Seven Day Hero

by J. T. Brannan

  The response was typical, and came as no surprise to Cole. The exercise was declared null and void because Cole and his team had ‘cheated’. The security had been told to expect them on a certain flight, and had concentrated their resources on that. Cole had seen the easy trap and therefore chosen another flight. Wouldn’t terrorists have done the same? asked Cole at the debrief. Because people that want to blow up aeroplanes do not generally play by the rules. But the airport authorities had ignored the facts that stared them directly in the face and, once again, had learnt nothing from what could have been a productive exercise; and international passage for men like Cole was still as easy as ever.

  Aretha smiled again at Cole, handing over his passport, along with his ticket and boarding pass. ‘Thank you, sir. Have a nice flight.’

  Cole smiled back, but not too much. ‘Thanks,’ he said simply, but cheerfully enough. And with that, Brandon Clarke made his way to the departure lounge.

  23

  The image of Geoffrey Huntington, projected directly from his top-level office at Vauxhaul Cross, came through to Hansard’s monitor with crystal clear clarity, even at an altitude of 38,000 feet above the Atlantic. Hansard wasn’t surprised that the man was at the office; although it was not even four in the morning as Hansard’s private jet started its long passage over the huge expanse of ocean, it was already past eight o’clock back in London, and Huntington liked to start his day early.

  ‘Good morning, Noel,’ he greeted. ‘And what can I do for you on this fine day?’ The sarcasm was not lost on Hansard; he could see the window behind Huntington as it was pounded by a torrential barrage of cold, dark sleet.

  ‘Just after a progress report, Geoff old chap,’ Hansard replied from the comfort of his luxurious cabin.

  ‘Nothing new I’m afraid, Noel. It’s made all the papers this morning though. Mention of the ‘N’ word, unfortunately.’

  Hansard sighed. ‘Inevitable, I suppose. Unfortunate, but inevitable.’

  ‘Quite. Let’s just hope we can figure a way out of this mess before people really start panicking. As well as our own sources, Dorrell has got the CIA, DIA, FBI and NSA working on it.’

  ‘Did he have any ideas about the situation? He’s got a sharp mind. He’ll have some definite thoughts on the matter.’

  Huntington was seemingly put at ease, and said ‘I think you’re right, but if he does, he certainly didn’t discuss them with me.’ After a pause for thought, he continued. ‘A pity, I guess. You’re right, he is a very smart chap. Loud perhaps, but smart. He’s going to call me with an update later today anyway. I’ll have a little chat with him and let you know if anything comes of it.’

  ‘I’d appreciate that, Geoff. Thank you.’ With that, the two men exchanged farewell salutations and terminated the connection.

  Turning to stare out of the window, the sky an enormous, light blue, never-ending sea above the rapidly forming rain clouds below, Hansard started to wonder about Dorrell. He was a very sharp man, after all. A graduate of Harvard Business School and then later, West Point, he had risen quickly to the rank of Brigadier within the US Army’s IV Corps, and had even completed a three year stint with the Special Forces back when he was a Captain. He had been an honest and straight-talking CO, and had the unfailing respect of his men.

  A military man through and through, he had only taken the CIA Directorship at the personal behest of President Stephen Abrams, with whom he had shared a friendship since their Harvard days. Dorrell lacked the political savvy of his predecessors, and was often rather outspoken on certain issues – an unavoidable result of his time in the Army – but the man was certainly clever; damnably clever.

  But would he realize that his Deputy had been killed by a British agent? And what would be the consequences if he did?

  As he considered the matter further, he began to relax. There was really no need to worry. The death of Crozier would surely not even look like an assassination. Cole was simply too good for that.

  24

  Miami International Airport, even at quarter past one in the morning, was a chaotic cacophony of noise and sight; from the regular, monotone electronic announcements over the Tannoy, to the incessant pleading of parents trying in vain to placate their screaming children, to the roar of the big jets themselves out on the runways, everything conspired to destroy any vestige of peace or serenity.

