Seven Day Hero

by J. T. Brannan

  ‘I want you to kill Bill Crozier, the Deputy Director for Operations of America’s Central Intelligence Agency.’

  18

  After a moment’s silence, Cole spoke, slowly. ‘I can only assume that there’s a very good reason.’

  Hansard nodded, puffing from his pipe. ‘Indeed there is, Major. Indeed there is.’ He once again removed the pipe from his mouth, took a sip of brandy, tapped the bowl and replaced the pipe, taking one more puff before continuing. ‘I’ll explain the situation as best I can, but it’s rather complex.’ He took one more long, slow and luxurious drag on his pipe, and finally began the mission brief in earnest.

  ‘Okay Major, I’ll start from the beginning, although I’m sure you are aware of the basics. At 1030 hours on the morning of 24th December, a yacht going by the name of ‘Derr Kriegschaft’ was manoeuvred into the waters of the Lilla Värtan, just five hundred metres from the security exclusion zone, that was set at a perimeter of five kilometres from the Riksdagshuset. The yacht belonged to a yacht rental company known somewhat imaginatively as Stockholm Yacht Hire. It had been ordered for this particular date back in June of this year, and was picked up at 0900 hours that morning.’

  ‘June?’ wondered Cole. ‘That’s certainly planning ahead. When was it announced that Stockholm would be the host city?’

  ‘Not until September,’ answered Hansard. ‘There were three possible locations that were common knowledge in June – London, Moscow and Stockholm. We believe that whoever was responsible would almost certainly have started looking at all three, with independent and specific plans for each.’

  ‘Sounds pretty organised. State sponsored.’ It was not a question.

  Ignoring Cole’s last comment, Hansard continued. ‘At 1155 hours, a coded signal was received by the Stockholm Coastguard, providing specific information on the location and purpose of the Kriegschaft yacht. It is not presently known who left the message or where they were from. The nearest vessel, a Navy cutter, was summarily despatched.

  ‘At 1157 hours, President Danko arrived at the Riksdagshuset. At this time, a member of the Beijing News crew – impostors as it turned out, the real team were found a few hours later with their throats slit – used a video camera, modified to work as a laser designator, to pinpoint the position of Danko’s limousine.

  ‘Although the Navy cutter was en route, it wasn’t there in time to stop the launch of two SA-9 Grail laser-guided missiles from the yacht. Once the weapons had been launched, the Kriegschaft tried to make its escape, but was blown from the water by a Swedish naval destroyer.

  ‘Luckily for Danko, the guidance system on the missiles must have been faulty. Not so lucky for the BBC crew, as they were hit instead. All six were killed instantly, along with thirteen others nearby, which included members of the French, Spanish and Canadian press. Twenty-six others were injured as a result of the explosions, with many more in shock. Around the same time, other coded signals were received detailing the existence and location of two separate getaway cars. The Swedish police descended and both cars tried to escape, and both drivers were killed in the subsequent shootouts.

  ‘Back at the Riksdagshuset, the team impersonating the news crew saw that the missiles had failed and so launched their own attack, using the chaos created by the missiles to escape the attention of the security forces until they were almost on top of Danko. They killed six DFT agents with automatic weapons of Chinese manufacture before they were finally stopped by Danko’s bodyguard, Alexei Severin. Within minutes, the ensuing security alert had locked Stockholm down tightly.

  ‘End result – from satellite images and visual reports, it is believed that eight men were incinerated on the Kriegschaft, plus a further two in the getaway cars; no real trace of the bodies, meaning no evidence. Six members of the team were killed outside the Riksdagshuset, and we are still awaiting their identification. Weapons, clothing and equipment all seem to have originated in the People’s Republic of China, however, and the available evidence – of which there is precious little – points to a state-led operation.

  ‘We have, however, been able to identify one of the bodies.’ Hansard saw the look of surprise on Cole’s face. ‘This is a fact that is as yet known only to myself, the PM, Geoff Huntington and the SIS analyst who made the ID.’

