guarded entrances on the perimeter of the vast complex. They stopped to present their ID cards to an armed sentry. The pole barrier went up after a heavy steel vehicle dam behind it powered slowly into its slot in the road and they drove in, round the back of one of the large office blocks and into an underground car park.
The driver, who had not said a word since asking Hobart for his ID at the airport arrivals gate, led the way into an elevator which ascended to the third floor. Hobart followed him along a pristine corridor to one of a dozen matching doors spread evenly along it. The driver opened the door and stood back for Hobart to enter a room that was windowless and sterile but for a conference table surrounded by half a dozen chairs.
‘Can I get you anything: water, coffee?’ the driver asked, remaining in the doorway.
‘No, thanks,’ Hobart replied as he put his briefcase on the table.
‘Someone’ll be with you in a couple minutes,’ the driver said before closing the door.
Hobart removed his jacket, placing it on the back of a chair, straightened his tie and sat down. The room was so quiet and still that he could feel his pulse beating away in his body. It seemed a little fast to him and he thought about how long it had been since his last medical check-up. Then he remembered that it had been on the day of his wife’s birthday: the tests had taken longer than he’d expected and he’d almost been late for their celebratory dinner. She had raised a glass to wish them both a long and happy life, a sentiment uncommon for her, and as a result he remembered being suddenly worried since the results from his tests were not yet ready. He’d read more than he should have into the coincidence of the toast. As it had turned out he was as fit as a fiddle but the dinner had been a quiet one because of his concerns.
Hobart put his fingers against his throat and counted the pulse, which appeared to have already slowed. Then, feeling ridiculously self-conscious, he stopped himself. Why was it that the older people got, their fear of death increased? When you’re young and with everything to live for you don’t think about it. But when you reach an age where statistically you know you should have less years to live than the number you’ve already been alive for you think about it more often. Death was inevitable.
The thought triggered speculation about Stratton’s likely remaining time on earth. The guy was on a suicide mission and surely heading in the old pine-box direction fast. If Skender’s people didn’t get him the police or the Bureau would. Even if by some miracle he did survive he was looking at a long, long time behind bars, all because he believed he owed it to his buddy, his buddy’s wife and their kid. A sad fact of life, thought Hobart, was that if you were born a man of honour and integrity you were bound to run up against authority in the long run: the law sure as heck didn’t make allowances for those qualities.
The door opened and three men in suits walked in.
‘Bill Weighbridge,’ the taller, older, more polished-looking man said, holding out his hand unsmilingly, his stare immediately assessing his FBI counterpart.
Hobart stood, took Weighbridge’s hand and shook it. ‘Hobart,’ he said.
‘Sam Belling, Bo Anderson,’ Weighbridge con tinued, introducing his colleagues who took their boss’s lead and formally shook Hobart’s hand.
Weighbridge sat down a chair away from Hobart and the other two men sat at the other side of the table.
‘How was your flight?’ Weighbridge asked.
‘Fine,’ Hobart replied, deciding to let the other guy get the ball rolling. It was, after all, his office.
Belling was watching Hobart but Anderson was looking down at his own fingers as if he was un interested.
Hobart’s immediate assessment of Weighbridge was that he was a tough-minded man who in his younger days had been physically hard, too. He looked confident, in control and dominating.
‘I appreciate the importance attached to this visit,’ Weighbridge said. ‘And I’m sure you want to get back as soon as you can. So, what have we got here?’ he asked, sitting back and looking directly into Hobart’s eyes.
‘I’ll get right to the point. First, though, I’d like to thank you for taking the time to see me at such short notice, and also for your help with what we do regard as a very serious case.’ Hobart spoke with a hint of humility but not enough to make it obvious that he was stroking the CIA men’s sense of superiority. He was well aware, of course, that they had not yet been of any assistance at all. ‘This man, John Stratton,’ Hobart went on. ‘I’ve come for two things. First, I need to know everything about him.’
A knock on the door interrupted them. Hobart looked up to see it open and a man step in, glance at the faces around the table and then look as if he might be in the wrong room. It was Seaton.
‘Come in,’ Weighbridge said and Seaton obeyed, closing the door behind him. ‘Take a seat. This is Agent Seaton,’ he said to Hobart. ‘Hobart is with the FBI in California.’
Seaton nodded a greeting as he sat down. Despite having no idea what this was about he suddenly felt uneasy.
‘I’ve asked Seaton to join us because he knows Stratton better than anyone in the Agency. Wouldn’t you say that was about right?’ Weighbridge asked, looking at Seaton.
Seaton’s heartbeat increased its pace as his temples tightened. He was unable to stop some of his surprise showing on his face, his immediate thoughts con cerning the box of explosives and the intelligence file that he had given to Stratton. ‘Yeah, I know him – though I wouldn’t say I know him well.’
Weighbridge interrupted as Hobart was about to say something. ‘Before we get into this, I’d like to say something – set some guidelines, if you like. I’m not about to throw up any obstacles here. You’ve got a job to do and we’ve got a responsibility to help, and as far as I’m concerned that’s how it’s going to be.’
Encouraging, Hobart thought. The man appeared sincere enough. Now let’s see if he is.
‘However …’ Weighbridge went on.
And so much for
‘I don’t know this guy Stratton personally,’ Weighbridge said.
‘Never met him, but on paper he has a value, to the Brits and also to us – he’s worked for us on occasion. He has a pretty high-level security classification. Works at the sharp end. You’ll understand the Brits’ concerns about a guy like that getting sucked into a domestic Stateside entanglement such as this. Personally, I don’t give a rat’s ass about his future. The guy’s broken the law and he’s got to pay the price. But I want to ask you, and I mean, I’m
‘Thank you for being so frank and direct,’ Hobart went on, maintaining his air of good-natured humility. ‘I’ll be equally candid and tell you that this case is connected to one of our most high-level and confidential operations regarding crime syndication in this country. We share equally your misgivings about publicity. The police are involved but in a manpower capacity only. As far as they’re concerned we’re looking for a crazed English guy who has some knowledge of explosives. If the media does become involved – which is probably inevitable since this began as a police case and leaks from that quarter are impossible to prevent – we shall have a credible explanation ready. I would appreciate any help from you in that area.’
Weighbridge nodded. He liked Hobart’s style and felt he could trust him. His attempts at sidestepping the bad blood between the two organisations were obvious but Weighbridge got the impression that on a personal level the man was sincere.
Hobart removed several printed sheets of paper from his briefcase and placed them on the desk, pushing one in front Weighbridge and the rest to the other men. ‘That’s a detailed history of events so far. Why don’t you go ahead and read through them, get up to speed and I’ll fill you in on the most recent information that we have.’
The men pulled the papers in front of them and began reading.
Seaton read quickly through the details of the two assassinations, the backfired retaliatory hit in the alleyway and Josh’s kidnapping. But what he was looking for in particular were any references to the origins of the explosives. As he reached the last sentence he was relieved to see that there were none. He breathed a little easier.
Hobart waited for Weighbridge to finish before handing out another page. ‘That’s a list of products which Stratton was known to be in possession of by yesterday evening. I understand that these chemicals could be used to produce a significantly powerful explosive device as well as detonators.’
‘And a helluva lot of “products” there are, too,’ Anderson said, studying the list.
‘How long would you estimate it would take him to put a device that big together?’ Hobart asked. He’d already had an answer to that question from Phil but he wanted to get these people involved.