  Cole himself sat quietly enough, having chosen the end seat of a row fixed to a wall, facing out into the departure lounge. He never liked to sit on ‘exposed’ seating, especially in such busy public areas. He much preferred to sit with his back to something solid, so he didn’t have to worry about what was behind him. For the same reason, he would not sit in the middle of the row. A single seat would draw attention towards him however, and so he always sat at the end of a row; at least then he only had to worry about people to one side of him.

  The large LCD screen suspended from the ceiling suddenly drew his attention. It was showing CNN, which ran the banner headline ‘EURASIAN BLOW UP? WHY ERA AND CHINA MAY SOON BE AT WAR.’ Under the banner, footage played of the attacks in Stockholm, interspliced with the recent speeches made by Vasilev Danko and Tsang Feng.

  As the footage was replaced with studio commentators sombrely discussing the situation, Cole couldn’t help thinking that this wasn’t a good turn of events. Not at all.

  Through hazy vision, Crozier tried to make out the time on the hands of the big grandfather clock in his lounge. The hands blurred, crossed over; once, twice, before finally aligning. Just after quarter to four.

  He looked dazedly at the cut crystal glass in his hand. Empty. He reached for the near-finished bottle of Glen Fiddich, failed to grasp it; tried and failed once more.

  Sighing, he rose slowly from his chair, placing the glass clumsily back on the table next to the bottle.

  Maybe I’ll be able to get some sleep now, he thought dreamily.

  25

  Cole felt the huge mass of the aeroplane shifting as its aerofoils engaged and it began to shed altitude on its slow decent towards Washington.

  But the feeling was almost totally ignored by Cole. The body felt the change in pressure, heard the slightly higher whine of the jet engines, sensed the change of his position in space relative to gravity; and the mind interpreted these sensations, recognized they posed no danger or threat, and summarily dismissed them.

  For Cole’s mind was locked on something more important. He had spent most of the flight engaged in a thorough mental rehearsal of his mission, visualizing with perfect clarity his every move, every action. Such was his concentration on creating the perfect mental picture, he could actually feel the cold, biting wind of the DC winter numbing his exposed face; could see the kneeling form of Crozier with vivid detail; could feel his heart rate rise with the unavoidable burst of adrenaline as he reached out towards him.

  Cole had practised this particular form of psychological rehearsal from an early age. His parents had taken him to his first karate class when he was six years old, and he had taken naturally to the rigorous training. One aspect he had enjoyed from the start was the traditional art of kata; prearranged moves organised into set forms that could be practised alone. His sensei had told him that the key to success at kata was to imagine his opponents in his mind’s eye, in as much detail as possible. Unknown to the instructor, he was teaching the young Cole visualization techniques that would be at the forefront of sports psychology in the years to come. The skill served Cole well, and he took it with him into other sports, including judo and boxing. He enjoyed great success in his youthful competitive career, and rarely lost a fight. And he soon discovered that such a skill was directly transferable into everyday life, and was not just confined to the sporting arena.

  At the age of fifteen, Cole had been working behind the bar in his parents’ pub when one of the regulars, a rough and aggressive builder from the next street along, started slapping his wife. As Cole watched the man, an image of what he would do alrea
dy started forming in his mind, crystal clear. And then, exactly as he’d imagined it only seconds before, Cole had leaped over the bar, grabbed the man by the shoulder and knocked him out cleanly with a single punch. It was then that Cole had first truly recognized the power of such visualization, and it had served him equally well throughout his subsequent career.

  As the Airbus lowered its landing gear on its final run, Cole came to the end of his last rehearsal. And the result was identical in every way to the last dozen times he had been through it; the mission successfully accomplished, with the quiet death of William Crozier.

  26

  The alarm went off next to his head, sending its imperious, resonating chime echoing loudly into his subconscious mind. Half in a dream, he struggled to find the source of the noise, and his eyes slowly opened as he realized what it was.

