A pretty waitress collecting used glasses came over to him. ‘How’s the crockpot, Stratton?’ she asked, with a bright smile.

‘Almost as good as mine,’ he replied, returning her smile.

‘Can I get you anything else?’

‘I’m fine, thanks.’

‘Okay. Enjoy,’ she said, leaving him alone but with a parting look that did not disguise her interest in him.

He put down his fork, took a sip of wine and leaned back in thought. The bruises around the wounds on his face, those not covered by several weeks of beard growth, had mostly disappeared. The deeper cuts on his hands were now thin black lines. He looked generally gaunt and tired, his eyes dark, his skin pale.

Stratton emptied the wine glass and stretched out his legs. His body still felt stiff, particularly the healing flesh around the bullet wounds. It was time to start working out but his heart wasn’t yet in it. The medic had said he was to do nothing too strenuous for another week but he knew his body better. It was his spirit that needed healing more than anything else at that moment.

He lowered his hands to his knees, continuing to bend forward slowly, stretching the backs of his legs until he could touch his toes with outstretched fingertips. It wasn’t so bad. A week earlier the same exercise had been far more painful and he had reached half the distance.

He was not only disheartened but thoroughly bored.

Within hours of being picked up from the lifeboat and taken on board the operations vessel Stratton had been treated in the sickbay while being debriefed by a London suit. The debriefing had taken several hours after which he’d been returned promptly to Poole and to his home and ordered to remain in the vicinity until further notice. He wasn’t under house arrest or anything like that. He could attend the camp hospital, go shopping and to the pub. But he was told that he was not to spend time with work associates and should not encourage friends to visit him. The bottom line was that under no circumstances was he to discuss any aspect of the operation. It was made very clear to him that there would be severe repercussions if he were to ignore this instruction.

It was all quite bizarre, really. Stratton hadn’t experienced anything like it. He was not being admonished as such. Everyone had been cold towards him, the powers that be, but there was no official hearing, no inquiry that he had been asked to attend. It was as if he had been placed inside a box until they decided what to do with him.

Stratton hadn’t seen Jason or any of the others involved in the operation since they had been rescued. He was questioned about everything and everyone but had been given nothing in return other than the news that Smithy had been picked up in the middle of the ocean and was doing fine. The futures of Binning and Rowena, however, remained a mystery to him. When he asked about them he drew a blank. They told him not to discuss the subject with anyone and that the only reason he was being allowed to police his own isolation was because of his track record with MI6.

A criminal mole inside MI16 was a serious situation and London would undoubtedly want the lid kept very tight on it. The television and newspapers had been full of the Morpheus disaster and had blamed the hijackers. The MoD hadn’t been criticised for its lack of response to the incident. The suddenness of the destruction of the rig seemed to have struck everyone. But the press were curious about what they described as its ‘premature’ blowing-up. Theories abounded. All kinds of expert witnesses espoused various views, the most popular being that the explosion had to have been an accident of some kind. The hijackers had cocked it up and sunk the bloody thing by mistake. It must have been something like that since they could never have received a ransom payment in such a short time. And since none of the hijackers appeared to have survived, it was up to Scotland Yard to find out who was ultimately behind it - the mastermind behind the scenes. Another popular theory. Terrorism had not been discounted as a plausible reason for the explosion but the varied nationalities and backgrounds of the hijackers seemed to have muddied that idea. Three weeks into the investigation the police had officially uncovered very little. Of course they were divulging nothing.

The media became obsessed with one other part of the story: the mysterious individual who had released the workers after killing the hijackers singlehandedly with a silenced sub-machine gun. They interviewed several workers on camera, all of whom displayed deep gratitude to the shadowy stranger in black who had saved many of their lives. He had been described as darkly handsome with a chiselled jaw, a man of few words and such dominating character that his every utterance had been obeyed without question.

Several of the newspapers provided drawings, a couple of which resembled Stratton a little, but only to those few who knew it had been him. One news programme went to great lengths to create computer graphics illustrating how the special operative might have got aboard the Morpheus in the brutal storm, risking life and limb to scale the platform after having been parachuted into the ocean some distance away. And then the superhero vanished as mysteriously as he had arrived. There was mention of another two men and a mini-submarine and an effort was made to connect the destruction of the rig with their arrival. One newspaper suggested that the operative’s attack had caused a last-stand action by the hijackers. The media knew when they were onto a good thing with the mysterious character and they made the most out of him that they could.

