Seven Day Hero

by J. T. Brannan

  The street was quiet, perhaps due to the time of year, and Cole could see nothing at all out of the ordinary; which was, he thought ironically, odd in itself. But all in all, he was satisfied with the location. He was sure that his movements were now being monitored by electronic surveillance, but he was not concerned. His appearance was sufficiently different to his file photographs to ensure that a match would not be made. And anyway, he was officially dead – any agents now watching him wouldn’t even have access to his file.

  He had heard that this was the location for many top-level interviews, from the protracted debriefings of KGB defectors from the Cold War, to the ultra-sensitive handling of politicians escaping the despotic regime of modern-day North Korea. Cole knew that only preliminary interviews would be held here, before the individuals concerned were spirited away to more secure, remote locations in the Scottish Highlands or Welsh mountains. Nevertheless, if such stories were to be believed, then some very influential men would have spent at least the first few days of their new lives here behind the thick stone walls.

  He was sure that the safe house would be like a fortress.

  45

  Philip Tarr found what he was looking for at just after three in the morning. Sarah and the kids were in bed, and he left the lights off as he searched. His past life had left him more than used to operating effectively in the dark. And he didn’t want anyone on that yacht outside to see what he was doing.

  He found the Bormac 710 ‘Arclight’ night-vision binoculars in the ‘kit room’, where all manner of equipment was kept – scuba gear, ropes and crampons for climbing, skis, snow boards, and Heaven only knew what else. He’s certainly active, I’ll give him that, thought Tarr with a smile.

  Tarr didn’t know what Cole did for a living – well, he knew what he was supposed to do for a living, and still thought it was damned funny – but he had a good idea of the man’s real occupation. Government agent of some sort, he was sure. But he never asked, because it wasn’t any of his business. And for Cole’s part, he had never pried into Tarr’s past either; although Tarr was sure that the man would have a good idea about his previous line of work. But both men knew the importance of secrets.

  They had first met two years ago, when Cole had gone into the new bar Tarr had bought. As Cole had a drink and introduced himself, the two men had got chatting, until later in the night a group of drunken tourists stumbled into the bar. Barely out of their teens, they had clearly had too much, and Tarr refused to serve them. The young men were at first verbally aggressive, and then became violent. It was practically unheard of for brawls to break out anywhere on the Brac, but here they were, demanding a fight.

  Tarr told Cole to stay where he was, and moved round from behind the bar. When the first guy threw a clumsy punch, within less than a second four bodies had hit the floor. Tarr had seen the look of surprise on Cole’s face. For a man of his size, Tarr’s hands were quick. Dangerously quick. But he hadn’t seen the fifth man, who had lunged at him from behind with a diver’s knife. Cole had leapt from his bar stool and broken the man’s arm before he had even had time to attack.

  Tarr smiled as he remembered. He had been amazed at Cole’s speed, just as Cole had been at his. But, of course, he had seen the fifth man; he had hesitated only because he had wanted to see what Cole would do. From the few minutes they’d spent chatting, Tarr had sensed something about the man; and he’d been right.

  From that first eventful meeting, they had become firm friends, and Cole often helped out at Tarr’s dive school. Likewise, Tarr and Theresa regularly looked after Cole’s kids when he and Sarah wanted to go out. They were like an extension of each other’s families, and had become very close in a relatively short space of time.

  Cole had first mentioned his ‘business trips’ several months later. It was obviously a sensitive issue, and it took a while longer for Cole to ask Tarr to ‘house sit’ for him if he was ever away and called to ask. Tarr understood why Cole had not asked straight away; it was a question of trust. Tarr didn’t mind in the slightest, it was just common sense not to trust people upon first meeting them. Especially with what Cole was asking of him. Because Tarr also understood that by ‘house sitting’, Cole was asking him to guard and protect his family if something should go wrong on one of his ‘business trips.’ It was a serious matter, and not one Cole would ask of just anybody. Tarr therefore felt a great pride in the responsibility, and was determined to do what his friend had asked. After all, since he’d known him, Cole had been away several times, and yet this was the first time Tarr had ever received such a request.

  Cole had told Tarr of the location of the binoculars, as well as a few other things, when they had gone through all the plans – should Tarr ever have to come to the house under such circumstances. He carried them silently through the house, slipping upstairs to the top floor, where he entered a small cloak room. He pushed his way through to the back, lying down prone on the floor. Reaching forward, Tarr pulled a small wooden slat to one side, leaving a six inch by three inch gap.

  The opening gave him a view directly out of the wall of the house, and it was just big enough for the lens of the binoculars to fit into. Remembering precisely how Cole had demonstrated their use, he turned on the night-vision device and trained it out to sea. The glow was a strange, eerie green that took Tarr a few moments to get used to. But when he did, it took him only a short while longer to locate the yacht he’d spotted earlier.

  So, he thought to himself, I was right. It’s still there. Focussing the binoculars, he zoomed in on the vessel. Even with the impressive night-vision facility, it was still hard to make out details at this distance – Tarr estimated it was at least ten kilometres out from shore. But he was patient, and waited. And waited. Until, finally, he saw movement. What looked like a tall blond man came out from below deck and walked to the bow, kneeling down as he got to an indistinct mound on the floor. The man knelt, his hand going down to touch it.

