Morgan, the only other person in the office, was seated at the 2IC’s desk behind Stratton gurning as he plucked hairs enthusiastically out of his nose with his large fingers, a task that required some vigorous excavating. The two weeks following the buzz with the supertanker had been quiet ones with much of the squadron away catching up on leave owed since playing games in Iraq. As acting sergeant major of the squadron, Stratton was manning the fort while the boss and 2IC attended a briefing in London, which meant he couldn’t stray far from the camp until they got back in case something of an operational nature came up. He did have some work to do, namely preparing a training programme and the stores and transport requirements for a mini-submarine-borne assault exercise against an oil platform in the North Sea, but he was putting it off for a day because he was not in the mood. He could practically write it in his sleep anyway, but the truth was he found the book so interesting and enlightening he wanted to keep on reading it.
‘I was always led to understand,’ Morgan said nasally, a finger deep in his nostril,‘that if you plucked hairs instead of cutting them, after a while they didn’t grow back, but I think that’s a load of bollocks. Been plucking these bastards for years and there’s more than ever . . . Christ, that’s a long one,’ he said, lifting it up to the light to inspect it. ‘Look at that,’ he said, holding it out for Stratton to see. Stratton looked over his shoulder at the hair that, at some two inches, was indeed unusually long. ‘It must’ve been growing out of me bleedin’ sinus,’ Morgan said as he placed it on the desk to study it further. ‘Perhaps it was an ingrown eyebrow,’ he pondered.
Stratton went back to his book. The choice between a conversation with Morgan about his nasal hairs and the Templars was not a difficult one.
‘One thing is true,’ Morgan continued. ‘It doesn’t hurt like it used to. The more you pluck ’em, the more it seems to numb the nerve endings. Know what I mean?’ Morgan knew he was being a nuisance and was enjoying it.
Stratton turned the page while Morgan, having mined his nose to exhaustion, directed his attention to the hairs inside his ears.
The phone rang. Morgan wiped his fingers on his sleeve and picked it up. ‘C Squadron,’ he said. ‘Yeah,’ he said looking at Stratton.‘Who is it, please?’ Morgan listened a moment then held out the phone to Stratton. ‘Some bloke named Sumners. Sounds like a rupert,’ he said using the affectionate nickname for an upper-class-officer type.
Stratton looked at the phone without allowing the surprise to show on his face. He never expected to hear from MI5 or MI6 again in his life, let alone Sumners, his former taskmaster. It was strange how, after all this time, the call sent a quiver of anticipation through him as it did in the early days working for MI. The calls always meant Stratton was off somewhere, usually alone, and to do something interesting, except when it came to terminations. That was ultimately why the relationship had ended. The number of those kinds of assignments seemed to be growing and Stratton began to develop an anathema for the calls and the mere mention of Sumners’ name. Now, a year since the last time he had spoken to the man, Stratton’s reaction was strangely mixed. There was without a doubt that old sense of anticipation, but there was also a residue of trepidation. He had healed in some ways but not completely. It didn’t mean he was prepared to pick up where he had left off but he was nevertheless curious. He couldn’t tell where the sudden expectancy was coming from. Perhaps it was due to the comparatively dull employment of the past year, not that he had been exactly idle. There were a few breaks in the travelling and training, and the year had not been without action, specifically in the Gulf and Far East. But something had indeed been missing from his life since he returned to the SBS. Perhaps it was being part of a team again after spending so long working alone. It had taken him several years into his Special Forces career to accept the fact that he preferred working by himself. But loners were contrary to the team ethos of the SBS. To some extent, they were even shunned, which Stratton agreed with wholeheartedly in theory. Nevertheless, he could not help the way he felt.Teamwork was something he always preached to younger members in training while at the same time trying to resist the lure of the antithesis. He might never have known how much he liked working alone had he not been invited away from the core work of the SBS to spend several years assigned to military intelligence.
