The Hostage (22 page)

Hank looked around at the people in the café with curiosity, the way they dressed, how they talked to each other, their body language. He noted the things that made them different from Americans, how they communicated with their hands and facial expressions for instance. A flush of contentment passed through him. He was actually enjoying himself, as if he were on holiday. Everything was being paid for, he had no responsibilities, no worries concerning the op, and he was with the ground commander himself, which meant he didn’t even have to think, just follow. He would have preferred being more involved in the operation, of course, part of an actual surveillance team, not just a spectator, but all in all he was having a very pleasant time.

Stratton’s cell-phone vibrated in his pocket and he buried the earpiece in his ear, checked the caller ID and pushed the receive call button.

‘Go ahead,’ he said as he took out a street map that was neatly folded to display a couple of square miles just north of the river, with the Louvre bottom centre. ‘No one can make that call but you,’ he said. ‘If you think you’re warm, back off. The rule is, if in doubt, get out.’

Stratton disconnected and studied the map as he hit a number; he then talked calmly into the small mic in the wire that dangled from his ear past his mouth. ‘Alan? Where are you?’ he asked, then listened a moment. ‘Dave thinks Henri might have made him. He’s pulling off. Move up to the south-west corner of Place Vendôme and support Jeff. Henri should be entering the square in the next two minutes . . . The Ritz, that’s right.’

Stratton disconnected and scrutinised the map. His phone vibrated again and he checked the caller before hitting the button. ‘Go ahead,’ he said and listened for a few seconds. ‘If he goes left or straight, leave him. If he goes right or doubles back, you have to take him, but don’t get burned.’

There was a long pause, then he confirmed what he heard: ‘He went left toward Vendôme, is that correct? . . . Okay, out.’

Stratton hit the end button and then a memory dial button. A few seconds later his call was picked up. ‘Jeff? . . . He’s towards you from the north entrance, understood?’

Stratton disconnected and hit another memory key quickly. ‘Brent? . . . He’s into Vendôme . . . That’s right. Hold your position.’

Stratton ended the call and stared ahead as if in intense thought, but he was waiting, holding the phone, expecting it to vibrate any second. It took a couple of minutes before it did.

‘Go ahead,’ he said and listened for a moment, then suddenly looked annoyed. ‘You’re bunching. You can’t get that close if you’re in support . . . I don’t care how crowded it is.That’s two more we’ve lost now.’Another pause to listen, then: ‘No, I’ll do it. Call Brent and Doles. Tell them I’m covering the church at Barres.’

And with that, Stratton pocketed the phone, stood up and tossed money on to the table. ‘Let’s go,’ he said with urgency and Hank quickly followed him out of the café.

They moved along the street at a brisk pace. Hank walked beside Stratton when he could but he had to repeatedly step back to let oncoming pedestrians pass on the narrow, busy pavement. Stratton walked like a dart with fixed determination. Hank had to run around a parked car at one point to catch up with him. He felt as if he could be hit by a grand piano falling from the roof of one of these buildings and Stratton would just keep on walking. They turned a corner into another equally busy street lined with shops. Hank wanted to know where they were rushing to but chose not to ask. Then, as if Stratton had heard him, ‘Henri did a double-back behind a group of people leaving a shop. Jeff was following too close and got burned. So did Joe who was backing too closely.’

‘He knows they were following him?’

‘No, but if he sees either of them again he will.’

‘If he’s doubling back maybe he already thinks he’s being followed.’

‘Not necessarily. Doubling back is a standard anti-surveillance move. Anyone who’s been in this game long enough checks who’s behind them just about every time they take a walk, on or off duty. Recognise anyone behind us?’

Hank wasn’t sure if Stratton was kidding or not. He looked back as they walked and checked the dozens of people behind them. Parked cars were crammed along every inch of pavement both sides of the street. Stratton sidestepped through a gap between two and crossed the road. Hank looked forward again, saw Stratton was over the road and hurriedly caught up.

‘We’re not as good at this as we should be,’ Stratton continued when Hank came alongside him.‘Six experienced guys could do this task all day without getting burned.We’ve already lost four.’

