jibes but he did his utmost to disguise his feelings. He felt filled with hate: he was desperate for retribution and Sumners represented his only chance of ever finding the elusive agent. If Sumners had had the slightest idea what had gone wrong on that operation he would have clammed up about the subject. But it was clear from his light-hearted reference to the man who had masterminded the task that he knew nothing about what happened. And as long as Sumners was not suspicious his guard on the subject would be low. The SIS officer was, by nature and vocation, a very secretive man.
‘What’s the Black Pigs Association?’ Stratton had asked.
‘It’s the nickname of a certain group of CIA operatives and their select foreign allies,’ Sumners had replied, pausing to allow the inference to sink in that he was one such ‘select’ individual. ‘Men from a certain era who were involved in certain unmentionable things in certain places . . . But if he didn’t tell you about that then you weren’t invited to join,’ he added smugly.
Stratton left it at that. Sumners was not the type to elaborate any further once he had finished with a subject. And any attempt to get him to open up more would only arouse his suspicions. Stratton would not risk that.
It had taken several years but Stratton’s patience had paid off eventually. He was well aware that his target might not even be at the gathering but the point was that he could be. Stratton would not miss the opportunity, because one might never pass his way again. The date gave him a few weeks to organise the task and secure the necessary equipment, which was minimal and uncomplicated to acquire. He could plan practically the entire operation from the UK using satellite imagery and the internet.
Eighteen hours before the hit Stratton boarded a flight, arrived in Washington DC, picked up the car and equipment, carried out a detailed reconnaissance of the target location and with time to spare sat back to gather his thoughts and imagine the moment he had been waiting for for so long. He no longer even bothered to consider the possibility of the man not being there.
Tears began to form in Stratton’s eyes. He blinked but did not wipe them away. They rolled down his cheeks, over his lips and to his chin, from where they fell to his chest. His reason for being there, the images of those moments that had led him on this campaign of revenge, filled his head. It seemed as if the execution of the plan had reopened the wounds of that day, the last time he had cried for her.
Stratton wiped his face on his sleeve and tried to put the thoughts aside. He pulled the hood of his heavy fleece over his head, smoothed the thin leather gloves around his fingers and climbed out of the vehicle. The icy air gripped his face and his breath turned to steam. He was pleased it was so cold because of the advantage it gave him: projectiles travelled more true in freezing air.
He walked around to the boot of the hire car, took out a backpack, which he placed over a shoulder, hit the remote that secured the car’s doors and made his way along the street, head down in case there were any CCTV cameras.
He turned the corner and walked along a busy road which he cut across to enter a dark alleyway dividing the block. He weaved around overflowing garbage dumpsters and bags of trash, scattering foraging vermin that had been taken by surprise at his silent approach. At the end of the alley he broke into a jog to cross a brightly lit road and to avoid an oncoming car and disappeared into another quiet street.
Halfway along it he turned into the entrance to an underground car park, headed down a steep incline, ducked under an unmanned barrier and walked calmly into a low-roofed, cavernous and dimly lit enclosed space that amplified every noise. A tyre screeched somewhere below as a car turned a tight corner. Stratton speeded up to a fire exit and pushed his way in through the door as the vehicle appeared.
He paused to listen inside a concrete stairwell that zigzagged tightly upwards. The car drove off and the only sound that remained was a gentle hum from the stairway lighting. Stratton took the first flight at a brisk pace he could easily maintain and carried on