baggage hall at Heathrow Airport. Neither of them had any luggage. They were dressed in cheap clothes that had been bought from a Moscow store near the British Embassy by a young aide who lacked taste and a memory for size. They were clean, pale and bore the marks of their brutal fight to escape the mine, with cuts and bruises on their knuckles and faces.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ one of the officials said, moving in front of Stratton to block his path.
The other officer moved to where he could stop Rowena if she decided to run. He looked her up and down suspiciously.
‘Where have you travelled from?’ the official asked Stratton.
Stratton exhaled tiredly and took a small plastic wallet from a pocket, opened it and showed it to the official. Inside was a small, ornate, circular, gold-inlaid enamel royal coat of arms.
The official looked at it, then back at Stratton as if he did not understand its meaning.
Stratton flipped up the badge on its neat leather hinge to reveal an inscription that read: ‘MI6: The bearer of this badge will receive all assistance on request from British Crown authorities in the course of their duty on behalf of Her Majesty the Queen.’ The badge had been given to Stratton by the British ambassador in Moscow on instructions from London as he was leaving.
The Customs official reached for the wallet.
‘No need to touch,’ Stratton said. ‘Just read it.’
The official frowned a little but studied the badge. He had seen photographs of it although he had never seen one in real life before. He also remembered that he was to obey the inscription without question. ‘Is there anything I can do for you, sir?’ he asked.
Stratton shook his head.
The Customs official nodded, bid his colleague step back and moved away himself to allow the couple through.
Stratton and Rowena walked into the cavernous arrivals hall where the operative stopped as if weighed down by indecision.
Rowena gave him his space. They had hardly talked throughout the journey back and had not exchanged a single word about the operation. It was not so much because the subject would be thoroughly hashed-out over the coming days, more a case of unwinding and returning to earth after such a psychologically and physically depleting experience. But there was something else. It was unfinished. There were unanswered questions and the more Stratton thought about them, the more uneasy he had grown.
As Rowena watched him she became concerned for him. She suspected there was a lot more to the plot than she knew and she wanted to help somehow, though she didn’t know how. ‘What are you going to do?’ she asked.
Stratton felt unsure about confiding in her. He looked at her bruised face and into her tired eyes and decided that she was more of a partner to him in this business than anyone else had been. She had been a reluctant member of Jason’s team, had been betrayed by him and Binning and had shown great courage and fortitude when most needed. ‘One thing has been bothering me since I’ve had time to think about all that’s happened. But I’m not sure how to go about solving it.’
Rowena stepped closer to him, curious to know, hoping she could help.
‘I don’t believe that Jason and Binning accomplished all they did on their own.’
‘They didn’t. They had the help of powerful Russian officials and wealthy businessmen.’
‘I mean they must’ve had serious assistance from heavy players on our side too. Getting onto the platform, for instance. And Jason going to Russia with me. He said he didn’t believe in luck, that everything he did was meticulously planned. Yet he had no control over some of the most important leaps in the series of events.’
‘That would mean someone pretty high up?’
‘Someone with direct influence on the operation. There’s only one person it could be.’ Stratton walked over to a public phone.
He picked up the receiver and dialled a number. It was the SBS HQ operator’s freephone number. ‘This is John Stratton. Put me through to Mike Manning.’
Stratton looked at Rowena as she came up to him, her hands in the pockets of the cheap coat with its matted synthetic fur-lined collar.
‘Mike? Stratton. No time right now. I need something. It’s important. I want to know where Jervis is. Sumners’ll tell you if you make it sound operationally important. I’ll wait for your call back . . . You have the number? Roger that.’
Stratton put the phone down.
‘What are you going to do?’ Rowena asked again.
‘I’m going to find Jervis and ask him.’
‘Just like that?’
He shrugged. ‘Unless you have another suggestion?’
‘You have a very direct style, don’t you?’
‘I need answers. All I can think of is to ask the person who I think has them.’
A man walked over to the phone kiosk and reached for the receiver. Stratton put his hand on it. ‘There’s another one over there,’ he said.
‘I’d like to use this one,’ the man said. He was bigger than Stratton and looked as though he could handle himself.
‘Are you deaf?’ Rowena asked him from behind. ‘Go and use that phone over there before I put your head through it.’
The man looked at the pair of them, taking in their bruised complexions. But it was their stone-cold, unblinking eyes that gave him pause for thought. ‘Okay,’ he said, stepping back and turning away.
The phone rang and Stratton quickly picked it up. ‘Yes . . . Thanks. Yeah, I’ll see you tomorrow.’
He put the phone back down and looked at Rowena. ‘He’s in the City, having dinner.’
‘Can I come with you?’
Stratton considered the request. ‘Why not?’ He put his hand in his pocket and took out the money that the embassy aide had given him. ‘Let’s grab a cab.’
They headed across the hall and into the cold night air.
The taxi pulled to a halt in St James’s Place, just up the road from The Mall. Stratton and Rowena climbed out. The well-lit street was empty of life. They walked along a short cul-de-sac and up the flight of steps to the entrance of Duke’s Hotel.
The compact, well-appointed lobby had an empty reception desk in one corner. Stratton heard laughter nearby and walked through a narrow opening that offered a choice of directions to either the cocktail bar or several rooms.
Voices came from the bar. Stratton moved to the door and eased it open. It was a small, tastefully furnished, cramped room with a handful of little tables and a small yet grand bar. The bartender wore a white jacket and a bow tie. Two tables had been pushed together by a window with its curtains drawn. Seated around them were the bar’s only customers. Stratton recognised all four of the men.
Rowena moved to his side. ‘You see a lion’s den, you just walk right into it.’
Sumners was the first to see Stratton, his weasel-like, self-preserving and unsmiling eyes staring at him. The others caught on to their colleague’s distraction. Nevins, Jackson and Jervis all looked round to see who it was. Jackson appeared to be the only one surprised to see the two of them.
‘Ah. The adventurers return,’ Jervis said. ‘Come on in and join us. ’Ave a glass of claret. I think you’ve earned one.’ Jervis always lost control of his fake posh accent after a few drinks, his true South London mongrel quality shining through.
Stratton stood in front of the group.
Rowena eyed Nevins as he pulled on a cigarette. ‘Do you mind if I have of those? Russian cigarettes give me heartburn.’
‘Help yourself, my dear,’ Nevins said, offering her a packet as well as his lighter. ‘We’ve classified the bar as a private room for the evening.’
She lit one up and sat down at the next table.
