checking out.’
‘You be gone long?’ Morgan asked.
‘No idea . . . Take care of yourself.’
Stratton headed for the door.
‘Stratton?’
Stratton paused in the doorway to look at him.
‘How . . . what do you have to do to . . . you know . . . get in the job?’ Morgan asked, unsure how to form the words. It was a sensitive subject that due to protocol allowed no questions, but he felt he knew Stratton well enough to dip a toe into it.
‘They call you.’
‘And if they don’t? I mean. Is there any way I can get them to call . . . let ’em know I want in?’
‘I can’t help you, Morgan.’
Morgan nodded, disappointment on his face. He understood, or thought he did. ‘See ya, then.’
Stratton left the room.
Morgan sighed as he sat back, put his feet up on the desk and tried to imagine what on earth Stratton did when he went away on his private little trips. His hand subconsciously moved to his ear and searched inside it for a hair to pluck.
Stratton headed down the stairs, crossed the hangar floor to the main entrance and stepped out into the rain. In his opinion, Morgan, because he was black, had a better chance than most of getting a call. MI6 was short of dark-skinned operators. The job was dangerous, but Morgan was canny and more than capable of handling himself. He wondered about putting in a good word for him, then decided against it. If anything bad ever happened to Morgan, Stratton didn’t want it on his conscience.
Two and a half hours later Stratton walked out of Waterloo Station and paused to look at the taxi rank. The queue was some twenty long with more people tacking on to the end every few seconds, although taxis appeared to be arriving in an endless stream to cope with the demand. He checked his watch. There was plenty of time to walk the mile or so to the meeting place, which he preferred to do anyway. He would spend the time thinking about his return to military intelligence. Savouring it might be a better description. There was no doubting the mild euphoria he was now feeling. He fastened the front buttons of his old leather jacket, shoved the Templars book he had read throughout the train journey into a side pocket, pulled up his collar against a chill wind and headed in the direction of the Thames.
At five minutes to seven, Stratton paused in a quiet back street a couple of blocks from the main road. It was several years since he had been to this location. There was a small park across the street and in its centre was the little knoll from which the Real IRA had fired an RPG7 antitank missile at the MI6 headquarters building quite visible a quarter of a mile away. It struck a window halfway up, doing little more than smashing some glass and scarring a wall inside. The media had billed it as a bold demonstration of the Real IRA’s willingness and capability to take over from the Provisional IRA and to carry the conflict directly into the heart of England and military intelligence. MI saw it as a perfect illustration of how pathetic the fight with the IRA had become: in the grand scheme of things, the best they were now capable of was smashing a window.
Stratton left the railings that surrounded the park and continued on to the pub.
The high-ceilinged bar was spacious with that characteristic turn-of-the-century feel. The thirty or so people spread about gave it a busy atmosphere but it was by no means crowded. A quick scan revealed Sumners at a table on the far side of the room beside another man who was well-groomed, intelligent looking and wearing a Savile Row suit. They had not yet seen him. Stratton thought Sumners had aged more than expected in the year since he last saw him. His hair had always been white-grey but his face was more drawn and his eyes darker. Perhaps he had pulled a few late nights lately. The difference between the two men sitting together was interesting. Their body language said a lot about them. The other man had an air of superiority and not just by the cut of his clothes. It was the way he was sitting: legs crossed, hands flat together on his thigh, back straight, chin slightly raised, eyes looking down his nose and staring straight ahead as if