The Operative

Skender looked totally unperturbed as he picked a speck of fluff from his shirt, got to his feet and placed the file on his desk. He put his hands in his pockets and strolled over to Hobart, stopping a few feet in front of him. He stifled a yawn as he removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. ‘Sorry. You were sending me to sleep.’

Skender put his glasses in his pocket and took a long look at Hobart. ‘You don’t live in the real world, Hobart. You think you do but you don’t. You know, we have this little bird in Albania, lives in the mountains, a bit like your road runner. It’s like a little chicken but it ain’t good to eat. But this little bird makes a lot of noise all the time. It walks around screaming and screeching like it’s in charge of everything. It thinks it’s more important than it is. People usually leave it alone because it’s kind of funny, the way it struts around. But if one comes into your house and starts squawking, which they sometimes do, well, that can be too much and there’s only one way to shut them up.’

‘Is that supposed to be a threat?’

‘It’s just a story, Hobart. A little slice of life in Albania. It’s the way we live. We’ll never change. But you’re too stupid to see that.’

‘I like it when people think I’m stupid. It feels so much better when I’m waving goodbye to them as they walk down that dark tunnel to the cell at the end of it.’ Hobart started to walk away, then thought of something else. ‘Oh, one more small thing. The guy who killed Leka Bufi and Ardian Cano. He may be coming after you. I’m not telling you out of any concern for you. It’s just that I want to be the one who puts you away, not him. Do I need your card to go down in the elevator?’ he asked Cano.

Cano shook his head.

‘I’ll see myself out,’ Hobart said as he walked on, pausing in the doorway to look around the room. ‘I wonder what we’ll do with this building when you’re gone – it’ll become state property, you know.’ Hobart smiled and headed along the corridor to the elevator.

Skender gave a long sigh and shook his head. ‘He’s annoying, isn’t he?’ he said as he went back to his desk, sat behind it and stared at the ceiling in thought. ‘Did you find out anything more about this Englishman – what was his name?’

‘Stratton. We have the building he lives in. An apartment block in Santa Monica.’

‘How would you do it?’

‘Bring in a team from out of town. There’ll be no connection to us.’

Skender pondered it further as he looked at Cano. ‘You can have him. Just make sure it’s clean.’

Cano nodded and left the room.

Skender swivelled in his chair to face the glass window. His life had been about staying one step ahead. The fact that he was still alive was proof of that for in his game to lose meant to die. Hobart and the FBI could not even begin to match the nemeses he’d faced down in his sixty years but neither could they be ignored. Skender wasn’t worried about ending up in any jail. He would leave the USA long before that became even a remote possibility. But he enjoyed his life in America, his home in the hills overlooking the city, his new office building and his plans to create a legitimate empire. He needed time and would find another little fish to throw to them. The Sicilian connection was out of the question since he controlled that himself but there were other things he could offer.

One thing was for sure: Skender would not allow Hobart or the Feds to dictate to him. They would accept what he gave them and in his own good time, not theirs. Meanwhile he would cultivate his contacts among the higher echelons of American bureaucracy. Those were the ones who would one day tell the Bureau that Skender had done enough and proved himself worthy to join their community. Money was everything and if you could not buy the Hobarts of this world or the people above them you kept going higher still until you found someone you could buy. It was as simple as that and it was why Skender could sleep peacefully at night.

Skender picked up the file. It contained a collection of art cata -logues from his interior designers and with only a couple more days left to put in his order he continued looking through it. The building would not be completely finished for the opening cere -mony next week but it would look as if it was. There were a handful of minor technical problems but the construction and decorating would be completed. Skender was pleased with the way things were going. The invitation list was impressive and many of the bigger names including the governor, the mayor and three senators had already RSVP’d. He turned the page to a Botticelli with an asking price of six figures. To Skender it looked like cheap porn but the designer thought it would look good in the lobby so he ticked the ‘yes’ box.

Hobart walked out of the building and across the concourse towards his car. Outwardly he looked his normal serious self but inside he was angry. While listening to himself spouting off in Skender’s office he had realised what it was that he hated most about the man. Skender was bullet-proof as far as the Bureau was concerned. He could keep feeding them crap for years and get away with it. As long as he kept giving them something with the ultimate promise of one day delivering big he could keep Hobart off his back for God only knew how long. Hobart knew he would not get the support for any threats he made and would be told to cool it if he tried.

It was times like this, cases like this that made Hobart want to quit. Maybe Phil was right, but Hobart couldn’t give in to the temptation. His wife had given up. That was why she had been happy to quit the column in the Washington Post and come out to LA. Recently she had taken to leaving around the house articles describing properties and lifestyles in the Carolinas. The money they could get for the house in the Valley would buy them a small mansion in that part of the country. He would have no problems getting a job as a security adviser to some corporation on the East Coast. His wife had given him thirty good years and deserved it and the truth was that he also owed it to himself. He was burning out. He decided he was going to pour himself a small whiskey when he got home and take a look at those articles.

Just the thought of it made Hobart feel a bit better and that, sadly, was a bad sign. The problem if he resigned now would be his conscience. He would have to convince himself that he was leaving the Bureau because it was the right time to do so and not running away because he had failed. What he needed was one last success. But he knew that the only kind of success that would do the trick was the impossible one of putting Skender away.

As Hobart climbed into his car he paused to grimace and shake his head. The day had not ended well after all and he told himself that he should’ve gone home from his office and quit while he was ahead.

21

Stratton and Vicky were seated at a small table in the back of an elegant bistro on Main Street, Venice. A waiter was filling two white china cups in front of them with coffee.

‘Thank you,’ Vicky said as he left. ‘Cream?’ she asked Stratton as she picked up the little jug.

‘Thanks,’ Stratton said and she poured some into both cups. ‘I read somewhere that most of the population of California weren’t born here. You one of those?’

‘No. I was born three hours north of here in a small town called Caliente, a few miles from Bakersfield. My roots are Cornish.’

‘As in Cornwall, England?’

‘Yep. Caliente used to be a mining town. Great, great, great-whatever grandfather Whitaker was a miner. He came over in the 1800s – the Gold Rush after the tin and copper ran out in Cornwall. Caliente’s local store still sells Cornish pasties. I lived near an old abandoned mine. I used to explore it all the time as a kid, until my dad found out.’

‘So you were adventurous when you were a kid?’

‘Until I learned fear, I guess. My dad started telling me all kinds of horror stories about mine accidents until I couldn’t bear to go inside one again. And now I sit at a desk. Isn’t your work sometimes dangerous?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘After two hours you know everything there is to know about me, which is pretty sad when you come to think about it. All I know about you is that you were orphaned when you were six years old and ended up in an orphanage. Then you joined the military when you were eighteen. That’s not fair.’

‘You don’t want to hear the whole story on our first date, do you?’