Traitor

‘And so have the Russians,’ the CO countered. ‘This chap from Sixteen. Did he bring the kit with him?’

‘Yes, sir. He’s waiting upstairs,’ the ops officer said.

‘How long have we got before we mount this operation?’ the CO asked Jervis. ‘I’d like Stratton to have a practice run if possible.’

‘You won’t have time for any of that,’ Jervis said. ‘We believe the Inessa leaves harbour tomorrow night or very soon after. Your man would have to be on target by then and every night until it does depart.’

The information only added to the general discomfort among the specialist soldiers.

Stratton had a question. ‘Do we know if the Spetsnaz conduct recces of the shallows before the Inessa passes the mole?’

‘They’re part of the Inessa’s crew,’ Jervis replied. ‘They satellite it whenever the disrupter’s in standby mode and go aboard once it’s operational. I’ve heard nothing about them recceing ahead but I’ll see if I can confirm that and get back to you.’

‘What about a team, sir?’ Mike suggested. ‘Give Stratton some back-up.’

‘Too risky,’ Jervis replied. ‘I can’t afford to have a crowd operating in that area. The Russians are highly sensitive at the moment. There’s talk of conflict with the Ukrainians over the port lease. The Russians are due to leave in a few years but they don’t want to. I want just one man. The kit’s already on its way out there, anyway . . . one man’s kit.’

The CO glanced at Jervis, once again thinking what a cold-hearted bastard he was. He looked at Stratton. ‘I’m going to leave it up to you, Stratton. We really don’t have anyone else up to the task at the moment,’ he added, suddenly feeling as manipulative as Jervis.

Stratton nodded thoughtfully. ‘Let’s take a look at the kit.’

‘Okay,’ the CO said, getting to his feet. ‘I’ll leave you to it. Get back to me asap.’

Jervis stood and buttoned up his jacket. ‘I’m going back to London. I’ll need to know within the hour if it’s a go or not.’

‘An hour?’ the CO echoed, surprised. ‘And if we can’t?’

‘I’ll find someone who can,’ Jervis said. ‘You’re not the only specialists in town, you know.’

‘Hereford couldn’t do this task,’ the ops officer jumped in.

‘I know,’ Jervis said. ‘Watch your backs, fellers. There are some areas where you’ve got competition. That goes for Hereford, too. Good to see you again, Stratton.’ Jervis pushed aside the black curtains and left the room.

‘Who could he be talking about?’ David asked.

No one had an immediate answer.

‘There’s a lot of specialist units cropping up,’ Mike said. ‘Twentyodd years ago the SAS took the Iranian embassy because no one else could. Today the London Met could handle it just as well. I don’t know who else does water, though - not to our level.’

The others couldn’t think of anyone either.

‘Take a look at the kit,’ the CO said to Stratton. ‘Let me know your thoughts soon as you can . . . within the hour.’ The CO left the room.

‘Be a feather in your cap,’ David said to Stratton as he followed the CO.

‘What do you think?’ Mike asked his friend.

‘What does that actually mean?’

‘What?’

‘Feather in your cap?’

Mike shrugged. ‘I’ll look it up . . . Let’s go meet this boffin from Sixteen.’

The two men walked across the SBS HQ lobby to an office on the ground floor. Inside there was the usual paraphernalia and no admin staff had arrived yet. A smart though casually dressed man stood on the far side of the room, looking out of a window to the frozen rugby field beyond. He turned and smiled politely as Stratton and Mike came in. He appeared to be the same age as Stratton and was slightly taller, clean-cut and athletic. He looked the highly intelligent type.

‘Phillip Binning, is it?’ Mike asked.

‘Yes. Phil, please,’ Binning replied in a refined English accent. The two shook hands.

‘This is John Stratton. He’s going to be using your harness and recording device,’ Mike said, adding under his breath, ‘or not.’

Binning smiled again as he looked at Stratton, studying him with interest. When he shook Stratton’s hand he did so firmly. ‘I’ve heard of you,’ Binning said. ‘You have an impressive reputation.’

Stratton wasn’t sure how to reply to the comment.

Mike spared him the trouble. ‘Can you talk us through the kit? We don’t have a lot of time.’

‘Sure,’ Binning said, going to a large black canvas bag on a table. He unbuckled a pair of straps, unzipped it along its length and pulled out a black lightweight metal frame wrapped in heavy-duty nylon strips that he unwound before deftly unfolding the frame and locking its joints into position. ‘This is the harness that will hold you to the sea floor. Its operation is quite simple. You use a bolt gun to drive bolts through these holes here, here and here,’ he said, indicating five small flat tongues welded to the corners and centre of the frame.

‘Looks basic enough,’ Mike said.

‘The best things are, aren’t they?’ Binning replied, with a condescending look. ‘I understand the seabed in the target area is sedimentary with large igneous-boulder deposits. Some of the boulders are granite, some are obsidian. You must bolt the frame to the granite boulders. Obsidian will not hold the bolt configuration. Can you tell the difference?’

Stratton shook his head.

‘Well, you’d better learn before you go,’ Binning warned.‘Otherwise you could find yourself going through the props.’ He removed a gunlike device from the bag and offered it to Stratton. ‘The bolt gun. Light, isn’t it? It’s off the shelf with a few modifications. Very clean reload features.’

Stratton looked over the commercially manufactured gun. It seemed straightforward enough. He put it to one side. There would be time to familiarise himself with it later.

‘The harness is a quick-release system . . . legs, hips, chest and head.’ Binning picked up the frame and turned it over. ‘It leaves your arms free to operate the recorder.’ He dug out a sturdy plastic-moulded waterproof box, unfastened the lid and took from it a complex-looking device that looked like a set of adapted night-vision goggles. ‘This is the recorder . . . it obviously fits over one’s face,’ he said. ‘You simply turn it on, look at the hull through the optics and the device will do the rest.’ He took a file of printed paper out of the box. ‘Here are the operating details. You’ll need to read them thoroughly before you play with it. One word of warning, though. This button here arms the device . . . yes, I did say arm. Once it’s activated, when you remove the memory card here - which is all you need to bring back with you once you’ve completed the task - the recorder will self-destruct. It’s not a big bang or anything like that. It releases a chemical inside that destroys all the hardware. Very important. We don’t think the Russians have anything close to its sophistication and we don’t want them getting their hands on it.’

Stratton held the device and scanned the first page of the instructions. He put them both down, more interested in the harness. That was the part his life would depend on.

‘Any burning questions?’ Binning asked.

Stratton picked up a bolt and placed it through one of the holes on the frame.

‘You’ll need all five in place to ensure stability,’ Binning advised him.

‘How do you release the frame afterwards?’ Stratton asked.

‘Good question,’ the young scientist said. ‘The eyelets detach from the frame itself,’ he said, demonstrating how.

‘You’re still left with the bolts in the rock,’ Stratton pointed out.

‘It’s the best we could do in the time we had. All I can suggest is that you cover the bolts with stones. I understand the value of the information gained on this operation will not be comprom - ised by the other side knowing we have it. Only complete deniability was on the wish list.’

Stratton wasn’t overjoyed. Masking an operative’s presence on target reduced the risk of pursuit. But he