It was not possible Sumners was making a social call. The man was all business all of the time. He was a purebred, classic, British intelligence officer: cold, logical, manipulative and intelligent. Any social skills were an act which arose out of a need for diplomacy. Sumners did have some redeeming qualities; Stratton had always felt he could trust the man, within the boundaries of the job, of course. Sumners would not stick his neck out for any operative who strayed from the task in hand and was more than capable of deserting one who did. But Sumners also understood the job required resourcefulness and a high level of initiative and had always supported Stratton’s decisions in the field even though on more than one occasion he had not agreed with them.The operative on the ground had the implicit advantage when it came to judgement and intuition and Sumners gave him the benefit of the doubt in most cases. It had to be said this subtle understanding was an unusual quality for an MI operations officer, especially for one like Sumners who had never set foot in the field or had any dirt-on-the-hands involvement in an operation.
Whatever the meaning was behind the confusion of warning bells and anticipation, Stratton could not resist and took the phone from Morgan and put it to his ear.
‘This is Stratton.’
‘Would you like to do a job for us?’ Sumners asked. That was typical, Stratton thought. They hadn’t spoken in a year and Sumners couldn’t even begin the conversation with a hello or how have you been.
‘I’m fine,’ Stratton said.
‘I only ask questions I know the answer to of people I don’t trust. What I don’t know is if you would like to do a job for us?’
Stratton didn’t answer, his mind racing over a variety of considerations. He wanted to know what the job was but also knew that asking would be a waste of breath. It wasn’t for operatives to pick and choose their assignments like fruit in a market. Taskmasters wanted to hear the word ‘yes’ and quickly too. That opened the door to the next stage of the game, which was the briefing. But Stratton wasn’t a robot. Nor was he the neophyte of several years ago, trusting and eager to do any assignment handed to him. He was already an old sweat even though he was relatively young in this particular field of special operations that valued experience, ingenuity and guile above all other qualities. He would be open to just about any assignment but he was also prepared to blow off Sumners if there was any clue the job was an assassination.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Sumners said. ‘I wouldn’t have called you if it was a job I didn’t think you would approve of.’ There was a hint of patronage in his voice, which was understandable since he did not like offering jobs. That made it quite flattering. But Stratton was not satisfied by far and, perhaps inspired by the subtle compliment, chose to push a little further.
‘Why me?’
‘Let’s be clear on one thing, shall we? You’re still in my book as an MI operative and I’m offering you an assignment. It’s as simple as that.’
The comment put Stratton off balance. He did not believe his name had remained in Sumners’ book, but then again he had telephoned him. ‘You haven’t called me in over a year,’ he said.
‘You were fatigued. It was quite obvious. You needed a break. I’m not entirely insensitive,’ he added.
Bullshit, Stratton thought. Nevertheless, he couldn’t help feeling pleased he had not been dumped entirely. It had done some damage to his ego and self-esteem when it became obvious MI no longer considered him worthy of them. He knew Sumners was telling a partial lie though. The truth was they had let him go at the time but kept him under scrutiny. That was standard procedure for all retired operatives purely from a security point of view - MI didn’t want to see any of its valuable intelligence finding its way into the marketplace. But in Stratton’s case they had also been assessing his fitness and he had obviously been cleared for operational work once more. But what kind of work was the question. Sumners knew why Stratton had burned out and that he would not go down that same road again. The man would have put all the pieces together and decided Stratton was ideal for this new task, whatever it was, despite the past. He had hinted at it with his comment about the job being one Stratton might approve of. Stratton wanted back in, there was no doubt about that, but not under the same old circumstances. He wondered if he should make that understood right now. If he did not it would eventually surface, and probably at a time inconvenient to the both of them. But would his demands scare Sumners away? Stratton would have to take the risk. If Sumners didn’t like it then that would be it and Stratton would certainly never hear from him again. Ultimately, Stratton’s sanity meant more to him than the work.
‘You know the kind of job I’m not going to do for you again,’ Stratton said.
‘And you know this employment can have no constraints from operatives,’ Sumners parried.
They remained silent for a moment. It was an obstacle both wanted to pass through without giving way. But the ball was clearly in Sumners’ court.
‘I need someone with maritime knowledge,’ he finally said. Sumners had decided to make the pass around the obstacle. ‘Frankly, I don’t know any more than that at the moment, other than it has to do with the tanker you recaptured.’
