Seven Day Hero

by J. T. Brannan

  ‘I shall certainly try, Adam. I will have to be back in London by morning though, I have an important meeting.’

  Gregory raised an unbelieving eyebrow. ‘More important than this?’

  Hansard responded with a look of his own, and Gregory decided to hold his tongue. Changing tack swiftly, he then said ‘Don’t know if you’ve heard, seems Bill Crozier died today. Apparent heart attack.’

  A look of concern clouded Hansard’s face. ‘Really? That’s a damn shame, I liked Bill. He was a good man.’ The look on his face masked the smile he inwardly displayed. A heart attack? Cole, he decided, had definitely been the right man for the job.

  32

  The flight left right on schedule, the huge Airbus surging into the sky with an accelerative force that bordered on the miraculous. Cole tried to remember what the massive aircraft tipped the scales at – six hundred tonnes? Seven hundred? When he had trained to recapture ocean supertankers from terrorists back in his SBS days, he had been in awe of the fact that such vast behemoths did not simply sink beneath the waves; the scale of the things was extraordinary. But this! How on earth did it even get airborne, never mind stay there? He knew all the technical explanations, of course; but to see it, to feel it, was something else again.

  He was glad of the distraction; his mind had been hitherto completely occupied with trying to figure out the purpose of his visit to London. His whole worth as a deniable operative depended on his being officially dead – would a return to the UK expose him? But, he reasoned, Hansard would have that covered; he would certainly have no desire to lose so valuable an agent.

  But there had to be something of vital importance to warrant this breach of protocol. The message seemed to indicate that the purpose of his visit was to give Hansard a debrief on the assassination of William Crozier. But surely that wouldn’t warrant the risk of a visit to London? Cole felt sure that there must be another mission awaiting him.

  Or maybe the whole situation was panicking Hansard, making him paranoid? The entire operation had been mounted under a cloak of absolute secrecy, right from the start; why should the debrief be any different?

  The more Cole thought about it, the less able he was to come up with a viable answer. In any case, he would call Philip Tarr when he landed. After all, why take a chance?

  33

  The CIA’s Directorate of Intelligence is located in the East Wing of the vast headquarters complex at Langley, Virginia, and occupies just short of 3,000 square metres of office space. The place was always a veritable hive of activity, and looked for all the world like any other office around the globe.

  Men and women, mostly dressed in smart casual but with a hint of shirt and tie, sat at their computer terminals typing away, feverishly trying to meet unreasonable deadlines; groups huddled around the ubiquitous water fountains and coffee machines, exchanging idle gossip; some employees stretched their legs by taking a stroll through the vast corridors of desks; others waited impatiently for their next cigarette break, the stress written plain across their faces. Eleven hundred people worked in this Directorate, and it was the specific work they did, rather than the manner in which they did it, that made this particular office stand out from otherwise similar places. For the business of this office was the accumulation, analysis and dissemination of information; information of potentially world-shaping significance.

  Under the guiding hand of the DI specialists, this information would be distilled into usable intelligence, which would then be presented to the decision-makers – the assorted officials, elected and otherwise – who would then use it to decide matters of national policy. In a very real way, the men and women in this room were a direct and important link in the chain of information that could lead the country into either times of war or times of peace, and the impact of their work was subsequently felt by the entire world.

  The gravity of their efforts was normally not even felt by the employees themselves, however; in such a staid office environment, they simply did not consider themselves inextricably tied to the life and death implications that could result from the reports they laboured over.

  They were cloistered, introverted; perhaps even ignorant of normal human interaction. Or at least that was how Paul Richmond felt about them, as he entered the huge air-conditioned office pool of the DI that afternoon. A junior member of the Special Projects Team of the Directorate of Operations, Richmond felt that it was his section that did the real work of the CIA – running agents, undercover ops, all the genuine ‘grab and bag’ stuff. He believed that it was human intelligence that really mattered, having people on the ground reporting live from the scene, so to speak. All these Intel guys did was write their little reports on the information he and his colleagues provided through the proverbial blood, sweat and tears.