  Cole watched as Hansard repeated his brandy-sipping and bowl-tapping routine. He always liked to heighten the anticipation when giving a briefing, a quirk that never failed to infuriate Cole. ‘And?’ he finally prompted.

  ‘His name is – or, I should say, was – Lao Shin-Yang. Born August 4th 1980, joined the Army of the PRC in May 1999, graduating to the rank of Captain, which is of some substance over there. Left the service mysteriously, however, in 2010, with no news of him since.’

  ‘Where did they find his body?’

  ‘Room 414 of the Stura Masta Hotel in central Stockholm, with a bullet through the back of his head. It appears that someone wanted to tie up the loose ends, so to speak.’

  ‘Why hasn’t this information been shared?’ Cole asked instinctively.

  ‘All will come clear, old chap. Let me finish.’ The brandy again, and then the pipe. He sighed before continuing.

  ‘President Danko is – how shall I put this politely? – a bloody liability. He’s convinced China is out to destroy ERA, and he’s not afraid to speak his mind. Admirable though that trait may otherwise be, it is not entirely so in a politician, especially one who leads a world power. A world power, need I remind you, that we have just climbed very much into bed with.’ He removed the pipe again, and now used it to punctuate his words.

  ‘So let me lay it out for you – maybe it was China, maybe it wasn’t. Who knows? But there is a certain protocol for these situations that is usually adhered to. A tightening of trade sanctions here, a reduction of subsidies there; perhaps the cancellation of some important intergovernmental talks. What does not normally happen is for schoolboy ‘mine is bigger than yours’ threats and curses to be sallied forth. Nuclear bloody weapons have already been mentioned! Like I said, when these things happen – as you and I both know they do – there is a protocol for dealing with the aftermath, and it is called diplomacy. Now don’t you think it’s a bit strange, Danko and Feng getting so worked up as they have been?’

  ‘I must admit, I’ve found it surprising. There’s a lot of tension,’ Cole commented.

  ‘And that’s before these nuclear threats being bandied about have been fully picked up by the news-watching world. Which might be when? Later tonight? Tomorrow? Gregory’s managed to get the rhetoric calmed down so far, but it hasn’t been easy. And do you know why?’

  Skipping his brandy and pipe routine, Hansard ploughed straight on without giving Cole a chance to answer. ‘Because Danko’s being given inaccurate information. He’s hearing from sources that the attack was definitely on Chinese orders. And Feng, although his response has been harsh, has only countered in the same way that Danko attacked.’

  ‘What sources?’ Cole asked, surprised.

  Hansard settled back into his captain’s chair again, relaxed; once more playing the role of the knowledgeable teacher to Cole’s attentive student. ‘Were ERA and China to enter into conflict with one another, who do you suppose would benefit?’

  Cole considered the matter for a few moments before the answer dawned, crystal clear. ‘America,’ he finally answered.

  ‘Yes,’ Hansard confirmed, ‘exactly. Our old friends, the United States.’

  19

  After the initial surprise on Cole’s face had faded, Hansard pressed on. ‘They’ve been very positive about ERA publicly, of course. Made all the right noises. Glad to have the burden taken off them, pleased Europe is taking more responsibility for her own defence, the usual sort of thing. But let me tell you,’ he said, leaning forwards to whisper conspiratorially, ‘behind closed doors it’s not like that at all. Not one bit.’ Hansard sat back, pausing for effect before carrying on.

  ‘The American go
vernment is, quite frankly, terrified of the new Alliance, and of the Confederation which is sure to follow. And according to my sources in the US, it seems that they want to capitalize on the present situation as much as possible. After all, a Eurasian conflict is ideal for them, even just the threat. We’ve already seen a three percent drop in the FTSE since yesterday, with a comparable rise in the Dow. Without even trying, America can ensure its superpower status remains unchallenged.

  ‘To this end, elements of the government have charged the CIA with exacerbating the current state of affairs. Bill Crozier, as Director of Operations, has therefore been duly ordered to put the cat amongst the pigeons, so to speak.’

  ‘He seems to be doing a good job so far.’

  ‘The man’s barely even started. Made a few moves, but nothing too bad yet. My sources tell me he’s now working on a more concrete strategy.’