The phone went again. Stratton didn’t break stride as he answered it. ‘Yes.’ He listened for a moment then: ‘Okay, that’s good. Move out of the area. Your day’s finished.’

Stratton disconnected and speeded up a little. ‘Jeff now thinks that when Henri did his double-back he was actually doing a pass of the meeting point. He just doubled back again past a café. That’s twice he’s passed it. Odds are we’ll house him there any minute. We’re gonna have to cover one end of the street while Brent moves to the other until Henri goes static and the rest of the team can move into position.’

‘How far?’ Hank asked.

‘Rue Cambon. Just around this corner.’

They continued at a brisk pace to the next junction where an old church took up one corner; it was built back from the road so that the corner itself was a small open square, a relief of space from the claustrophobic streets. Stratton crossed into the square and stopped on the corner where Rue Cambon continued on its narrow course for a couple more hundred yards towards Rue de Rivoli. Stratton studied the street, which was comprised of shops, a couple of bars and a café. Hank kept behind him, looking around, trying to act natural, seeing if there were any familiar faces, friendly operatives or otherwise.A pretty woman in sexy tight pants walked by and looked at him, oozing lasciviousness. He realised he was staring and quickly looked away. And then he could not resist looking back to watch her shapely rear.When he turned back Stratton had gone. A rush of panic popped inside his chest before he caught sight of Stratton heading down Rue Cambon and he sped off to catch up.

Stratton reached the next crossroads, the last before Rivoli a hundred or so yards away. Hank moved in behind him and took a peek up the street. He could see a small café on their side of the road with a couple of tables outside. Across the street from the café was a sign that read ‘La Concorde Hotel’. Stratton stepped back around the corner and hit a key on his phone.

‘Brent? He’s at one of the outside tables of the café, opposite La Concorde Hotel . . . That’s right . . . Let me know when you’re set up and we’ll pull back.’

Stratton checked around the corner once again then stepped back. ‘Henri’s at the café,’ he said to Hank. ‘With a bit of luck it’s the rendezvous. Brent’s going to get a covert camera visual from inside the bookshop on the corner.’

Hank nodded and stepped back out of view of the café. This was fun. He was in the thick of it and buzzed by the prospect of watching a meeting between a French intelligence officer spying for the Algerians and a Brit military intelligence officer spying for the RIRA. Out of the blue he thought about Kathryn. He hadn’t spoken to her for almost a week. If everything went well he would see her and the girls before the end of the day. All the team had to do now was video the Brit when he arrived and record the meet. If he got here in the next half-hour they could be home by early evening. He must remember to pick up a couple bottles of French wine, some expensive stuff. Kathryn would like that. Perfume of course would be much smarter. He would try and make love to her tonight, see if he could mend some bridges. It had been three weeks since they last rolled in the hay. He wanted very much to get the relationship back on track. All it needed was some extra effort and understanding on his part to smooth things between them.

He checked his watch. It was five minutes to ten.

 

Bill pulled on his jacket without taking his eyes off Henri below. He had seen him arrive a moment earlier and watched him now sitting there, calmly reading a newspaper. He knew nothing about Henri other than he worked for French intelligence. He suspected Henri’s sympathies were with Algerian freedom fighters, unless he was doing it for money, but he doubted that somehow. It was a certainty Henri had no interest in the Irish cause. Bill wondered what Henri got out of this. Perhaps the Republicans were providing his people with training; they were, after all, the world’s number one terrorist organisation when it came to small-team tactics. Like Bill, Henri would gain nothing of material value. They were both doing it for their cause, two nationalities, two separate goals, but everything else they had in common: spies, operating alone, deep within the enemy’s ranks, everything to lose if caught, including quite possibly their lives. It was no secret among those in the business that uncovered spies never reached the courts and the attention of the media if it was at all avoidable. And not just because of the embarrassment factor. That was the least important reason. Uncovered spies could continue to do damage even when incarcerated. It was preferable that they mysteriously disappeared or died in an unfortunate accident, the important criterion being they could no longer communicate in any way shape or form. It was unofficial, of course. Those kinds of requests from upon high were never committed to paper.They needed to happen nonetheless. And it had to be kept secret - the kind of secret that was never revealed to the general public, ever. Bill understood it all too well and would be the last person to complain about the logic of it.When the IRA uncovered a tout within its ranks it meant interrogation followed by execution. Bill had such an execution order in his parcel of information for Henri to pass on to his handlers.