  In reality, he did recognize the valuable contribution of the Intelligence section; he just liked to get into that ‘Ops is superior to Int’ mindset when he went to visit his friend Wally Dzershansky, a Level Three intelligence analyst in the DI. He just loved winding the guy up.

  After a five minute walk through the network of desks, he finally found his friend hard at work at his computer. Looking from side to side, Richmond knelt close to the floor and stealthily approached the back of Dzershansky’s chair. As the nearby officers looked askance at him, he put a finger to his lips. Rolling their eyes in despair at the immature antics, the officers turned back to their work. Richmond just grinned, reaching forwards for Dzershansky’s back.

  ‘You ops guys get paid too much – you’re all fuckin’ useless,’ the DI officer said dryly, before spinning round in his chair to confront his friend.

  Richmond rose to his feet, defeated. ‘Don’t think you’re clever just cos you caught the reflection in your coke bottles, geek boy,’ he said in defence, referring to the thick lenses of Dzershansky’s spectacles.

  ‘Good to see you too, Paul. Sorry to hear about Bill.’

  ‘Yeah, we all are,’ Richmond replied. ‘He was a good man. A real shame losing someone like that. But you know heart attacks, what can you do?’

  ’Yeah, I guess so,’ Dzershansky offered. After a short reflective pause, he continued on, ‘Anyway, what can we do for you in ‘geek world’ today?’

  Paul smiled back at his buddy. ‘Just wanted to see if we’re still on for that game of squash after you finish tonight?’

  ‘Sorry man, I’d like to, but we’re kind of busy here. Think it’s gonna be a late one.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. You’re just scared you’re gonna get your little Intel-weenie butt kicked again,’ Richmond chided.

  ‘As much as I’d like to prove the current user of the Richmond family brain cell wrong, we really are snowed under,’ Dzershansky explained. ‘Really,’ he added for emphasis.

  Richmond’s inquisitive curiosity had become aroused by the obvious importance of the work. ‘Oh? Don’t tell me you guys are working on anything important, cos I won’t believe it,’ he joked. ‘Seriously though, what is it? What have you got on?’

  Still not sure whether Richmond was looking for something to make a joke of, Dzershansky decided to tell him anyway. ‘We’re helping the Brits try and identify the Stockholm assassins. They’ve given us a whole bunch of photos, prints, some DNA fragments, and we’re trawling through all our files looking for a match. The DIA, DEA, FBI, even the State Police are doing the same.’

  ‘And what are you doing?’ Richmond asked with genuine interest.

  ‘Matching photos,’ Dzershansky continued, shifting his body to one side so that Richmond could look at the computer screen. It showed the face of Tang Lung, the erstwhile Beijing News cameraman – cleaned up, but obviously dead – in the upper left hand corner, with the flashing images of all known agents, soldiers and other operatives of the PRC, North and South Korea, Japan, Taiwan, Thailand, Vietnam, Cambodia, even Indonesia and the Philippines. Each photograph flashed up momentarily and was electronically scanned by the facial recognition software, which then move
d on to the next image.

  The software, now in its eighth generation, looked at a wide variety of facial and cranial features, including complex anatomical measurements, searching for points of commonality. Richmond gave the flashing images on the monitor a quick glance.

  ‘Nothing so far though, but then again, we do have over six point three million images to – ’ Dzershansky broke off as he noticed that his friend was standing stock still, eyes fixed on the screen. ‘Hey, what’s – ’

  ‘That’s one of the attackers?’ Richmond asked, cutting his friend off, a trace of urgency in his voice. His eyes did not leave the VDU.

  ‘Yeah, that’s one of them,’ Dzershansky replied, before suspiciously asking ‘Why?’ It would be just like Paul to be trying to wind him up.

  Ignoring his friend’s question, Richmond asked ‘Do you have photos of the others?’

