He drew his scimitar, adjusted his grip around the haft and stepped from the darkness of the weather-lock into the brightness of the ship, followed by Ibrahim and the others.
Chapter 2
Stratton stood in the arched entrance of a grand Elizabethan country house set in ten acres of manicured gardens, looking down on to a spacious, groomed lawn where a hundred well-heeled guests were enjoying an official morning garden party: VIPs, the titled, ambassadors, statesmen and ministers of various levels. He had arrived with his four-man team at dawn to carry out preliminary security checks, search the grounds and scan the extra staff, caterers and valets as they arrived.The guests had started trickling in around 10 a.m. and an hour later everyone of importance had arrived.
It was a fresh, sunny day and Stratton was dressed in a smart jacket and tie, his dark hair shorter than it had been in many years, and he was bored as hell. This was not his usual employment by a long shot but he knew why he was here. His bosses in the Special Boat Service thought they knew, but they did not. The mandarins in Whitehall, far above his superiors at the SBS headquarters in Poole, had retired him, thrown him out and back into ‘normal life’, a relative term for life in Special Forces could never be described as normal. It was not a punishment though, far from it. In their eyes, they had done him a favour.
Bodyguard work was the most boring job for anyone, let alone an SF operative. It meant long hours hanging around doing nothing but watching and waiting, in cars, restaurants and always at the whim of those they looked after. It was true that a lot of Special Forces work was also spent waiting and watching but, for Stratton at least, bodyguard work had some features that qualified it as the most loathsome of assignments in his business. He hated working for civilians, and the work felt like nothing more than glorified servitude.
Civilians and soldiers mixed like oil and water in their working modes: there was no mystery about being a civilian since all soldiers had been one, but few civilians could truly understand the life of a soldier. There was an even bigger chasm between civvies and Special Forces; a civilian might scratch the surface of understanding life in SF by reading every book available on the subject, but they could never begin to fathom the mentality of an operative. There were civilian parallels - sportsmen, firemen and police armed-response teams for instance - which touched on aspects such as the team ethos, but the lifestyles and working conditions did not begin to compare with those who fought side by side in a war and weathered the dangers of operating alone on undercover operations. The job created bonds for life.
Within this microcosm, Stratton was an anomaly; he was highly respected for similar reasons to those of civilians who respected SF: they did not know what he did. He was a regular SF operative, but he was also a favoured agent for military intelligence and had often been called upon to carry out assignments independent of his parent unit, the SBS.
His unusual relationship with MI5 and MI6 began in Northern Ireland many years before while working against the IRA. Like many others, he had first been noticed as an intelligence gatherer with the Northern Ireland undercover detachments. It became evident to his masters in London that his Special Forces combat skills, intelligence and aptitude for working alone made him a versatile tool that could be utilised to a far greater degree. Before long he was brought into the inner sanctum of military intelligence and exposed to the more deadly undercover front-line fight, beyond the awareness of most senior military officers and ministers, let alone the general public. Even his own bosses in the SBS did not know where he went or what he did when the request came to ‘borrow’ Stratton.
Initially, Stratton had embraced this new side of specialist military work. It suited him perfectly. He preferred to work alone and revelled in the dangers and high degree of autonomy. He never questioned the assignments at first even though there were occasions when his conscience warned him he was moving into a darkness in which he might one day lose his way. His first assassination had been justified as far as he was concerned, as indeed they all appeared to be at the time, but he gradually began to feel like an executioner, an image he did not like. His work was not all killing though, and he felt he could control his conscience with some practice. But Stratton was living in denial which came at a price, one he was not aware he was paying until greatly in debt. Like a cancer creeping through his body, Stratton realised something ugly was happening to him when it was almost too late. In a few short years he was no longer the young man who had enthusiastically joined the military in search of excitement and adventure. The hubris was gone. He was weathered and dented and the shine had disappeared from his eyes.
This change had not gone unnoticed by the man who gave him his assignments; the voice on the phone that beckoned him to London to receive orders for his next piece of work. Stratton had come to loathe that voice, but, like a drug addict, or someone hypnotised, he always trotted off to do his master’s bidding.
