‘We’re all ready apart from the power plant. I’m told it’ll be here at least a couple of days prior.’
‘I need a guarantee on that. I don’t want to see it plugged into a battery box. We must have the right power units. Otherwise it looks bloody amateurish.’
‘Of course.’
At a door, Jason slipped his index finger inside a scan tube by the handle and the locking mechanism gently clicked open. They went into a rectangular open-plan room, the walls lined on three sides by whiteboards and computer monitors. It had been subtly divided, using movable partitions, into small clusters of tables and chairs, a couple of which were occupied by a handful of staff who were sitting in circles discussing something.
‘This is the theory room,’ Jason said in a quieter voice. ‘Each new project has its own stance, its own position in the room, but also in an open forum that allows anyone with an idea they wish to contribute to do so. One person oversees what we call the subject but other than that it’s a free-for-all.’
Stratton looked at the various ‘stances’, the boards and screens containing mathematical data and diagrams. It was all Greek to him.
When he looked back at Jason the MI16 director was watching him, an expression in his eyes like that of a master examining an uncomprehending child. ‘Bit daunting for you, I expect . . . Let’s go to my office,’ he said, gesturing towards a smaller glass-partitioned space at the far end. ‘Take a seat,’ Jason said as they walked into the office. He sat in a comfortable leather chair behind the desk, a large portion of whose surface was a computer screen.
The warmth was beginning to make Stratton feel uncomfortable and he removed his leather jacket before sitting down.
‘We run a pretty loose ship here,’ Jason began. ‘No scheduled meals or work times. It’s up to the individual. We even have nap rooms,’ he said, raising his eyebrows. ‘The emphasis is placed on freedom . . . freedom to think, to express. The primary function is creation. It’s bad enough having to live like rabbits in a warren. So we do our best to compensate with pitiful luxuries and distractions.’
One such distraction caught Jason’s eye as he looked past Stratton.
Rowena was heading towards the office, no longer in the one-piece laboratory suit but in a short skirt that revealed a pair of shapely legs. Her gaze lingered on Jason perhaps a moment too long as she entered the room but her expression was still void of emotion.
‘Rowena. Have you met John Stratton?’ Jason asked.
‘Yes,’ she said, without looking at the guest and taking a seat in the other side of the room. She appeared aloof beyond rudeness as she pulled out a cigarette packet, removed a slender cigarette and lit it.
Jason smiled thinly as she blew a long line of smoke towards him. ‘That describes Rowena to a T. Rude and rebellious. This is a no-smoking establishment. But she’s invaluable, knows it, and so she gets away with everything.’
The young woman ignored everyone. Binning stared at her in private thought. Rowena somehow involved everyone and ignored them at the same time. She seemed to live under a cloud, contemptuous of everything.
‘I asked Rowena to pop in because she’s, well, a part of why you’re here,’ Jason said, looking at Stratton. ‘I can’t help feeling there’s bad feeling between you and us. I’d like to move beyond it. I think there’s been an overreaction to the hull-recording incident. It’s quite acceptable that under such hostile circumstances an operative could forget to arm the self-destruct option—’
‘I didn’t forget to arm it,’ Stratton said, surprised by his own sudden anger. It was a warning that his previous acceptance of the situation was a smokescreen that he’d created in self-defence. Deep down he still felt sensitive about the incident, at least where these people were concerned.
Everyone else in the room felt the sting of Stratton’s glare although they did not appear to be unduly fazed by it.
Jason took a moment to compose his next words. ‘The likelihood of the device failing to self-destruct after it was armed is very low. But obviously nothing is impossible.’
‘Total crap,’ Rowena snapped, looking at Stratton as if he was dirt. ‘I designed the self-destruct system on that device. It’s simple, functional, and the one that I prepared for the operation worked perfectly. And I’m not going to be blamed by this Neanderthal for some fictitious malfunction.’
Stratton got to his feet, barely able to hold on to his anger. ‘I’m not taking any more of this shit.’
‘Oh, grow up,’ Rowena said, taking a pull on her cigarette. ‘If you prima donnas only knew how difficult it is to dumb down designs just so you can use them you wouldn’t be so damned arrogant.’
The other scientists in the theory room outside the office had stopped talking and were looking towards them.
‘Easy,’ Jason said, getting up and walking around the desk as if to get between the pair.
‘I can see what’s going on,’ Stratton said. ‘You eggheads screwed up and as far as you’re concerned my coming here acknowledges that it was my mistake. Fine. You win. I came. Now I’ll go. That recorder didn’t work. You know it. I know it. It’ll be our little secret.’
‘You bloody coward,’ Rowena retorted, standing now. ‘You may have the guts to do the job but not to admit when you screw it up.’
‘Please! Can we stop this?’ Jason had raised his voice to match the volume of theirs and now he moved to the doorway to prevent Stratton from leaving. ‘Let’s all calm down.’ He faced Stratton. ‘There’s no underhandedness going on here. I understand your feelings, both of you,’ he added, glancing round at Rowena. ‘I think I know how difficult it was for you to come here. You’re an operative and, well, I expect that in your eyes we’re nothing more than a bunch of white coats . . . and in the eyes of some of the people here you’re no more than a mindless thug. I’m being perfectly frank because I want to be fully understood. I believe we’re wrong about each other. I would like to see closer cooperation between us than there has been in the past. For our part we need to know more about how you think, react, analyse. That goes for all operatives and for you in particular, Stratton. You have an impressive record when it comes to thinking on your feet, reacting to life-threatening situations, solving problems under pressure. Yet forgive me if I sound insulting, but . . . well, you don’t have a great education. Your IQ is average . . . don’t get me wrong, please: I’m trying not to sound condescending. What I’m saying is, you have something that isn’t easily quantifiable when it comes to IQ or physical tests. I want to know what that something is.’
Rowena rolled her eyes and sat back down. ‘No one ever heard of dumb luck?’ she muttered.
Stratton realised he was grinding his teeth. Yet the woman had disengaged herself from everyone else, seemingly to concentrate on her cigarette.
A beeper sounded at Jason’s hip. He unclipped the device and checked its screen. ‘I would appreciate it if everyone just took a deep breath and settled down,’ he said, moving back behind the desk.
Stratton picked up his coat and headed out of the office.
Jason frowned as he picked up a headset - a greater priority - placed it against his ear and touched the desk screen to activate a connection. ‘This is Jason . . . I understand . . . Yes, of course. That’s what we’re here for.’
He put down the headset as Stratton reached the door. ‘Stratton. I think you’ll want to hear this. That was a call from London.’
Stratton stopped at the word ‘London’. That probably meant the call had nothing to do with this rubbish. He looked at the scientist.
‘Somebody hijacked an oil platform in the North Sea early this morning. They’re holding some hundred and sixty-plus workers to ransom. An SBS team is on its way here to pick up the G43.’
‘When will they be here?’ Binning asked.
‘They’re in the air. Any time.’
‘Is that all they need?’ Now Binning was completely methodical - his job was to liaise with outside units who needed equipment.
‘That’s all they’ve asked for. But stand by for updates.’
Stratton released the door handle. He wasn’t sure how the news directly affected him but felt he should stick around and see what developed . . . as long as that bloody bitch Rowena kept away from him.
A gentle yet persistent buzz filled the air and a small light flashed above one of the flatscreens on the office wall. Jason used a remote to turn it on. Several split-screens displayed various parts of the compound as seen through a collection of closed-circuit television cameras. He selected one of the views, enlarging it to fill the screen.