Stratton suspected that MI16 might be closed down, for the moment at least, and would be undergoing a thorough investigation. If anyone was being hammered about the corruption within its ranks it was Jason. He would obviously be a suspect too, something that would do nothing for his ego. But he had done well from the moment Jordan had been killed and Stratton had given a good account of his actions. Stratton was no longer sure how he felt about the man. The bloke had an inflated sense of his own importance and his plans to create a team of super-intelligent field operators proved it. No doubt that project had gone down in flames with the Morpheus. He hoped the man had seen the flaws in his ambitions. But then, Mansfield wasn’t the type to show humility - certainly not to Stratton, at least. He couldn’t see them sharing a pint.

Stratton’s phone rang. An unusual sound for him at the moment. Word had spread throughout the service that he was on suspension and was not to be contacted unless it was done through the command structure. He decided to leave the phone rather than answer it and explain to whoever it was that he couldn’t talk. After several rings it ceased. He took another sip of wine and went back to his stew. The phone rang again.

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 feelings he’d had years ago when he’d found himself waiting outside the headmaster’s office for a reprimand.

‘Stratton,’ the CO finally said as he moved to a group of chairs and sat down. ‘How is everything?’ he asked, wearing a thin, knowing smile.

Stratton was about to answer when the suited gentleman turned to face him. It was Sumners, his operational MI6 handler.

Sumners studied him coldly. The sight of Stratton conjured up all sorts of disagreeable thoughts, and not just about the more recent disaster. The man had a track record. Sumners despised the operative. With good reason, as far as he was concerned.

Stratton didn’t share the same degree of distaste for his London superior but he was well aware of Sumners’s feelings. It was a private hatred, though. No one else in the room knew the history behind it. In fact there were probably only a handful of people in MI6 who knew about the potentially disastrous operation that had climaxed in Jerusalem a few years back and had caused the rift between them - and they were all senior mandarins who knew how to keep a secret. Not that Stratton and Sumners had been particularly chummy before that incident. Sumners wasn’t chummy with anyone.

If Sumners had come all the way to Poole that pretty much confirmed to Stratton there was a job on. As the main liaison between MI6 and UK special forces Sumners was usually responsible for giving the intelligence outline before someone else covered an operation’s nuts and bolts.

‘You know Sumners, of course,’ the CO said.

The CO knew something of Sumners’s responsibilities at MI6, and a little of Stratton’s unique relationship with the London-based organisation. He was never privy to any operational details. But he was no fool and was aware that there was no love lost between the pair.

‘Yes. How are you, sir?’ Stratton asked.

Sumners gave him a very brief, empty smile and brushed his lapel, a characteristic gesture of his that implied he was marginally irritated.

‘Right. Shall we get on with this?’ the CO urged. ‘The preamble, please, Mr Sumners.’

Stratton sat in one of the chairs beside the CO. The ops officer remained standing to one side and Mike took a seat at the back of the room. An empty seat remained at the other side of Stratton.

Sumners walked to where he was comfortable addressing everyone and took a moment to collect his thoughts. ‘You all understand that what we are about to discuss is beyond secret,’ he began, somewhat moodily. ‘I am obliged to stress this even though it is a given . . . This operation is unique insofar as it will be a combined SBS and MI6 effort. We have always trained together, shared resources and skills. I have given many intelligence briefs to your personnel in various parts of the world. But I cannot recall the last time the two organisations actually combined operations in the manner we are proposing today. We have been joined at the hip with regards to this task, having previously been pawns in a plot that led to the destruction of the Morpheus and the theft of Her Majesty’s property.

‘Binning was not working alone when he removed the tile from MI16 and brought it aboard the oil platform in order to steal it. It is our belief that the hijacking of the platform was contrived entirely for the purpose of procuring the decryption device.’

‘Excuse me,’ Stratton interrupted, much to Sumners’s annoyance, as well as the CO’s. It was generally unacceptable to i nterrupt a briefing. All questions were usually left until the end. The sign of a good brief, in fact, was that no questions were required by the end of it, the briefer having covered all topics and contingencies. For Stratton to interrupt so soon was a surprise. An unwelcome one.

Sumners could not help taking it as a slight by the upstart. ‘What is it?’ he asked, frowning as he stared at his subordinate.

‘Sorry, but I need to catch up on a few things. I don’t know anything about a tile, or what happened to Binning and Rowena . . . if it’s pertinent to the briefing.’

The CO eyed Sumners with a look of acknowledgement concerning Stratton’s comment. ‘He’s been in information isolation since the incident. You should go back a little further.’