Then one day the calls stopped. It took many months of silence before Stratton began to accept he had been beached, and a year had now passed since Sumners had made his last contact. He should have felt relieved, but the disturbing truth was that deep down he was not. Perhaps he had not yet learned to live without his fix, or perhaps it was something else; he didn’t know. It didn’t matter any more though; he would have to learn to move on. Perhaps it was the sense of failure that hurt him most, for that was the only reason he could think of why they did not call. He was no longer good enough for them.
Jobs like this one did not help. They gave him far too much time to examine himself. He watched the people on the lawn chatting politely, nibbling their cakes and sandwiches, the women in their bright hats and dresses, the men in their expensive suits, the car park beyond filled with Bentleys, limousines and other such cars. Rich trappings did not touch Stratton though. He had no interest in the lifestyles of these people who appeared dull and mundane to him.
Morgan, a large black guy with a distinct blend of African and European features, wandered over to Stratton. His father was Jamaican and his mother Antiguan, and he described his looks as Caribbean with a bit of whitey thrown in. He was in his early thirties and his broad, heavy-boned and powerful body was not designed for formal dress. He looked plainly uncomfortable in his borrowed jacket, shirt and tie, and kept sticking his fingers inside his collar in futile attempts to stretch it to stop it digging into his neck.
‘Can’t wait to get this bleedin’ gear off,’ Morgan said, pulling up the sleeves that ended at his knuckles. ‘Didn’t realise Foster’s arms were so bleedin’ long,’ he said, referring to the SBS lad who had loaned him the clothing at such short notice.‘Never seen so many toffs together in one place before. ’Ow the ’ell did we get cobbled into this job?’
‘I happened to walk by the RSM’s office just as he was looking for someone to palm it off on. Sorry.’
‘I thought the cops usually did this bollocks.’
‘They do, but apparently someone in MoD especially asked for Special Forces. There’s a lot of high-powered people here.’
‘Lotta wankers too.’
An attractive woman who looked to be in her late teens walked from the lawn and up the steps towards Morgan and Stratton who parted to let her through. She was wearing a pink frilly outfit with a low-cut neckline that was on the side of brazen for such an occasion.
She smiled coquettishly as she approached the two men and let her eyes linger on Stratton’s just a little too long as she squeezed between them to enter the building.
‘Hello,’ she said.
‘Hi,’ Morgan said enthusiastically to the back of her head, keeping his eyes on her rear as she moved down the hallway and out of sight.‘Sweet,’ he drooled. ‘I’d crawl through an ’undred yards of minefield just to ’ear ’er fart down the end of a field telephone.’ Morgan was known for his basic sense of humour.
‘She’s probably never had an offer like that before,’ Stratton said dryly, his attention caught by a shrill scream from a clump of bushes; a very young girl in an expensive dress ran out pursued by an even younger boy in shorts, short-sleeve shirt and tie, wielding a water pistol.
‘I don’t think she was into a bit of black though. A bit of old white more like.’
‘Money has mature taste,’ Stratton said.
‘She’s probably a Lady Somethin’ or Other,’ Morgan went on. ‘Bet she wouldn’t piss on the likes of us if we were on fire . . . Mind you, that’s the very type who just might, and we wouldn’t need to be on fire either,’ he added with a chuckle. Morgan was also known for laughing at his own sick jokes, loudly and often alone.
‘Where’s Smudge?’ Stratton asked.
‘Down at the main gate,’ Morgan said. ‘And Bob’s the other side of the marquee. I think ’e’s actually enjoying this. He likes rubbin’ shoulders with this lot. Have you noticed he even starts talkin’ like ’em? And the bloke’s from bleedin’ Luton.’
‘I’m going to get a wet,’ Stratton said as he headed inside.
‘Grab me a sarnee would ya - cheese and pickle if they’ve got any. I’ll go and do another round of the walls . . . I’ll start climbin’ the fuckers if this thing goes on much longer.’
Morgan headed off and Stratton walked down the hallway. As he reached a corner at the end, a man’s voice called out from behind him.
‘I say. Excuse me.’