  A tired hand snaked from the sheets to turn it off. Crozier looked at the clock. Only half past five in the morning. Damn. How many hours sleep had he managed? One? One and a half? He grunted as he raised his body up on one elbow before swinging both feet out of his bed – a king-size model, although one side had not been used for many years.

  Crozier staggered to his en suite shower room and hit the taps. As the water started surging powerfully, he stepped under the fast streams.

  The shock hit him like a bullet, as it always did, the temperature of the water not much more than freezing. But he needed it to wipe the vestiges of grogginess from his head, to clear away the beginnings of a hangover before it ever truly started. His mind had to be clear for his meeting with Dorrell later that morning.

  As the cold water continued to shock his body into alertness, he started to think again of what he would tell his boss at the meeting. Was it time to be honest? he wondered earnestly. But he still didn’t know.

  By the time Cole left the arrivals lounge at Reagan National Airport, the first glimmers of the dull winter sun were just struggling over the horizon, throwing a greyish cast over the large parking lot towards which he was headed.

  He had experienced no problems with security at this airport either, despite the increased alert status that always occurred around the holiday period. As he crunched through the thin layer of snow towards the Chrysler he had just hired from the Hertz desk in the foyer, he adjusted the huge bunch of flowers he had also just purchased, swapping them to the same hand that carried his holdall. It was force of habit to always keep one hand free, and Cole was a creature of habit. Habits like that had ensured his survival on a number of occasions, and he did not believe in taking chances unless absolutely necessary.

  Cole soon saw the medium-sized grey sedan, and quickly verified the licence plate number with that provided by the hire agency. The car was like Cole himself – nondescript, unmemorable. Just another dull grey sedan like so many other thousands that trawled the streets of Washington. He blipped the central locking and opened the passenger door, laying the flowers on the seat and the holdall in the foot well.

  Next, he spent some time walking around the car, checking it over carefully. The last thing he needed was to get a flat tyre halfway towards his destination.

  Finally satisfied, he climbed into the driver’s side, inserted his key and fired up the engine. The driving computer flashed to life, and he set the heater to full. Damn, it was cold. The computer then offered him the option of satellite navigation to his destination, but Cole chose the radio instead; he had already memorized the route, and didn’t want there to be any chance of the rental company tracking where he’d been once he returned the car.

  Without further pause, Cole put the car into gear and pulled out of the parking lot, heading from the airport out towards Interstate 95, which would take him to his rendezvous with Bill Crozier.

  27

  Crozier couldn’t eat. He sat at the table in his kitchen, dressed in his tailored dark blue suit and his 82nd Airborne Division tie, all but ignoring the large cooked breakfast that had been prepared for him by his housekeeper, Emily. Instead, he stared at the morning edition of the Washington Post that was sprawled out next to it.

  ‘ERA AND CHINA LOCK NUCLEAR HORNS’, the headline all but screamed at him. The words seemed to mock him, to accuse him. Yes, to accuse him. He could not shake the feeling that it was all his fault, his responsibility. Could nuclear war really happen? He didn’t know. But what he did know was that his recent actions had certainly made that course of events somewhat more likely.

  He felt sick to his stomach, and pushed the food away from him. He had eaten two mouthfuls, and could take no more. Not today. Because today he had to make his decision about what to tell Dorrell. And it was a decision that could have serious repercussions, not only for himself, but for the world as a whole.

  He picked up his briefcase as he walked to the front door. Emily opened the door for him, smiling at him in what she hoped was a comforting way. She could see that the man needed help, reassurance. But Crozier just nodded at her, smiling half-heartedly back.

  The icy wind hit him as he left the porch, and he shielded his eyes as he looked towards the armoured Cadillac STS that awaited him in his driveway, the heavy door immediately opened for him by his personal driver and bodyguard, Samuel Hitchens.