Sumners frowned again, even though Stratton obviously needed to know all the details. The CO coming out on the operator’s side did not help soothe his animosity towards him. ‘The tile refers to an extremely valuable decryption device that Binning stole from MI16, and he, along with Miss Deboventurer, escaped in a lifeboat before the platform was destroyed. During the subsequent emergency response we found the lifeboat. Empty. There was only one way they could have escaped, in our opinion at least, and that was by submarine. It would have been possible for a small surface vessel to get through the security cordon under the cover of the intense storm. But all things considered, that is highly unlikely.The destruction of the platform was calculated, a phase of the escape plan to create confusion and drain the resources of the security cordon. But that would still have left escape by a surface vessel, even a small stealth version, a high-risk option, considering how elabor - ate the rest of the operation was. The planners could not have guaranteed the arrival of such a storm to mask their escape, for instance, even in the North Sea. One has to assume that they had an all-weather escape plan. A small submarine of the type we believe was used could have made it through our cordon, particularly under the prevailing conditions.

‘The question must be asked, then, how the planners could justify such an expensive and elaborate operation. The answer is simple. The value of the tile is many times more than the cost involved in stealing it. I’m afraid its uses as a tool for industrial espionage are incalculable.’

‘This was all about industrial espionage?’ Stratton said.

‘Elements of the Russian government clearly played a part in its theft - the submarine, for example - and I’m sure they didn’t do it for charity. The tile is a new generation of decrypter. Hackers have successfully infiltrated the most sophisticated databases on numerous occasions - MI6 and the CIA have been victims over the years, as have many corporate and financial institutions,’ Sumners explained. ‘The problem they have always run into is the decryption of the stolen data. The tile has so far shown the potential of being able to crack every encryption it has been tested against. It hasn’t been completed but Binning may be able to finalise the design. There are foreign governments and corporations willing to pay anything for it. To put it in perspective, imagine what the Nazis would have paid to get their hands on Ultra, the decryption device that ultimately lost them the war. Relatively speaking, the hijackers acquired the tile for practically nothing.’

‘Excuse me.’ Stratton felt obliged to interrupt once again. ‘Was Deboventurer working with Binning?’

‘We don’t believe so. He took her as a hostage to assist in his escape. We can only assume that he didn’t leave her on the lifeboat because she has some value. That remains unclear for now. The investigation into MI16 is intensive and ongoing. As for the other players involved in the theft, those behind the planning and funding of it, we know some of them. As I said earlier, it looks to have been a joint venture involving private individuals and elements within the Russian government. There is no evidence of direct government or FSB involvement. But state resources were clearly misused by people of influence within those organisations.’

The seated men exchanged glances.

‘You may recall a certain Russian naval vessel called the Inessa,’ Sumners said, glancing at Stratton, well aware of his failed operation on that mission. ‘One of its uses is as a “stable” for long-distance mini-submarines.The operation that Stratton failed in was completed a week later by MI16.’ Sumners showed no sign of revelling in the comment. Stratton knew him well enough to know how much he really was.

‘The Inessa was monitored leaving the North Sea at a time and place that calculations indicate could have enabled a rendezvous with a submersible from the area of the Morpheus not that long after its sinking. It is also interesting to note that while Jackson was holding position in the SBS mini-sub after dropping off Stratton and the others, its Doppler sonar picked up a significant shadow about as large as a medium-sized whale. Close examination of that recording revealed that he had inadvertently registered another submarine. Since we did not put all of this together till well after the incident, nothing was done about the Inessa at the time.’

Sumners picked a glass of water off the table and took a sip, giving the others time to digest the information so far.

‘Working on the principle that the guilty are usually far closer to home than one might expect to find them, a subsequent investigation into the owners of the Morpheus revealed some interesting facts. I won’t go into all the details simply because of the time factor. But in summary, one of the major shareholders of the group that owned the platform has been in financial difficulties for years. During the last twelve months they uncharacteristically began putting money into the venture, spending it mostly, apparently, on costly improvements. That increased its insurance value. The controlling cadre is made up of four significant characters: two Arabs and two Russians.’

The men’s images appeared on the sceens - the four in Abu Dhabi who had given Deacon the go-ahead by satellite phone.

‘The character we’re going to examine is one of the Russians: Dimitry Robalesk. He has a brother in the Russian Ministry of Trade, Vlad Robalesk. Vlad has financial interests in mining along with his brother. Vlad also has a history of industrial espionage. The pattern of relationships between businessmen and government officers grows more nefarious and complex the deeper we dig.