Stratton looked back to see a young man in a white suit and red tie that appeared a little extrovert for this gathering. ‘Would you get me a Buck’s Fizz, old boy?’ he asked with a smile.
‘What?’ Stratton said, looking irritable having heard what the man had asked him.
‘A Buck’s Fizz. Orange juice and champers, old thing.’
‘I’m not a waiter.’
‘You’re staff, aren’t you? Be a dear and run along and get me one.’
Stratton controlled an urge to say something he would regret and forced a smile. ‘Sure.Anything else?’
‘No, that would be lovely,’ the man said with a warm smile. ‘I’ll be outside.’
Stratton walked around the corner and along a corridor that led to the kitchen.‘I’ll shove a champagne bottle up your arse if you call me dear again,’ he muttered to himself.
The pretty young woman was standing in a doorway as he passed by it. ‘You’d probably lose the bottle with that one,’ she said.
Stratton paused to glance at her. ‘Sorry, I was talking to myself.’
She smiled as he carried on into the kitchen.
Food and drinks were everywhere; a chef was preparing sandwiches, a waitress headed out of a door into the garden carrying a tray full of strawberries and cream while another returned with dirty crockery. Stratton picked up a jug of orange juice, filled a glass and took a sip. He picked a sandwich off a tray and opened it - roast beef; there did not appear to be any cheese and pickle, but then Morgan would eat anything anyway. He wrapped it in a paper napkin and placed it in his jacket pocket. As he took another sip of his juice, the pretty girl walked in.
‘Would you pour me one?’ she said. ‘Please,’ she added, emphasising politeness.
Stratton picked up another glass, filled it and handed it to her. She took it from him and held it, looking at him, still smiling, obviously wanting to chat.
‘That was Pippy, Lord Branborne’s son,’ she said. ‘He only asked you for the drink because he fancies you.’
Stratton ignored the remark.
‘He likes a bit of rough now and then,’ she added.
Stratton sighed inwardly and took a sip of his drink.
‘Are you not going to make him his drink?’
Stratton gave her a tired look.
‘Oh, that’s right.You’re not a waiter . . .The rumour is you’re one of those roughy-toughy special soldier types. I’ve heard about people like you. I thought you only ran around places like the desert shooting nasty terrorists. Must be a nice change to do something like this, standing around doing nothing all day.’
‘Yeah, we all jumped for joy when we heard.’
She didn’t miss the sarcasm but it did not appear to bother her because she moved closer to him, head slightly lowered, eyes looking up at him.
‘Do you have a gun?’ she asked. ‘I bet you’re well armed.’
Stratton studied her eyes and all he could see was a rich tart.
She prodded his chest close to where his gun would have been holstered if he were left-handed.
‘Can I see it?’
‘No.’
‘You probably don’t need a gun though, do you? I expect you know all that kung fu business.’
Stratton was looking for a polite way out of this conversation and the kitchen. She was cute but not enough to have to listen to her crap.
‘What would you do if a dozen terrorists came over the wall right now and attacked us?’ she went on, moving closer still, her ardour obvious. Stratton was uncomfortable being hit on so aggressively at a professional venue and unsure quite how to handle it in a polite manner. The watchword for jobs such as this was diplomacy in all matters.
‘I’d hide in the cellar.’
‘Really? I know where that is if you’d like me to show you.’
The waitress behind the woman glanced at Stratton and rolled her eyes before leaving with a tray of sandwiches.
‘Isabelle,’ a man called out from inside the house as footsteps came down the corridor. She frowned at the interruption.Two smartly dressed men came into the kitchen. Stratton noticed the tiny army badges both had pinned to their lapels. He couldn’t tell which regiment they indicated but considering the calibre of people at the function, the cut of their suits and their bearing, they were not only officers - a non-commissioned officer had a snowball’s chance in hell of being invited to a gig like this unless he was titled.
‘Ah, there you are,’ the taller one said on seeing the girl, then paused as his eyes fell on Stratton who was far too close to her to be considered polite. His smile was replaced by the kind of cold expression a male displays on seeing another coveting his female property. ‘We’re going into London for lunch,’ he continued, talking to her but eyeing Stratton warily. ‘Where’s your coat?’