silhouettes heading slowly along it.
Stratton watched the line of men move down the track while the other small group from the sedan remained at the vehicles. He headed quietly back towards his pick-up and located the white cord on the ground. He picked it up, dragged it with some care to the truck and gently opened the door so as not to make any noise.
Seaton sighed internally, wondering how this was going to turn out. He walked around the car to look back the way they’d come, his thoughts on where Stratton was at that moment. Seaton expected him to be miles away but if he was at the mine he would know that these guys were coming: their approach was not exactly stealthy.
As he turned to head back to the front of the sedan and rejoin Hobart his eyes made out a thin grey line on the ground running between the vehicles. Curious as to what it could be he crouched to take a closer look.
Stratton wound the end of the cord a couple of times around the catch inside the pick-up’s door frame and looked back through the trees at the silhouettes on the track.
Seaton reached a hand out for the cord, noting that it ran beneath both vehicles. He raised it off the ground a couple of inches, felt the abrasive crystals, released it and put his fingers to his nose. He inhaled the odour that seemed familiar.
‘Hobart!’ Seaton said as he stood up and moved away from the cord, his stare following it first into the distance towards the mine, then back the other way along the track.
Hobart, Hendrickson and the driver looked round at him, bemused by his raised voice.
‘I think you’d better move away from the vehicles,’ Seaton said as he closed on Hobart who was practically standing on the cord. Seaton reached out a hand to grab the FBI man’s arm.
Stratton pulled open the door as far as it would go, gripped it with both hands and planted his feet to get a solid purchase. Explosives are measured by the speed at which they burn and RDX combusts at around 24,000 feet per second – the speed it would travel if it was stretched out in a line, as it was in this case.
Stratton gathered himself and then swung the door as hard as he could so that it slammed shut, while at the same time turning his back to the cord and ducking away. The blast ripped outwards from the point where the cord had been struck and the door burst back open.
The explosion came out of the wood and down the track like a thunderbolt, tearing beneath both vehicles, rupturing and igniting their fuel tanks at the instant when Seaton grabbed Hobart’s shoulder. It shot along the track, swatting the entire HRT unit aside like flies. Less than a second after Stratton slammed the door the mine exploded, rocking the very ground and sending a blast of rubble and dust from the mouth of the entrance shaft like grapeshot from a giant cannon.
Stratton climbed inside the vehicle, started the engine which was still warm and drove forward through the wood all the while holding the door shut since the latch was now broken. He passed out the other side of the wood and across the stretch of rugged open ground towards the road. He kept the speed down while avoiding any large dips or bumps, conscious of the sensitivity of his cargo. Then he mounted the road and sped along it towards Twin Oaks.
As he approached the bar he could see that the lights were on and a dozen or so vehicles were parked in a haphazard manner on the open ground outside.
He slowed as he turned off the road, pulled in tightly alongside a white pick-up slightly smaller than his and stopped. He looked in through the passenger window, saw the key in the ignition and killed his engine. He shuffled across the seat, climbed out of his passenger door, grabbing his gear, and climbed up onto the truck’s bed. The white pick-up was empty and as quickly as he could he transferred his load onto it.
A few minutes later Stratton was back on the road in the white pick-up and tearing along as fast as was safe. Caliente was the last bottleneck he had to pass through and from there he had half a dozen choices of roads to the highway and after that a hundred different routes to LA.
As he reached the end of the town he saw a white car parked on the side of the road up ahead and slowed. As he suspected, it was a police patrol car and the state trooper seated behind the steering wheel looked at Stratton as he drove past.
Stratton watched the patrol car in his rear-view mirror, waiting to see if its lights came on. Then it was out of sight.
Stratton knew better than to celebrate prematurely but he had the feeling that for the moment he had slipped the net. But now he knew for sure that the net was indeed there – and closing. He had been lucky so far, there was no doubt about it, and if he was to continue the pursuit of his objective the chances were high that he would fail.
Seaton and Hobart, on the ground beside each other, shuffled away from the heat of the flames from the burning vehicles. Hendrickson’s coat was on fire and he rolled over and over, yelling ‘Holy shit! Holy shit!’ until the flames were out.
None of the HRT crew was seriously hurt, though one had broken an ankle. Another, who had been standing on the cord when it detonated, miraculously only lost the heel of his boot.
Hobart got to his feet as his mind came back into focus. Frustration and anger began to rise in him as he realised that they had walked right into a trap. ‘Hendrickson?’ he shouted. ‘Hendrickson!’ he repeated in irritation, looking for his assistant who was beating his smoking clothing and apparently ignoring him.
‘Hendrickson!’ he shouted again, moving towards him.
Hendrickson looked up, squinting at his boss.
‘Call the goddamned cops and tell them to put out their road-blocks! And where’s that damned helicopter?’
Hendrickson shook his head and rotated a finger alongside his ear. ‘I can’t hear a thing,’ he shouted. ‘Just ringing.’
It was only when Hobart saw Hendrickson’s lips moving and could hear hardly anything he was saying that he realised his ears were ringing, too.
31
Stratton spent the rest of the night in a motel on the outskirts of Los Angeles and early the next morning, after grabbing a bite at a local diner, he made his way into the bustling city. Morning traffic was heavy but by nine a.m. he was parked outside a construction-equipment hire company in Mar Vista, waiting for it to open. He was the first customer to enter the reception office after the man running the desk had drawn up the blinds and turned on the computer. Ten minutes later, on completion of the paperwork, Stratton was directed to an assistant across the yard who explained how to operate the mobile work platform – or cherry-picker, as it was affectionately known – that he had hired for the day. Stratton was happy to leave a credit-card imprint for the final bill because it would not show up on any police trace for at least twenty-four hours, by which time it would all be over. One way or another.
After a brief run-through of the controls, the assistant helped him attach the mobile platform to the back of the pick-up. Minutes later Stratton was making his way through the side streets that led to Culver City.
He came to a final stop just short of an intersection that was at one of the corners of what, according to a brand new sign, was now called Skender Square. He climbed out and walked to the corner to take a look.
The east face of the pyramid shone dazzlingly as it reflected the sun’s morning rays, particularly the golden pinnacle that looked as if it was on fire. The concourse bustled with preparations for the forthcoming ceremonies. Colourful banners connected palm trees and street lamps within the square. Several catering trucks were parked near the entrance with dozens of uniformed staff carrying in chairs, tables, linen and endless trays of food and crates of bottles. The back of a flower truck was open with a jungle of flora outside it waiting to be ferried into the