‘Suffice it to say that it all boils down to a collection of significant pointers relevant to our subject. First of all, those who owned the oil platform would not lose any money from its destruction, by natural or terrorist means, due to the insurance cover. Close friends and associates of those who owned the platform would pay a high price for obtaining the tile.

‘Binning was the “operative” who succeeded in recording the Inessa’s data after the failed SBS operation. His disappearance after the Morpheus disaster and the theft of the tile naturally prompted an intense investigation into all his MI16 projects, as well as a closer examination of the one operation he carried out against the Inessa. The timings reveal that he had adequate opportunity to liaise with and board the vessel. We believe this is what actually happened and where he was able to meet representatives of the players personally and finalise the plan, and no doubt his own deal. We believe as part of the arrangement he was allowed to gain certain information about the Inessa and thereby succeed in his operation. The meeting was obviously prearranged. In short, gentlemen, a large portion of this highly complex and, it has to be said, quite brilliant plot was probably engineered by Binning himself. But it also has the hallmarks of government sponsorship written all over it.’

A moment was left for the clearing of throats and the exchanging of glances.

Sumners continued: ‘Can you bring up the map of Russia, please? North of Plesetsky.’

The operations officer tapped several keys on his console and the large monitors came to life.

‘Now,’ Sumners said, clearing his own throat. ‘Where does that leave us and our counter-operation to retrieve our stolen goods? Well, Vlad Robalesk owns several mines, two of them in the Plesetsky area.’

One of the monitors gave a satellite view of the vastness of Russia before zooming in on the central region.

‘Some forty years ago the Russians converted an old mine into a research and development laboratory. The reason they needed something deep in the ground was, you won’t be surprised to hear, not only security against prying eyes in the sky but also because it was to be a chemical and biological weapons laboratory. They needed to be able to seal the place off if something went wrong. The facility’s in this area here.’

A large square graphic appeared on the screen.

‘Robalesk acquired the converted mine shortly after the collapse of the communist government, apparently with the intentions of cleaning it up and reopening it as a going concern. We don’t think that happened. And neither did he close the facility down. Now this is where it helps to have an intelligence organisation that knows how to cross-reference information not only by subject but also in depth and time. Two years ago, when the Inessa was being fitted for its current role, in our efforts to try to discover its purpose we naturally followed every lead we had, in and out of the shipyard. One of them led to the chemical warfare mine, as it became known, in Plesetsky. It was from there that we constructed our understanding of the relationship between Vlad Robalesk and certain players in the FSB and the Russian government. We have been closely observing the area for the past two weeks and there has been significant activity along the road that links the town of Plesetsky to the laboratory. Vlad Robalesk has been identified twice, along with several other significant players. This is certainly an indication that something of great interest has recently arrived at the mine.

‘The surveillance photography, if you don’t mind,’ Sumners asked the operations officer.

Several grainy photographs appeared in layers on the screen. They were of a sedan driving along a road covered in snow. The photo zoomed in to reveal a figure seated in the back. It was difficult at first to identify him but as the pixels adjusted his features became clearer. Other similar images appeared, a time-line shot of the same vehicle moving along the road.

‘A close examination of the photographs confirms it is indeed our man Binning. These photographs were taken eleven days ago. The Inessa arrived in Sevastopol two days before. One might be allowed to assume that Binning was on board. A day of debriefing and then to work. I think it’s also safe to assume that Binning has not only provided them with the tile but that he also has a new employer.’

Sumners took another moment to allow the information to be digested.

Stratton was already thinking ahead to what the operation might be.

‘We currently have a surveillance operative in the area, the person responsible for the photographs. Binning appears to commute to the town of Plesetsky where he is staying in a house. He doesn’t travel every day. Sometimes he overnights at the mine. We don’t know how long these circumstances will continue. Therefore it has been decided that we should act as soon as possible.

‘And so,’ Sumners expressed with theatrical fatigue, as if he had finally reached the point of his presentation. ‘The operation. You will of course present the details but while I’m here I’ll provide the general outline. We are going to pay Mr Binning a visit. We are going to find out where our tile is. We are going to find out as much as we can from Binning about the operation, the players, et cetera, et cetera. And then we are going to terminate Mr Binning.’ Sumners looked directly at Stratton as he said it.

