Stratton left the railings that surrounded the park and continued on to the pub.
The high-ceilinged bar was spacious with that characteristic turn-of-the-century feel. The thirty or so people spread about gave it a busy atmosphere but it was by no means crowded. A quick scan revealed Sumners at a table on the far side of the room beside another man who was well-groomed, intelligent looking and wearing a Savile Row suit. They had not yet seen him. Stratton thought Sumners had aged more than expected in the year since he last saw him. His hair had always been white-grey but his face was more drawn and his eyes darker. Perhaps he had pulled a few late nights lately. The difference between the two men sitting together was interesting. Their body language said a lot about them. The other man had an air of superiority and not just by the cut of his clothes. It was the way he was sitting: legs crossed, hands flat together on his thigh, back straight, chin slightly raised, eyes looking down his nose and staring straight ahead as if he were royalty. He was definitely the private-club type and did not look as if he frequented alehouses such as this one. Sumners on the other hand had his hands in his coat pockets, chin against his chest, feet apart and on the ground and brow furrowed in deep thought. He stared at nothing but in the same direction as his companion. The half full glasses on the table in front of them both contained ice and a slice of lemon.
It was not unusual for spymasters to meet in a public place for a pre-briefing, especially in the evening, before moving on to a secure place to conduct a more thorough brief. Stratton checked his watch. It was exactly seven.
He walked over to the table. Sumners spotted him just before he arrived and got to his feet.
‘Ahh, Stratton,’ Sumners said, offering his hand. His smile was thin and as cold as always. Stratton shook his hand, which was also cold despite being in his pocket. ‘This is my department chief,’ he said.
The man produced his own version of a smiling mask and offered his hand without getting to his feet.
‘Stratton,’ he said.‘Heard a bit about you. Glad you could come along. Can I get you a drink?’
‘I’m fine, thank you,’ Stratton said, and took a seat at the table. Sumners moved around to form a triangle.
‘How was your journey up from Poole?’ the unnamed man asked cordially.Talking to people much lower than him was a part of his profession and he oozed confidence. Stratton wondered what the man was doing here. He doubted Sumners needed him to give his brief. It was just possible he happened to be in the bar for another reason and since he was Sumners’ boss, Sumners had joined him. Stratton wondered which type of MI officer he was: either one of the brilliant ones snapped up from a top university to be groomed for the higher echelons, or titled and just doing his stint in MI, which was a very traditional pastime for some families. If he was the latter there was a chance he was an idiot. Some things didn’t change in jolly old England and fools could still find their way into the inner circles of power simply because of their birth or connections. Judging by the cut of his suit and his expensive watch, he was independently wealthy. That was not at all unusual. No one joined MI6 for the money. The pay scale was about equal to the regular army. In Stratton’s case, because his parent unit was Special Forces, he was paid far higher than any MI5 or MI6 operative. He probably earned more than Sumners, who was not independently wealthy and obviously did the job purely for the love of it.
‘Do you go to Lulworth Cove much?’ the MI officer asked. ‘Delightful part of the country.’
‘Nice place to dive,’ Stratton said.
‘Clams,’ the man said. ‘Very good clams.’
‘One of the reasons we like to dive there.’
‘Very sensible.’
The conversation paused there and a silence hung between them. It was for Sumners’ boss to lead the talking and so Stratton and Sumners sat quietly, waiting for him to continue.The man leaned forward to pick up his glass and took a sip. He inspected the contents for a second then put it back on the table. Stratton wasn’t sure if he caught a faint look of disapproval.
‘Are you superstitious, Stratton?’ the man eventually asked.
‘Superstitious?’ Stratton echoed. He expected the man to get on with the operation pre-brief but it sounded as if he was still making idle chit-chat. ‘You mean walking under ladders and breaking mirrors?’
‘That sort of thing,’ the man said.
‘No.’
‘What about the supernatural?’ the man asked.
Stratton glanced at Sumners wondering where this line of questioning was leading but his old boss was firmly in the back seat and keeping quiet, staring straight ahead deep in his own thoughts as if he were not part of the conversation.