  Against his better judgement, Dzershansky decided to play along; maybe this was another one of his friend’s silly games, but they could sometimes be fun, and he’d been sitting too damned long in front of his desk to ignore the possibility of an amusing distraction. ‘Sure,’ he said eventually, pressing a few keys until the image on the computer monitor was transformed into a montage of pictures, various images of the eight attackers whose bodies had survived moderately intact. ‘There you go.’

  Paul Richmond had turned white. It couldn’t be, he thought dizzily. Could it? ‘Look Wally, you’re right,’ he said finally, snapping out of his reverie. ‘You do look snowed under.’ He was already backing away from his friend’s desk when he said ‘Forget about the squash game tonight, buddy. You’re obviously not gonna be able to make it. I’ll call ya.’ And with that, he turned and all but ran from the huge, claustrophobic office pool, the walls and ceiling already seeming to constrict around him.

  Dzershansky watched his friend leave, before turning back to the computer on his desk. ‘Ops guys,’ he murmured quietly to himself, shaking his head in bewilderment.

  34

  Philip Tarr returned to the ‘Brac Restaurant and Bar’ just in time for a spot of lunch. The group of eight young fun seekers that he’d just taken out on a diving trip had barely had chance to get changed into their shorts and t-shirts, and were ravenous after the morning’s exertions. And what better place to eat than at their instructor’s own diner?

  Tarr smiled as he entered his little taverna, listening to the exited babble of his students as they exchanged tales about what they’d seen – the wreck of the Captain Keith Tibbetts, stingrays, blue marlin, mahimahi, even a brief glimpse of a hammerhead shark. Tarr wondered what the kids would say if they knew his own nickname from his old East End days had been ‘the Hammer’, or how comfortable they’d feel around him if they ever learned how that particular nomme de guerre had been acquired.

  But those days were behind him now, and he was something of a reformed character. He’d left all his baggage at home back in London, and out here, he was a new man. Many of his old pals had ‘retired’ to Spain’s Costa del Sol, but the region’s alternative and quite appropriate title of the ‘Costa del Crime’ was enough to keep Tarr away. He’d wanted a clean break, and the lure of the Caribbean was too much to resist. He really did feel like it was a little piece of Heaven on Earth, especially here on Cayman Brac, which was much less crowded than on the main island. And so he’d sold his house and all his worldly possessions and three years ago simply upped sticks and moved, setting up his own small dive school and the Brac Restaurant and Bar.

  He was unmarried, and always had been; his previous life was not one he thought was suitable for a family. Besides which, he had appreciated the freedom of not being tied down, and had experienced a wild youth, which had slowly turned into something of a wild middle age. Tarr had thought it strange that he couldn’t identify the turning point in his life, the one thing that had made him want to leave the life he had and start anew; maybe he’d just grown up at last, he decided.

  And now he was getting older, he was pleased to have found a steady lady friend. Theresa Noon was an island girl, broad-hipped but pretty, and she ran Tarr’s small taverna for him.

  As his students picked up the laminated menus, Tarr shouted over to Theresa. ‘Nine beers please luv! And make sure they’re cold!’

  Theresa smiled back at him, and bent to retrieve the ubiquitous cans of Jamaican Red Stripe from the fridges behind the bar. It would certainly hit the spot on a roasting hot day like this, he decided.

  The phone rang behind the bar and was promptly answered by Theresa, a soft Caribbean lilt to her voice. She continued opening the cans with the fingers of one hand as she listened. After a few moments she turned to Tarr. ‘For you,’ she said, holding the receiver out towards him.

  Tarr approached the bar, his large power lifter’s body moving with surprising grace. It was strange to see a man of twenty stone almost gliding across the floor. He gave Theresa a peck on the cheek before taking the phone from her. ‘Hello?’ he said in greeting.

  Silence followed for several moments, then the conversation finished with a firm ‘Okay’ from Tarr, before he replaced the phone in its cradle behind the bar.

  ‘Everything okay?’ asked Theresa in her smooth, lilting voice.