That immediately sparked Stratton’s interest. Whatever was behind that strike was international and major league. It had preyed on Stratton’s mind ever since, the brutality and arrogance of the assault, but he never expected to hear anything more about it.
‘Would you like the job, yes or no?’
‘Yes,’ Stratton said automatically.
‘I need you in London as soon as you can get here. Your boss is on his way back to Poole and you’re cleared to leave right away. You know the Grenadier?’
‘Yes,’ Stratton said. That suggested a lot to Stratton already. MI5 was north of the Thames close to Westminster and dealt with the country’s internal security. MI6 headquarters was the other side of the river and dealt with the rest of the world. The Grenadier pub was just a few streets from MI6 and frequented by its personnel.
‘Seven p.m. then.’
‘Fine.’
The phone went dead and Stratton returned it to its cradle.
He took a moment to take it all in. He was on the move again. Suddenly the SBS was once again a place he only hung out in while waiting for the phone to ring. It felt good. There was a new adventure to be had.
He opened his desk drawer, took out his passport and put it in his breast pocket. He looked around to see if there was anything else he needed. It was purely a reflexive action. He knew there was nothing. Everything he would need for whatever the job was, he’d get in London. And if there was anything the SBS had that he might need, it would be delivered to him.
Stratton realised Morgan was watching him as if he knew something was up that did not involve the Service. He had heard Stratton’s strange side of the conversation and seen him collect his passport. Add that to Stratton’s bizarre past of always disappearing and it was obvious he was going somewhere again.
‘The boss is on his way back,’ Stratton said. ‘I’m checking out.’
‘You be gone long?’ Morgan asked.
‘No idea . . . Take care of yourself.’
Stratton headed for the door.
‘Stratton?’
Stratton paused in the doorway to look at him.
‘How . . . what do you have to do to . . . you know . . . get in the job?’ Morgan asked, unsure how to form the words. It was a sensitive subject that due to protocol allowed no questions, but he felt he knew Stratton well enough to dip a toe into it.
‘They call you.’
‘And if they don’t? I mean. Is there any way I can get them to call . . . let ’em know I want in?’
‘I can’t help you, Morgan.’
Morgan nodded, disappointment on his face. He understood, or thought he did. ‘See ya, then.’
Stratton left the room.
Morgan sighed as he sat back, put his feet up on the desk and tried to imagine what on earth Stratton did when he went away on his private little trips. His hand subconsciously moved to his ear and searched inside it for a hair to pluck.
Stratton headed down the stairs, crossed the hangar floor to the main entrance and stepped out into the rain. In his opinion, Morgan, because he was black, had a better chance than most of getting a call. MI6 was short of dark-skinned operators. The job was dangerous, but Morgan was canny and more than capable of handling himself. He wondered about putting in a good word for him, then decided against it. If anything bad ever happened to Morgan, Stratton didn’t want it on his conscience.
Two and a half hours later Stratton walked out of Waterloo Station and paused to look at the taxi rank. The queue was some twenty long with more people tacking on to the end every few seconds, although taxis appeared to be arriving in an endless stream to cope with the demand. He checked his watch. There was plenty of time to walk the mile or so to the meeting place, which he preferred to do anyway. He would spend the time thinking about his return to military intelligence. Savouring it might be a better description. There was no doubting the mild euphoria he was now feeling. He fastened the front buttons of his old leather jacket, shoved the Templars book he had read throughout the train journey into a side pocket, pulled up his collar against a chill wind and headed in the direction of the Thames.
At five minutes to seven, Stratton paused in a quiet back street a couple of blocks from the main road. It was several years since he had been to this location. There was a small park across the street and in its centre was the little knoll from which the Real IRA had fired an RPG7 antitank missile at the MI6 headquarters building quite visible a quarter of a mile away. It struck a window halfway up, doing little more than smashing some glass and scarring a wall inside. The media had billed it as a bold demonstration of the Real IRA’s willingness and capability to take over from the Provisional IRA and to carry the conflict directly into the heart of England and military intelligence. MI saw it as a perfect illustration of how pathetic the fight with the IRA had become: in the grand scheme of things, the best they were now capable of was smashing a window.