  The mound moved under the blond man’s touch. Aha, thought Tarr as he saw what the mound really was. He then focussed his high-powered lenses, first of all on the blond man’s face, and then on that of the other man. Previously hidden under a dark blanket, the second man had been using his own night-vision scope to keep a quiet eye on the Cole household.

  ‘I’ve got you now, you little bastards,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘I’ve got you now.’

  46

  Cole arrived at the large, black-painted door at nine o’clock in the morning precisely. He struck the brass doorplate three times with the solid brass knocker, and after a few seconds heard the slow shuffle of feet from inside. This was followed by the sounds of a key being turned in a lock, and then the door was pulled ajar to a width of just three inches, a brass chain halting further progress.

  A small old lady looked out curiously from behind the door, her eyes lighting up as they settled upon Cole. ‘Tom!’ she exclaimed, immediately taking the door off the chain and opening it wide, a smile on her face. ‘How lovely you came! Come in, come in!’ she gushed, gesturing for him to enter.

  Playing along, Cole smiled back. ‘Hi Edna,’ he said happily as he gave her a hug on the doorstep. ‘How have you been?’ The house, and maybe the whole street, might be SIS controlled, but you never knew who else might be watching. And so appearances had to be maintained at all times.

  ‘Me?’ asked Edna as she turned back into the house. ‘Don’t let’s talk about me when you’ve so much to tell me! It really is lovely you came, I can’t wait to hear about your trip, I’ll bet it was really nice, have you brought pictures? I’d love to see them if you have . . .’ On and on she droned, until the big front door was shut, at which point she became completely silent. Cole wasn’t surprised. After all, it wasn’t as if they knew each other.

  Without another word, she led him down the hallway, past the entrance to an old fashioned sitting room, towards a polished oak door at the far end. The hall, he noticed as he trotted along after her, was
exactly as one would expect were ‘Edna’ to have really been the owner of such a house – very neat and tidy, with a thickly patterned wool carpet and damask wallpaper, a selection of collectible antique China on the small mahogany hall tables. An expensive residence, but nice and homely all the same; perhaps the dwelling of a rich widow. The multitude of photographs of the same man adorning the walls would certainly indicate the fact.

  A sham, of course, but any casual visitor to the house would certainly be satisfied. A more ardent caller could even be shown into the small sitting room off the hall without their suspicions ever being aroused. The house certainly seemed normal enough.

  As the frail woman approached the door at the end, Cole thought he detected a brief flash of light – a retina scan perhaps? – and then she put her entire right palm in the centre of the gleaming wooden door, turning the brass knob with her left. Cole was sure that her palm was also being electronically scanned as a further security measure. And then the door was open, and the old lady beckoned him through.

  Cole passed her by, nodding his thanks as he went. As he entered the room beyond, his eyes widened involuntarily with surprise. He didn’t even hear the noise of the door clicking shut behind him.

  47

  It was only 4am in Langley, and Trencher found himself cursing Moses and Arnold. Where the Hell are they?

  He was still in his office, going through the various files spread out on his desk. Even at this late hour, however, he wasn’t alone; the Central Intelligence Agency operated twenty-four hours a day, three hundred and sixty five days a year. Indeed, there wasn’t a competent intelligence agency in the world that didn’t do so. But Moses and Arnold had only just completed a critical assignment, and had both been granted leave for the Christmas period. Trencher frowned. It was just damned inconvenient.

  Ted Moses had been at home with his wife Maria and their seven children, in the nearby community of Takoma Park when he got the call from Julie just after eleven that night. He would be here shortly, Trencher was sure. Charles Arnold was a different matter, however. Julie had at last managed to track him down at one o’clock in the morning, at which time she finally, and gratefully, left for her bed. He had been staying at the family home in New Orleans, and had eventually been found at the Stark nightclub, in a state several steps removed from sober. Agents had been summarily despatched, and Arnold had been put on the two thirty am flight from Louis Armstrong to Reagan National. What sort of state he’d be in when he finally arrived at the office, Trencher couldn’t hazard a guess at. But whatever state it was, it would have to do. Trencher needed the two men here, and he needed them here now. They were the IA department’s best agents, and the only men Trencher could trust with such an onerous task.

  48

  After recovering from the initial shock, Cole started to more carefully appraise his surroundings. He was in what appeared to be a sprawling, top-class private members club. He was stood in what he took to be the reception area, a large room in and of itself; completely panelled in rich mahogany and swathed in thick wool carpet, it was the epitome of luxury.

  He saw quiet reading rooms off to each side of the central lobby, men and women sipping at drinks whilst they studied the morning’s papers. Through the large, arched entrances on either side of the beautiful antique reception desk, Cole could see a vast lounge bar beyond. The lady behind the desk smiled at him as he approached. ‘Good morning sir,’ she said amiably, though without real warmth. ‘If you would just wait there a moment,’ she continued, pressing a button under her desk.