  ‘How long do we have?’

  ‘He makes the presentation of his plan to Dorrell tomorrow morning.’ Hansard smiled benignly. ‘Let us be under no illusions here, Major. It is Crozier’s job to stir up the animosities between ourselves and China, in order to safeguard US influence. I know the man. He is very good at what he does, and he will succeed. And the ramifications of his success could be quite terrifying.’

  Cole nodded. He did not have to have it spelled out for him. Nuclear war was not a pretty thing. ‘What about written copies of his plans?’

  ‘Never keeps them,’ Hansard replied confidently. ‘He hates writing down his plans, and keeps it all up here – ’ Hansard gestured to his temple – ‘which is why the operations department will be lost without him for several days at the least.

  ‘All we need is time,’ Hansard continued. ‘Gregory’s hard at work this very minute trying to wrangle some sort of diplomatic settlement. We just cannot afford to let things get stirred up, we need to nip the situation in the bud before it gets out of hand. Taking Crozier out of the picture will give us the few days we need.’

  Hansard finished off the last of his brandy, placing the glass down on the table. ‘Flight 683 to Miami leaves in just over three hours. The connecting flight to DC is at 0215 hours. You should get in at 0430 hours. And Crozier is due to give his presentation at Langley at 0830 hours.’

  Hansard stood, putting his hand on Cole’s shoulder. ‘You have to make sure he never gets there, Major. The importance of this mission is enormous, the ramifications of failure potentially catastrophic. At best, a conflict with China will set our progress back by ten years, and at worst . . .’ Hansard’s fingers dug deep into the muscles of Cole’s shoulder. Cole nodded his head.

  ‘Information on Crozier should be available on the computer in your vault,’ Hansard informed him, referring to the secret room in Cole’s basement. ‘You should have just enough time to review it before you leave.’

  Hansard’s hand came off the shoulder, and he started to move. ‘You know why I need you for this, Major?’

  Cole nodded again. ‘I think so, sir.’

  ‘I need it to be clean. No evidence of foul play. Our role in this little production is never to be known.’

  ‘I understand, sir. It’ll be done quickly, and cleanly. Don’t worry.’

  Hansard smiled, offering Cole his hand. ‘Good luck, Major. I know that you won’t let me down.’

  20

  Sarah was waiting for Cole when he returned to the house shortly after nine. He smiled as he came in, and she smiled back weakly. ‘How long?’ she asked simply.

  Cole approached her, holding her arms, and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Only a short one this time, baby. Should be back the day after tomorrow by the latest.’ Sarah didn’t look convinced, so Cole added ‘Really, honey. I mean it.’

  She nodded her head in resignation. ‘What time do you leave?’

  ‘An hour,’ he answered immediately. ‘I just need to go down to the office and then I have to get straight off.’

  She nodded once more, knowing there was nothing she could say to stop him. ‘It’s important?’ she asked finally.

  Cole kissed her gently on the lips and looked directly into her deep blue eyes. His own eyes, also blue, seemed to take on a strangely opaque quality as he replied ‘Yes. Yes it is.’ He hugged her tightly to him, and his warmth and strength immediately reassured her. I shouldn’t worry, she decided. He’ll come back safe. He always does.

  Forty five minutes later, Cole closed down his computer system. The internal database stored detailed information on literally thousands of military, intelligence, police and political personnel from around the globe. Anyone of any importance was on it, and it was continually updated by secure link direct from the JIC, on Hansard’s orders.

  Cole additionally had direct access, through a series of ingenious cyber-hacking programmes, to the internal computer mainframes of all major intelligence services from around the world.

  In essence, Cole was able to obtain detailed information, official and unofficial, about anyone he needed. In this particular case, just half an hour after entering his secret room, Cole had turned up literally hundreds of pages of information on William James Crozier, including his military service record, his current CIA personal file, medical records, and even a diary of his movements.

  Cole had sifted quickly through the gathered intelligence, picking up on whatever was useful and discarding everything else.

  And so, shortly after ten o’clock that evening, he had his mission completely planned out; exactly where, when and how he would kill the CIA’s number two man.