  ‘Yes luv, no worries,’ the big man said gently. ‘I’m gonna have to go and housesit for a couple of days though. Look after this place for me, okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ she responded. ‘But what about them?’ she then asked, gesturing towards his students.

  Tarr glanced over at them briefly, then turned away. ‘They’ll just have to wait,’ he replied gruffly. Business was business, of course; but friends were friends as well, and in the Hammer’s world, that was an epithet that mattered a whole lot more. If there was something that being the head enforcer for John ‘Mad Dog’ Parks for all those years back in London had taught him, it was that.

  35

  Cole left the arrivals lounge of London Heathrow Airport at just past midnight. He passed through the automatic glass doors into the chill London air and breathed deeply. Damn, it was good to be back.

  He stood there for a few moments, doing nothing but savouring the smell, the feel of the place. There was nowhere else like it in the world. It was home.

  A taxi pulled up next to him, the classic black cab, one of the mainstays of the London tourist experience. Cole got into the vehicle, asking the driver to take him to the Dorchester Hotel on Park Lane. He wasn’t going to stay there, however; he just didn’t want the taxi driver to know where he was staying. Besides, the Dorchester was a large luxury hotel, and as such kept too many detailed records of their patrons’ visits. He settled into the back of the black cab, getting comfortable for the thirty minute journey into the city.

  After his phone call to his friend Philip Tarr asking him to go round to his house to keep an eye on his family, he’d called a London contact number. The person on the other side of the line had given him details for the morning’s meeting; a message that would have been meaningless not only to the messenger who delivered it, but also to anybody else who happened to be listening in. But Cole understood perfectly. He was to meet Hansard at the SIS safe house near St Regent’s Park at 0900 hours later that morning. Cole knew of the existence of the place, although he had never been there. It was certainly a secure environment, Cole thought with a small degree of comfort.

  Cole had then called to book himself into the Devonshire; not one of the major hotels, but nice enough, and it was conveniently located on Devonshire Street, just across the park from St John’s Wood. He had used one of his many untraceable, but quite legitimate, credit cards, this one in the name of James Driscoll. It was one of the secure identities that Cole had secretively set up for himself; even Hansard was unaware of its existence.

  Using cash, although untraceable in theory, was in reality no longer worth the risk. Anyone paying cash these days was immediately regarded with suspicion. Indeed, hotel management within the capital, even in a family-run concession like
the Devonshire, had been provided with a special telephone number to call when clients paid in cash. The call would be routed through to Special Branch, who shared the information directly with the Security Service, better known as MI5, who would then cross-reference the details with other information kept on their files. An enquiry would soon be launched if the service’s instincts were aroused, and a surveillance team from A Branch would be assigned if it was thought that the situation warranted it.

  After the anthrax attack on Wembley Stadium three years ago, which had killed over two thousand people and left thousands more in hospital, no chances were being taken. Emergency powers were granted to both the police and intelligence services, and the budgets of MI5, MI6 and GCHQ, which had become available for public scrutiny in recent years, had once again been made a matter of secrecy. It was thought that the budgets for all three services had been increased by a factor of four since the tragedy of ‘Black Saturday’, and whilst GCHQ predictably used the money to increase its electronic and signals intelligence capability, the other two services had invested heavily in human intelligence. The number of agents employed by MI5 alone was now thought to stand at somewhere near four thousand, and it was now possible to actively investigate anything that needed investigating. And so Cole used a credit card whenever he travelled.

  The half hour journey passed quickly enough, and Cole was soon peering through the windows at the illuminated beauty of Marble Arch as they turned with the traffic, heavy even at this late hour, onto Park Lane. It seemed strange to be back after so long.

  The black cab stopped outside the imposing façade of the Dorchester at quarter to one that morning. It was late, and so there was no waiting doorman to take Cole’s bag, which was good, all things considered. The driver was duly paid, and Cole made towards the huge gilded entrance, veering away as he saw the taxi pull away back into the steady stream of traffic.