A phone console buzzed and displayed a flashing red light. Mike quickly answered it. ‘Okay,’ he said before replacing the receiver. ‘Your guest has arrived,’ he said to Sumners.

‘You can bring him down.’

Mike excused himself from the briefing.

‘The task is being offered to you, Stratton,’ Sumners said, examining the screen without looking at him. ‘I assume you will take it and do a good job. I think you owe us that much.’

Stratton didn’t respond immediately, not even with his facial expression. His crime as he saw it had been to use government property to try to rescue an old friend. He’d do it again if he had to. Binning stealing the tile and everything else had nothing to do with him. Sumners had chosen to put it in a manner that suited his own mean streak. He was being a prick as usual, and this time for an audience. Yet Stratton realised his own suitability for the operation. For a number of reasons. He knew Binning for a start. Bringing in other players would only increase the number of people who knew about it. This entire affair had to be kept as secret as possible. Yet somewhere within him he knew that wasn’t enough. There had to be something else, some other, more substantial reason why he had been selected. He couldn’t think of it at that moment. He might never know. But of course he would do the op. In fact, he was looking forward to it. As usual Sumners was trying to wind him up and Stratton would not dignify the attempt with any sort of reaction.

But Sumners wasn’t finished yet. He had his little ace to play. ‘You won’t be going alone, of course. I need someone to keep an eye on you.’ The MI6 man looked towards the back of the room, waiting for the visitor to arrive. As he did so Mike stepped through the black curtains and Jason Mansfield walked in behind him. There was an air of authority about him.

Stratton looked around and could not believe his eyes. He looked at the CO for a reaction. The man was far too professional to give him one.

Stratton’s head was filled with questions that he couldn’t ask. Dominated by one in particular: what was a civilian with no experience in this kind of operation doing here? Yet it was pointless to complain. The decision had been made at a very high level. This was an extremely sensitive operation with many potential repercussions if it went wrong. He decided to keep his mouth shut and wait for the rest of the briefing.

Jason came over to Stratton, wearing that same supercilious smile he’d worn when they’d first met. It was as if he had been cleansed of the past and everything was the same between them. ‘Good to see you again, Stratton. You all healed up?’

Stratton remained sitting and looked up at the man. ‘I’m fine,’ he replied dryly.

Jason leaned down and spoke softly. ‘You don’t look pleased to see me.’ He stood upright and said, as if for the room’s benefit, ‘Hopefully this won’t be as vigorous as our last adventure. ’

The man was talking like he’d been doing it for years and that they were old operational buddies.

‘This is the SBS CO,’ Sumners said.

Jason took the CO’s hand and shook it. ‘Good to meet you. I’ve been looking forward to visiting Poole for such a long time and to meet the people who play with the toys I make.’

Stratton cringed. Any positive feelings he’d developed about the man after his actions on the platform withered.

‘Have they sorted you out a room in the mess?’ the CO asked.

‘Yes, thanks. Very comfortable.’

‘Good. Right, then. Shall we get on with the detailed briefing? You both have an early start tomorrow and we’ve got a lot to cover.’

‘I’ll leave you to it,’ Sumners said. He took a black woollen overcoat off the back of a chair and pulled it on. ‘Don’t be offended if I don’t wish you luck, Jason.’ He wrapped a scarf around his neck. ‘I never do. Don’t believe in it . . . which is something of a surprise after witnessing Stratton’s activities all these years.’

Jason made a poor effort of trying not to smirk, as if he was in the know.

Sumners nodded farewell to the CO and ops officer and headed for the curtains. Mike escorted him out.

The CO leaned close to Stratton. ‘You have my sympathy,’ he whispered. The comment had a calming effect, no doubt its intention.

‘Gentlemen,’ announced the operations officer. ‘If you would like to be seated, we will proceed.’

Jason sat beside Stratton and took a notebook from a pocket.

The ops officer saw him scribble a couple of lines on a page. ‘You can take notes of the briefing, Mr Mansfield, but nothing leaves this room.’

‘I fully understand, Captain,’ Jason said, with barely a glance at the officer. ‘I have a photographic memory. All I need do is write down the relevant data and then I can immediately dispense with it.’

Stratton glanced round at Mike who had returned in time to hear the comment. The sergeant major grinned broadly at his friend, knowing how painful this was for him. He pointed to Jason and gave the thumbs-up, mouthing the comment ‘Top man.’ He then pointed to Stratton and mimicked a wanking motion.

Stratton faced the front. He felt inclined to agree with his old friend concerning the latter gesture.