‘You mean ghosts?’ Stratton asked.
‘If you like. How do you feel about ghosts? Do you believe they exist?’
‘It’s like the question of life on another planet. I don’t give it much thought.’
‘But you’re not opposed to the idea. Things like ghosts. You don’t believe it’s all a load of rubbish?’
Stratton was tempted to ask what this was about but decided to play the man’s game. These types weren’t known for wasting much time on idle talk, especially with the likes of Stratton, a mere field operative. The questions had to have something to do with the op but Stratton couldn’t begin to imagine what.
‘I wouldn’t say it was rubbish, but I wouldn’t argue in its favour,’ Stratton said.
‘What about clairvoyants? Do you believe they can get in touch with the afterlife and learn about things that have happened or are about to happen?’
‘I’ve never met one. I’ve heard stories from police officers who’ve used them on occasion.’
‘Oh? What sort of stories?’
‘I was told how a clairvoyant helped find the body of a little girl who had been murdered and then she, the clairvoyant, directed the police to clues that led them to who did it.’
‘And do you believe that was what happened?’
‘I believe the officer who told me the story believed it.’
‘You mean you would have to see it for yourself to believe it?’
‘I think if I bet money against it being true I would lose, but that doesn’t mean I’m a believer . . . Can I ask what this is all about?’
The man smiled slightly then checked his watch, leaned forward, picked up his drink and took another sip. He put the glass down and stood up to pull on a heavy, dark-blue wool coat.
‘You can go ahead, Sumners,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘Right, sir,’ Sumners said without getting up.
The man smiled thinly at Stratton again. ‘Good luck,’ he said, and walked out of the pub.
Stratton watched him go then looked at Sumners for an explanation. ‘What was that all about?’
‘After I tabled your name for the job, he asked me how broad-minded you were in the area of the supernatural and I couldn’t give him a satisfactory answer, not knowing you that well. So before we went ahead with the brief he wanted to ask you himself.’
‘Well that’s made it all perfectly clear,’ Stratton said.
Sumners finished his drink and stood.
‘You’re saying that was a test,’ Stratton said, his expression conveying that if so it was a strange one.
‘If you like . . . Let’s go for a walk,’ Sumners said as he stood and headed for the door.
Stratton sighed, got up and followed.
They stepped outside and Sumners put his hands in his coat pockets and at a slow pace walked towards the river where a cold mist was starting to form.
‘He simply wanted to know how open-minded you are.’
‘I’d have thought assassinating people required an open mind.’
‘Not as much as this job I fear,’ Sumners said tiredly, as if he wasn’t quite as open-minded as the task required. ‘If you thought this was going to be on the front line I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed.’
‘You said it was to do with the supertanker.’
‘In this world of global terrorism no source of intelligence can be ignored, no matter how far it stretches the boundaries of reality, or our concept of it. As you know, no form of intelligence gathering is one hundred per cent reliable. That’s why we employ a great variety of methods to acquire it. To corroborate and substantiate, analyse and cross check.’
Sumners walked a little further in silence, gathering his thoughts. ‘You’re going to meet someone,’ he said. ‘A man. He works for the CIA.’
‘A field operative?’
‘No. Not your idea of one anyway.’
Stratton pondered why a member of the American Central Intelligence Agency would need a Brit MI6 operative assigned to him. ‘Is this some kind of local bodyguard task?’ he asked, praying it was not.
‘Not exactly . . . You’re going to be doing some decoding.’
‘Decoding?’
‘He will provide information and you will decode it.’
‘Have you forgotten who and what I am? This is Stratton. I’m a thug, which is what you turned me into by the way. I used to see myself as an intelligence gatherer and a sophisticated direct-action operative, until you made me into a murderer.’
‘That’s a bit over the top, Stratton. Unlike you.’
Stratton realised he was much more flippant with Sumners than he used to be. That was not so much to do with familiarity as with experience. Even though it had been a year since they last talked, Stratton felt he knew the man better.
