Stratton looked into Jordan’s now soulless eyes and could only remember the good times - his hearty laughter at even the poorest of jokes, his tenacity as an underweight prop on the rugby field, always giving as good as he got. That was long before he’d got the duff leg that had ended his career in the SBS.
Jordan looked at his watch and glanced over his shoulder towards the check-in counters.
‘I’ve got to get going too,’ Stratton said. ‘It was good to see you. Do you ever get down to the reunions?’
‘Nah. Maybe one day. Too soon for me.’
Stratton understood. ‘Where you living now?’
‘I’m in the middle of moving,’ Jordan said, stepping back to end the conversation. ‘Maybe I’ll surprise you in Poole one day.’ He gave Stratton a wave and turned away.
Stratton watched Jordan cross the hall. The sight of the man limping caused him a fresh pang of guilt. He couldn’t help wondering what things would have been like had that fateful day never occurred. Jordan would without a doubt have remained in the SBS, as well as staying one of Stratton’s firm friends.
Stratton turned and made his way back to Ted. The two of them went out to the car park.
‘How is he?’ Ted asked.
‘Seems fine.’
The driver nodded. ‘Real shame about his leg.’
Stratton glanced at the driver, who gave nothing away. Jordan’s injury had been officially judged as an operational acceptability but a lot of people believed it had been Stratton’s fault.
It was still dark outside when the operative got out of bed the following morning, feeling the aches and pains from the underwater battle. Stratton’s shoulder throbbed a little and he removed the bandage to reveal a clean, stitched wound. He picked a heavy sweatshirt up off the floor, pulled it on against the cold and walked into the kitchen to make a brew. He opened the fridge, took out the crockpot, inspected the contents with approval and plugged it into a socket.
A flapping sound. He looked through the window in time to see the pheasant bowl in over the snow-coated hedge. Stratton quietly opened the back door and threw out some bread. The bird see-sawed over to the crust and took a peck at it just as Stratton’s phone rang. The pheasant took flight.
Stratton sighed as he looked at the phone. ‘Some things are just not meant to be,’ he muttered and put it to his ear. ‘This is Stratton on his day off. How can I help?’
‘It’s Mike.’
‘Morning, Mike,’ the operative said. The kettle boiled and clicked off.
‘I need you to come in.’
Stratton sensed the urgency in his voice. ‘Is this an unplug-your-crockpot-and-come-in call?’
‘No. You can leave it plugged in this time.’
‘It’s not urgent, then?’
‘We need to have a conversation. But not over the phone.’
Stratton poured boiling water into a mug. ‘Okay. I’ll see you in a bit.’
The phone went dead. Stratton dumped his tea bag in the bin, added some milk to the mug and took a sip, wondering what it could be about.
When Mike saw Stratton in the doorway of his office an hour later his expression matched his earlier tone. ‘Come in and close the door.’
The sergeant major took a moment to decide how to introduce the subject. He would have been utterly direct with just about anyone else. But Stratton was not only an old friend, he was a thoroughbred in the business and although not a prima donna he demanded a level of respect. ‘The op in Sevastopol . . . when you dumped the recorder, did you see if it self-destructed?’
‘Is that a joke?’ Stratton asked. He already had an idea where the conversation was going.
‘The Russians found it, apparently. The self-destruct device didn’t work.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Stratton said. ‘Anything else?’ He went cold. It was obvious the blame-shifting had begun.
‘Yes,’ Mike answered. This would be even more difficult. ‘The memory card was blank.’
Stratton stared at the man. All the effort and his own near-death experience had been for nothing. London must be going mental.
‘The boffins at MI16 are saying that the device was in perfect working condition when you received it and that it failed to record or self-destruct because you didn’t turn it on properly.’
Stratton’s hackles rose and he leaned forward, his dark green eyes narrowing. ‘I don’t give a monkey’s backside what those pricks say. My post-operational report gives specific details of every step I took. I turned it on. I armed it. I used it. I removed the memory card.’