  Seconds later, two serious and competent-looking men came out from a side room. ‘We’ll just need to perform a quick search please, sir,’ explained the first man politely. Cole just nodded his consent. He’d have been surprised had there not been a search. He assumed the only reason he had not been asked for identification was because Hansard had so ordered it.

  The search was quick, but professional. After an initial pass with a portable metal detector, the second man performed a manual search – and not the pedestrian pat-down that is so often done, Cole noted, but a proper and thorough job. Cole was not concerned though. He had nothing on him.

  Satisfied, the men thanked him and retreated back into their little room. Cole looked around as they left. He couldn’t see anything visible, but he was sure that every room in the building would be under close surveillance. Probably cameras behind mirrors, or hidden in the light-fittings.

  The receptionist spoke again, now that the formalities were out of the way. ‘Mr Hansard sends his apologies, but he is running a little late. He invites you to relax and have a drink at the bar while you wait.’ The lady gestured through one of the arches behind her. ‘I think you’ll find it quite comfortable.’ Thanking her, Cole strolled through the vaulted entrance to the left of the desk.

  The lounge bar, which he had seen partially from the reception area, was even bigger than he’d imagined. Sporting the same rich mahogany panelling and thick carpets as the anteroom behind him, the lounge was designed in open-plan. Quiet booths with deep leather bench seats and solid wood dining tables were spread along the walls to the left, and there was a long, gleaming bar stretching fifteen feet down the right hand wall. The rest of the floor space was adorned with various Chesterfield sofas, sumptuous leather wing chairs, and an assortment of antique coffee and lamp tables. Landscapes adorned the walls, and were illuminated subtly by the dull glow of the brass-pedestaled lamps that were scattered around the room. A galleried library looked out over the lounge from the mezzanine level above, its dark wooden bookcases stretching from floor to ceiling.

  Cole found his breath being taken away by the sight. The room was not only inordinately luxurious; it was also vast. It wasn’t the high ceilings or the great depth that most surprised him however; it was the sheer width that really did it. Spanning a little over seventy-five feet in Cole’s estimation, it was three times the width of the house he had entered. Cole realized that his earlier thought about the SIS owning the entire street might not have been mere idle supposition. The organization certainly appeared to own at least the two houses to either side of the first, and Cole found himself wondering just how big this safe house really was.

  After he had taken in the scale of the lounge bar, he began to observe its occupants as he walked slowly to the bar itself. There were about a dozen people there in all, only one of whom was female. Most were in their middle age, from what appeared to be a variety of ethnic backgrounds. All were smartly dressed. They were mostly reading the morning newspapers as they sipped at their dainty cups of tea of coffee, although a couple were perusing the leather-bound volumes up in the library. One or two sitting in the lounge had already started on the brandy.

  Cole noticed that the nation-wide ban on smoking in public places obviously had no sway here, and he could detect not only the rich aroma of pipe tobacco, but also the expensive scent of cigar smoke.

  None of the room’s residents looked at him, even in passing. They had all obviously passed the stage of interest in the comings and goings in the strange house. Cole guessed that they would be people who had already received their initial, and extensive, preliminary debriefings, and who were now waiting to see what would happen next; if they were going to be sent elsewhere for further interviews, or granted freedom to stay in the country, or perhaps even shipped home if they had been of no use. Whatever the case, Cole was sure that new arrivals to the house would not be allowed to congregate in the public rooms; they would almost certainly be ‘confined to quarters’, at least initially.

  Cole wandered over to an old, button-back leather armchair that faced the twin arches at the entrance to the lounge and sat down, picking up a copy of the Times from the little table next to him as he did so. He opened the pages, and read them with interest.

  There was nothing of major importance that he hadn’t learned from the television news he’d watched in his room that morning. A more thorough run-down of press interviews and statements
from Gregory and Danko, but not much else. What was more interesting was what wasn’t there. Cole could find no mention on any of the pages of the death of William James Crozier.

  He was not surprised at the omission of Crozier’s tragic, if necessary, demise. The CIA would think long and hard about how they were going to release the information, and make sure that there was a competent man waiting to take over Crozier’s responsibilities. The last thing the CIA Director would want would be a power vacuum. Bill Crozier, as Deputy Director of Operations had been ultimately responsible for all international initiatives, and Dorrell would have to be sure his replacement was fully up to speed on all aspects of the Directorate’s activities. Dorrell would certainly not want the international press to start reporting on Crozier’s sudden and unexpected death; such an event would delight the intelligence services of America’s many enemies.

  What would happen, Cole was sure, was that the death would be reported in a day or so, mentioning how Crozier had long been suffering from ill health, and how he had been working closely with his successor for the last several months in preparation for the tragic, but inevitable, passing on of the current DDO. This would send out the right sort of message – that the death, although tragic, was nevertheless expected, and the CIA had made preparations for the event that would ensure operations could continue without skipping a beat.

  The truth, Cole knew, would be somewhat different. There would be panic at the highest levels of the CIA as they struggled to find someone to take over and bring that person up to speed, then further panic when they realized that all sorts of operational secrets had gone to the grave with Crozier. But that panic would never be made public, and the transition to power of the new DDO would appear to be smooth sailing, at least on the surface.