  Fifteen minutes after this, Cole had visited his children, asleep in their rooms, and kissed them goodbye. He didn’t wake them; Sarah would explain things to them in the morning. He had stared at them for a time though, gaining strength from their peacefulness. It was a calm that came only from innocence – they had not yet encountered the brutal reality of the world, as their father had. And he knew he had to succeed in his task, so that the innocent could continue to sleep untroubled.

  And now he stood in the doorway, a light leather holdall in his hand, his car waiting for him outside. ‘Remember what to do if I make the call?’ he asked Sarah, who stood with him in the doorway, the cool breeze of the sea blowing blissfully over them.

  ‘Of course I do, honey,’ she answered. He had, after all, gone to great lengths to explain it to her; her exact actions should Cole ever be compromised on a mission. She knew the drills, and had practised them regularly under her husband’s direction. ‘But you know talk like that makes me nervous.’

  Cole held her face in his hands, looking directly into her eyes. ‘Don’t worry, baby,’ he said with genuine feeling. ‘I’ll be back before you know it. I promise.’

  Then Cole kissed away the single tear that rolled down her cheek, turned, and was gone.

  21

  What am I doing? asked William Crozier of himself as he lay in bed, sheets askew from his restless body. What have I already done?

  He hadn’t managed to have a decent night’s sleep in some time and now lay staring, blank faced, at the bedroom ceiling.

  He lay there alone, as he had for so many years since the death of his beloved wife, Mary. Not for the first time since this whole awful incident had begun, he found himself longing for her to be with him again. He missed her terribly, especially at times like this.

  What would he tell Dorrell in the morning? He still had not decided. What was the best choice, morally? What would be best for his country? He was a patriot first and foremost, after all, and yet there were other . . . considerations . . . that had to be factored in.

  He looked at the time on his bedside clock. It read 02:03. He’d only been in bed for an hour, but it felt like twelve.

  Bowing to the inevitable, Crozier swung his legs out of bed, sitting for several seconds to clear his head, before shakily standing up and heading downstairs to the kitchen.

  Maybe a drink would help, he decided.

  22

  Cole smiled at the young lady behind
the check-in desk, handing over his passport as he did so. He looked, now, sufficiently like the photograph so as to arouse no concern – mousy blond hair, acne scars, thick-rimmed glasses – not that the girl gave it more than a cursory glance anyway.

  More stringent would be the checks at passport control, but even biometric data could be forged, and Cole knew he would be presented with no problems. Thousands of people flew between Grand Cayman and Miami every week, and US citizen Brandon Clarke, whose identity Cole had now assumed, was just one more casual traveller.

  ‘Any luggage, Mr Clarke?’ the young lady, whose badge read Aretha Gibson, enquired cheerfully.

  Cole patted the leather holdall next to him. ‘Just this,’ he replied. Whenever he travelled on a mission, he knew never to say too much, but also never too little; just enough to go through whatever motions were required of him. He left no lasting impression; just another face in a sea of faces, instantly forgettable.

  Aretha gestured to the scales. ‘Just place your bag there please, sir.’ Cole placed down his holdall, smiling inwardly. She had already forgotten his name. The small ten kilogram bag easily passed the baggage allowance, and then Aretha went into her routine of asking if he had any prohibited items – razor blades, sprays, liquids, the list went on and on. Cole merely shook his head and said ‘No.’ It always amazed him that such precautions were taken. It seemed to him that all it did was make things harder for law-abiding, everyday passengers; any terrorist that wanted to get a weapon on board could easily do so, with only a modicum of planning.

  He thought back to the time his SBS section had been tasked with testing security between Heathrow and JFK. He and his three men had managed to board a 747 en route to New York with fake passports, three Glock semiautomatic handguns, one Heckler und Koch MP5K submachine gun, four combat knives, and enough C4 plastic explosive to destroy the entire airport, never mind one single plane. When they got through customs at New York with not even so much as a sign of suspicion, they had revealed to a disbelieving security staff exactly what they had managed to transport across the Atlantic.