratton’s body. It beeped at his buckle which was, as before, ignored and again when it detected the change in his pocket.

Stratton hurriedly took the money out to show the officer who checked the pocket again before running the detector over his case. Satisfied, he pushed a button and the door buzzed.

‘You can go through, sir,’ the officer said.

Stratton nodded his thanks and as he reached for the handle the door opened. A man in a suit and carrying an expensive leather briefcase pushed through.

‘Excuse me,’ the man said, almost bumping into Stratton as he hurried across the hall and into one of the courtrooms.

Stratton walked through the door and as it closed behind him he paused to look at the only way ahead: a flight of stairs going down. He followed them to the first landing where a woman with an armful of files and a pen gripped in her teeth made her way up past him. Then he carried on to the bottom and found himself facing a door with a small security window set in it.

He peered through the little window to see a long, clinical-looking hallway with four or five cubicles to a side. There was no sign of life. He turned the handle to find the door locked. On the wall was a button beneath a rectangular patch, evidence that a sign had once existed there. He pushed the button. A buzzer sounded inside and