‘Decoders have large brains and sit in comfortable offices,’ Stratton said.
‘It’s not quite that kind of decoding.You’ll understand better when you meet him.’
‘So who exactly is this person?’
‘You’ve heard of psychic spies?’
Stratton’s brow furrowed.‘Is that what all the supernatural questions were about?’
‘I empathised with your analogy about not betting against its existence but then not quite being a believer. I would have described this man to you as a kind of clairvoyant but when I suggested as much during the initial brief I received from the CIA I was told that was not at all correct. Ever heard of “remote viewing” in an intelligence-gathering term?’
‘Wireless video?’
‘Imagine being able to do exactly that, see something miles away but without any technological aids.’
Stratton furrowed his brow again.This was becoming bizarre.
‘What about precognition?’ Sumners asked.
‘Seeing into the future?’
‘Yes.This is where my understanding of it all starts to get a bit foggy. I apologise. I’m not sure if precognition is the same as remote viewing . . . The example they gave me was PanAm flight 103 that crashed into Lockerbie after terrorists blew it up. A few hours after it happened, remote viewers apparently saw the bomb that brought it down inside a music box.They also saw a back-up bomb; an Iranian woman who lost her family when the Americans shot down that Iranian airliner from one of their missile frigates had explosives strapped around her waist. If the music box hadn’t gone off she would’ve detonated hers. For decades the CIA has used psychics as intelligence gatherers. Apparently we’ve been quite heavily into it ourselves.This is the first time I’ve ever had anything to do with it.The difference between clairvoyants and remote viewers is clairvoyants use the supernatural whereas remote viewers use alpha waves. I suppose one is spiritual and the other scientific. Remote viewers are able to focus on things, the other side of the world if need be: people, objects, smells, colours, emotions. The thing is they don’t always understand what they see. The information they gather has to be analysed, or decoded. Apparently, a remote viewer was tasked to access Osama bin Laden’s mind after the Twin Tower attack to learn his mental state - was he worried or feeling good and secure, that sort of thing. The viewer saw him in a cave, but which cave and where in the world was it? That’s the decoding part.’
Stratton stopped walking and looked at Sumners, trying to control a growing suspicion of the man’s motives for calling him in.
‘Is this some kind of a joke?’ Stratton snapped, more irate with Sumners than he had ever been before. ‘Stratton’s all burned out so we’ll give him the crap at the bottom of the barrel. Is that what this job is? Looking after Harry Potter’s dad? Well, thanks very much, Sumners, but no thanks. You can shove this one up your arse.’
Stratton started to walk away.
‘Calm down, Stratton. Listen to me.This is important . . . He saw the tanker assault,’ Sumners called out to him, then checked to make sure the street was empty, which it was. ‘He saw it being captured and the crew butchered.’
Stratton slowed to a stop and looked back at him, his curiosity piqued.
‘My boss hates the Grenadier,’ Sumners continued.
‘I assure you he wouldn’t have come down here to see you or anybody if he thought the job was the bottom of the barrel.’
‘The tanker was hit around midnight,’ Stratton said.
‘If someone knew about it why did we hit it at the last minute half a day later?’
‘That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you about the decoding side of it. There are thousands of tankers sailing the oceans of the world at any one time. The viewer couldn’t see its name or tell where in the world it was.The decoders didn’t have enough knowledge or information to decode what he saw.’
Stratton faced Sumners. The hook was going in.
‘And what am I supposed to do, hang around with him until he has another vision?’
‘They’re not visions. Look upon them as searches. He’s already found something and apparently it scared the hell out of him. I’m afraid we’ve not been able to decode it either.We need someone on the ground with him all the time, asking questions, clarifying the information. Decoding teams will also be on hand as usual. Different viewers are sensitive to different things. This one sees locations but he’s also sensitive to emotions. So far he’s described what he’s seen or felt as an enormous danger but he can’t tell what that is. To use his own words, he’s never felt anything so horrific in his life.’