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