A persistent caller was unusual. Stratton took the phone out of his pocket and looked at the screen. There was no caller ID. He pushed the receive button and put the phone to his ear.
‘This is Mike. You’re allowed to talk to me, Stratton.’
It was nice to hear a friendly voice. ‘Hi. How you doing?’
‘Fine. You?’
‘Can’t remember the last time I sat around doing nothing for so long.’
‘How about that ten-day stake-out you and I did in Crossmaglen?’
‘Ah. Those good old days in South Armagh. They seem like a million years ago.’
‘This isn’t a chatty call, John. Where are you right now?’
‘Blue Boar.’
‘I hope you haven’t had much to drink.’
‘Half a glass of the Boar’s finest claret.’
‘I need you to get your arse in here. You probably look like shit with a beard ’n’ all.’
‘I may look more relaxed than normal,’ Stratton said, scratching his beard.
‘You have time to get home and clean up. There’s a couple people still on their way from London.’
Stratton could only wonder what it was all about. He checked his watch.
‘Yes, I know it’s late,’ Mike said, as if reading Stratton’s thoughts. ‘Come straight to the ops room. Oh, and put your crockpot in the freezer this time.’
The line went dead.
The crockpot reference used to be Mike’s private code for going away on an op. Perhaps now it just meant going away, as in to jail.
Stratton brushed the thoughts aside. He knew Mike well enough and could tell his mood from the tone of his voice. He’d sounded upbeat and energetic, as if he was keen to get on with something positive. Something was up. The crockpot in the freezer indicated more than a short job.
Stratton felt suddenly energised. This was good, he hoped. If it was an op, it meant he had been forgiven. Perhaps that was stretching it a little too far but it would do for the time being. He got to his feet, grabbed the old leather jacket off the back of the chair and headed to the bar to pay his bill. His favourite piece of clothing had arrived at his house from London a week before, along with the other belongings that he’d left at MI16. Stratton suspected that it had all been checked by forensics for any evidence of his involvement in the plot. They’d even examined his Jeep before it was returned by some innocuous delivery man, again from London.
Fifty minutes later he pulled into the SBS car park and climbed out of the Jeep. As he headed for the main building, fine flakes of snow began to float down from a sky the colour of wet concrete. Yet the snow refreshed him, mentally as well as physically. It conjured up memories, all of them operational in his case - days spent living in hedgerows or on mountaintops, sipping a hot drink and always watching for someone or something. He hoped that, if this meeting was all about a trip somewhere, he might be back in time to enjoy the white stuff.
He walked in through the front doors of the SBS HQ, swiped his ID card that registered his arrival as well as automatically unlocking the inner door, and headed to the ops room door. He did not have access to this one. As he reached for the buzzer the door opened and Mike stood looking at him.
Neither man moved, each studying the other, both with glib expressions. Mike’s face then cracked into a smile. ‘I think you’re going to like this one,’ he said.
Stratton didn’t return the smile. ‘You said that about the last job and I didn’t like it much at all.’
‘You only think you didn’t. You’ll be boring us all with your stories about it when you’re retired. Let’s go meet the gang.’
Stratton followed Mike through the ops room door into the curtain cubicle. Once more they stepped through into the spacious operations room with its myriad flatscreens, charts, maps and communications systems.
The tall, white-haired SBS commanding officer stood in civilian clothes talking to the operations officer and a man in a suit who had his back to Stratton. The CO glanced at Stratton on seeing the men enter and went back to his conversation.
Mike went to the immaculate young operations officer, also dressed in civvies, taking him aside for a quiet word. Stratton stood in the room feeling self-conscious. He hadn’t seen the CO since before the operation and felt something akin to shame, like the