Duncan Falconer - The Operative (Stratton 3)

The Hostage
The Hijack
The Protector
Undersea Prison
Mercenary
Traitor

Non-fiction
First Into Action

Published by Hachette Digital

ISBN: 978-0-748-12227-1

All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Copyright 2006 Duncan Falconer

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

Hachette Digital

Little, Brown Book Group

100 Victoria Embankment

London EC4Y 0DY

www.hachette.co.uk

To Tristan and Barty

In a work of fiction it will be no surprise to anyone that none of the characters in this book are other than the product of my imagination. If there are any resemblances to any living persons, they are entirely accidental and unintended. Equally readers will appreciate that for obvious reasons I have deliberately disguised a number of technical details of the composition of the explosives.

Stratton climbed from a local taxi outside a row of detached homes just off the Wareham road in Poole, Dorset, paid the driver, and headed along a gravel track towards the front door of the largest house. His battered old leather jacket was draped over an arm in the crook of which he held a bottle of inexpensive wine. A large present splendidly finished off with a red-ribbon bow rested in the other. Stratton owned a car, an eight-year-old Jeep that hed had for several years, but he had been away on an assignment for the past three months and when hed tried to start it that morning for the first time since his return the engine wouldnt turn over. He wasted little time with it, refusing to squander his first day home tinkering with his ride, so he called a mate in the camps motor transport department who said he would take a look at it the following day. Then Stratton spent the morning shopping for a new pair of trousers, a shirt and a pair of shoes, getting a trim for his tussled dark hair, and generally being self-indulgent.

Spending a day shopping in Bournemouth, or anywhere for that matter, was not normal for Stratton, and devoting that amount of time to his personal attire and appearance was downright unusual. This man could never be accused of hedonism by anyone who knew him: in fact, in higher circles, specifically among his bosses in the SBS and Military Intelligence, he was considered unkempt. That was not a complaint, of course, not from those he worked for directly. It was an unkempt world he operated in and Stratton could often be found in its darkest and most dingy parts.

Stratton could not say for sure why he had woken up that morning feeling entitled to a day of decad ence. But he assumed it had a lot to do with having spent the last phase of a boring operation holed up in a camouflaged observation position in a pile of large, unstable boulders on the side of a mountain overlooking the summit of a ski lift a few miles outside the town of Almaty, Kazakhstan. Hed been waiting for a caravan bringing a supply of heroin over the mountain range from Afghanistan.

Drug smuggling was not Strattons usual area of operation but it was true to say that anyone who worked in anti-terrorism ops was by default connected with the drug-smuggling business. Finally, after three weeks of eating American MREs (meals ready to eat), getting a hot drink only during daylight hours for tactical reasons and breathing air with a markedly reduced oxygen content due to the altitude, the caravan had finally arrived and Stratton had carried out his task which was to do nothing more than film it. He was glad that the task had not gone on any longer and that he had made it back home, and on this day in particular. It was Josh Pentons birthday, a six-year-old boy whom Stratton had known since the day the kid had been born, son to one of his oldest friends in the SBS and Strattons godson.

There were a number of cars jammed along the usually quiet gravel drive and as Stratton approached the front door he could see several people in the large kitchen. As he raised the hand with the wine in it to push the front doorbell the door opened. Jack was standing in the hallway looking somewhat sombre and holding a bottle of beer, which he immediately thrust at Stratton.

Youre adrift, Jack said accusingly.

Car wouldnt start, replied Stratton with equal gravity.

We dont accept excuses in this business. Take the bottle and drink the contents.

Youre a beer behind, laddy, a voice barked behind Jack. It was Smiv, a tall, red-headed Scotsman with a bull neck and a build to match.

Jack pushed the beer closer to Stratton, frowning. Refusing will not help your case, he said.

Its not even one oclock, Stratton pleaded.

Jock and Smiv were joined by Bracken, a dark-haired hombre-moustachioed brute whom many called Turk because of his highly suspect ancestry, a heritage which he flatly denied. Hows it going, Stratton? he asked.

Hes a beer behind, Smiv told Bracken.

That right? Bracken said as he put a bottle to his lips and took a swig. Who does he think he is?

Stratton rolled his eyes, took the bottle and put it to his lips.

You dont get in this door until thats emptied, Jack added.

Stratton sighed, tipped back his head, and slowly emptied the glass container, not as adept as most at divesting a bottle of its contents in one go. He handed it back to Jack who beamed as if all negative issues had been suddenly resolved.

Come inside, Jack said, stepping back to allow Stratton entry. As he closed the door he gave Stratton a bear-hug, then stepped back to look him over. Everything in order? No bits missing?

No. The most boring job I think Ive ever done. I had piles from sitting on cold, damp rocks for a couple of weeks, but other -wise no complaints.

Always take a packet of Anusols with you on ops, Smiv advised like an old sage.

Might as well shove em up your arse, all the good they do, Bracken chimed in as he took another swig from his bottle.

Sad thing is hes serious, Smiv confided to the others.

Go say hello to Sally, Jack said, nodding towards the kitchen and taking Strattons wine. And then go see Josh. Hes been going on at me all week about when youre coming home and if youll be in time for his party.

E asnt gotta beer again, Bracken noted and one was immediately held out to Stratton.

I havent had a drink in a month. Ill be trashed on another of those.

The other men remained unmoved by his plea, as did the bottle. Stratton took it, rolled his eyes again and went into the kitchen where several wives were helping to prepare food.

Stratton! Sally yelled on seeing him. She quickly put down the tray of sausages that she had just removed from the oven, tossed her gloves onto the kitchen counter and hurried over with outstretched arms. Come ere, you handsome bastard, she said, a northern twang discernible even after more than a decade living in the south of the country. Weve missed yer.

She gave him a bear-hug. Stratton wrapped his laden arms around her, and gave her a fat kiss on the lips.

Doesnt greet me like that when I come home, Jack said, feigning hurt.

Im or er? Bracken asked.

Oh, shot op, Jack. E gets the same, she said to Stratton. Except in lace underwear.

Ooooh, the men cooed in chorus.

Ill ave to try that, Bracken said.

She wears the lace underwear, Smiv explained.

Oh. Bracken nodded, understanding.

Let me take a look at you, Sally said, standing back. All in one piece?

Weve been through that, Jack said, stepping forward and taking over. Now get yourself down and see Josh before she starts checking for herself.