Most of the details in the pack involved operations the undercover detachments were mounting and the locations of recent wiretaps and secret observation posts, but it also included the names of two informers within the IRA’s command structure. Bill was sentencing those men to death. Like Bill, they knew the risks they were taking. Indeed, it was possible that one day it could happen to him. And there was the problem for him. Like the sword of Damocles, it was difficult to live with that aspect of the job hanging over him and getting more dangerous each time he provided information. Either because of that danger or simply because he was getting older and wiser, life was becoming more precious to him.

In recent months Bill had grown increasingly concerned with the way the RIRA command was using the information he provided. There was always a danger that if they mismanaged the information it could send up flags as to the possible existence of a spy within British military intelligence. That would release the hounds. The RIRA command was sometimes sensible about allowing the detachments some successes against them so as not to arouse suspicion, but not often enough in Bill’s mind.The favoured ploy was to continue certain operations RIRA learned the Brits were aware of. It was like a pantomime of terrorist activity to keep the watchers occupied while RIRA conducted the real operations elsewhere. The incident that triggered Bill’s alarm bells was the bungled kidnapping attempt of Spinks. He was concerned that RIRA’s obsession with capturing a Pink would tempt them to push the envelope a little too far. Bill blamed himself as much as them though. It was a warning to him that despite his importance he had to take more responsibility for his own security. Included in his package for Henri was a criticism of that kidnapping operation, his fears of information mishandling, and a request that he be allowed to hibernate for a while, years perhaps. If they did not agree he would consider imposing it himself. They couldn’t do much about it. He was an ace in a game where RIRA had so few. But taking charge of his own destiny like that had its dangers.There were those who might not be very understanding.

Bill reached for the window to close it before leaving the room. As he did so he happened to glance down the street. What he saw made him lunge back into the room in utter horror. Fear ripped through him. His breathing quickened as his heart rate soared. Nausea overcame him and he barely managed to hold the vomit down.

He stood there for several seconds, trying to regain control. He could have been mistaken.

He moved around to the far side of the room and then, with his back flat against the wall, he stood on tiptoe to look out on to the street. His view was obscured by the balcony and he inched from side to side until he could fit the road junction between the window frames in the door and the rails.

There was no mistaking it. It was Stratton.

Bill watched Stratton move back around the corner and out of sight.The horrific implications made him giddy with fear. His immediate thought was that Stratton was here to kill him. It would make perfect sense. He knew Bill by sight and he would want revenge for Bill’s part in Spinks’s kidnapping attempt. Bill knew only too well that Stratton was a killer. There were his four official kills, but then there was McGinnis, the IRA sniper, who was found with a broken neck in Warrenpoint the night Stratton was there with his team. There was no proof, of course. But the tout on the border near Bessbrook Mill was different. Bill knew it was Stratton who was responsible because Bill had been there that very night; he couldn’t say anything because he wasn’t supposed to have been. Bill was spying on a meeting between an RUC Special Branch detective and the very same tout. Bill did not know who the tout was at that time, only about the meeting and his existence and he wanted to find out his identity. But unbeknown to Bill, Stratton was also watching the meeting.When the Special Branch officer left, Stratton followed the tout a few hundred yards and killed him. At the time, Bill could not understand why Stratton had killed a tout who was effectively working for the Brits. It was only several months later that he learned the tout had not only been trying to squeeze more money from the Brits for his information and threatened his Special Branch handler with his life, but had also been behind a series of killings of Brit soldiers on shore leave. They were lured to an apartment by his accomplice girlfriend and then murdered. One airman was found dead with his throat slit and his testicles cut off and placed in his mouth. As far as Bill was concerned the bastard deserved everything he got. What truly peaked his curiosity was whether Stratton was acting on his own or working for King Henry. King Henry was a metaphor borrowed from the occasion when Henry II, speaking in anger, commented that the country would be best served if Thomas à Becket were gotten rid of, whereupon four of his knights, who had overheard, rode off and killed him. The point of the metaphor being it was not a direct order, merely a whim from on high.