  The smile he gave this man was once more half-hearted, his mind still on other things. What am I going to do? he asked of himself again. He became slightly more composed as he thought of the stop they’d make before getting to Langley. He might not know what to do, but his wife might. And he would once again ask for her guidance.

  Seven a.m. and stuck in heavy traffic, Cole cursed out loud. Crozier would be at the location in thirty minutes, and Cole still had twenty miles to cover.

  Holiday traffic was the same the world over, and I95 was one of America’s busiest highways. He had thought he could avoid the bulk of the day’s traffic at that time in the morning, but it had not proved to be the case.

  Reluctantly, he fired up the satnav, asking for an alternative route. Seconds later, the computer had an answer. Cole exhaled slowly. Just two more miles and he could come off the interstate.

  I might just make it, Cole hoped. He knew the ramifications if he did not.

  28

  The big Cadillac pulled along the gravel driveway of the Four Lakes Cemetery, rolling along at a respectful 3mph.

  In the driver’s seat, Sam Hitchens aimed the car between two of the ornamental lakes, heading towards the set of gravestones by the third, larger lake. He once again thought about how hard Crozier made his job. He liked the man, that was for sure, but he thought some of the demands he made were entirely unreasonable. Such as wanting his bodyguard to also be his driver. None of the other top CIA guys just had one man with them; they all had bodyguards and drivers at the very least. But not Bill Crozier. Sometimes Hitchens thought that his boss didn’t feel that he deserved such protection. But that was just silly, Hitchens decided.

  Another objection Hitchens had was his boss’s insistence on visiting his wife’s grave at 7:30 every morning. Hitchens had always felt it was unwise, and unsafe in the extreme to follow such an obvious schedule. But in the end, his opinion didn’t really matter, and Hitchens just had to do the best he could with the circumstances he was given. Besides which, Crozier had been a decorated Captain in the 82nd, and as a former All American himself, Hitchens felt a strong bond with the Deputy Director.

  As the armoured vehicle rolled to a stop on the high lane that sat above the row of graves on the east side of the big lake, Hitchens noticed a man by one of the headstones, kneeling in the cold snow and placing a large bunch of flowers on the white ground in front of the grave. He seemed to be deep in prayer.

  As Crozier got out of the car, Hitchens followed suit. Crozier threw the man a sharp look. ‘What are you doing? Stay in the car.’

  Hitchens came over to Crozier. ‘I know that’s your rule, boss, but there’s a guy down there at the next grave over. I’ll go check him out, then I’ll come back and stay in the car.’

&nb
sp; Crozier looked genuinely outraged. ‘You’ll do no such thing!’ he said quietly, but forcefully. ‘That man is offering his respects for a loved one. Don’t you dare disturb him!’

  Hitchens sighed to himself in resignation. ‘Then will you at least wait in the car until he’s finished?’

  ‘I have a meeting with Dorrell in less than an hour,’ explained Crozier patiently, as if to a child. ‘So no, I cannot wait. Now get back in the car. I’ll be ten minutes.’

  From his position in front of the gravestone, Cole had heard the noise of the Cadillac as it pulled onto the lane up the hill behind him. He had heard one door open, then the other, and then some exchanged words. What were they saying? Would they wait for him to move on? Would Crozier’s bodyguard come down with him? Cole sincerely hoped not.

  He had read of Crozier’s habitual custom of visiting his wife’s grave from surveillance reports collated by the French secret service. Mary Elizabeth Crozier had died at the age of thirty-six in a car crash, had been pronounced dead at the scene. That had been seventeen years ago, and Crozier had been crushed by the incident. Many people had said that he could have got the Directorship had his mind not been distracted by the tragedy.

  The French intelligence report had other interesting information, including the fact that he had kept no close company since the accident, was a borderline alcoholic, was what the psychological profile labelled a ‘dependant obsessive’, but who was also extremely good at his job, perhaps looking to lose himself in his work. The report also said that Crozier’s bodyguard, Samuel Hitchens, always stayed with the vehicle on these visits.