Seven Day Hero

by J. T. Brannan

  And at the next station, the man had left the train; but three other men – big, athletic, but trying to hide that with their baggy clothes – had got on, glancing momentarily in his direction.

  Cole had left things a little too late; he should have got off at the last station as well. Now he was trapped for the long stretch between Chancery Lane and St Paul’s, with nowhere to run to.

  Not willing to let the situation be entirely dictated to him, he decided to act. Standing, he stretched his body as if after a long day at work, and moved towards the next car on his right. The three men stood chatting to his left, he noticed as he turned.

  He got to the partition door and pulled it open, only then seeing the young lady about to come through from the other side. She was quite pretty, possibly Hispanic Cole thought, with a big satchel on her back and a sleeping baby cradled in her arms.

  The door wasn’t big enough for them both to fit through and so Cole backed off to allow her through. As he did so, the lady thanking him, he risked a glance behind him. The three men were still standing there chatting, not even sparing a glance in his direction. Maybe he’d been wrong, he thought, but he’d move through to the other car anyway and wait to get off at the next stop – there was no point in taking a chance.

  As he turned back round, it was only the sharp glinting reflection in the window that saved him. As he moved instinctively to protect himself, he took it all in – the baby falling from the woman’s arms, the flash of the knife being pulled and thrust savagely towards him, aimed straight at his throat, and the cold, lifeless eyes of the attacker as she lunged. Cole’s response was instantaneous and effective. Intercepting the knife arm, he had twisted and dislocated it at the shoulder before the decoy baby had hit the floor, knocking the assassin out cold with a solid elbow strike to the jaw.

  Grabbing the knife, Cole turned to confront the others – but instead of a brutal attack, he was instead faced with looks of fear and terror as the other passengers started backing away, wanting to escape even more than him.

  A noise behind him, back in the doorway, caused him to turn again. Two men in suits were rushing through, hands going to the inside of their jackets. Cole flew forwards, thrusting a vicious front kick into the torso of the first man that sent him flying backwards; and as the second man’s gun cleared the holster, the knife Cole had taken was already flying through the air, striking him in the side of the neck.

  It was definitely time to get off, Cole decided.

  Edwards was travelling rapidly across London in a seconded police car, sirens blaring, when he got the message. He was on his way to St Paul’s station, where the target was hopefully going to be waiting, either captured or – he hoped – already dead.

  But then came the news – three more agents down, and Cole once again escaped. According to the garbled report, the man had pulled the emergency brake, throwing the whole train into chaos, and had then run through the cars, smashed a window and leapt out into the tunnel. So far, he had not emerged at either St Paul’s or Chancery Lane.

  Damn, Edwards thought in despair. Damn!

  Instead of running down the lines to one of the stations, Cole had found an access tunnel coming off the side of the main tunnel and had followed that until he came to a staff area. There were mercifully few people, and he ignored anyone that spoke to him. Nobody challenged his presence there, which only reaffirmed his belief that security was still a joke at almost every important institution in the country. Unlike most of the nation’s citizens, who were shocked in the rise of terrorist actions over the last few years, Cole was surprised there hadn’t been more.

  Eventually, he came to a fire exit which he followed down a corridor, up a long flight of bare metal steps, and then out into fresh air; or at least what passed for fresh air in the small dirty alleyway off the main thoroughfare of Cheapside that he emerged into.

  Straightening himself out as best he could – although, with his ripped and dirty jacket and bloodstained shirt, he realised he now looked like he’d had a very bad day at the office – he then stepped out from the alley into the mass of humanity steaming along the pavement of Cheapside.

  There were people everywhere, and everywhere there would be people looking for him, he was under no illusions about that now. He needed to get out of the area, and fast.

  Looking to the street, he saw the perfect answer – a gleaming red double decker bus. Stuck in traffic, Cole took his chance and casually strolled over to it, hopping onto the footstep.

  He smiled at the conductor, and gave him a story about his day. It worked well, Cole thought, and then he started to wonder just how bad he must look - the man had not only let him on, but had refused money for the journey.

  But no matter – the bus was moving once again, and Cole was on his way.

  Edwards had almost lost hope. Countless agents dead, his mission failed. He was starting to doubt whether they’d ever get this man.

  But then something miraculous had happened – across the road, not twenty feet from his own car, Edwards had seen Cole wander out from an alleyway and casually board a bus. He had to blink his eyes twice to make sure he wasn’t dreaming, but he wasn’t – it was definitely the same man, Edwards would have recognised him anywhere.

  ‘That’s him,’ Edwards said quietly, under his breath, almost as if Cole would be able to hear him.

  ‘Who?’ his driver asked.

  ‘Him,’ Edwards replied simply. ‘There.’ He pointed towards the bus.

  ‘What do you want to do?’

  Edwards considered the matter for some time. ‘Which bus is that?’ he finally inquired.

  ‘The RV1. Goes across Tower Bridge,’ his driver offered.

  Edwards thought for some moments more. This was a gift, he knew that; the thing was, how to capitalise on it?

  Moments later, the answer struck him. ‘Don’t get too close,’ he told the driver as he reached for the radio, ‘follow him from a distance.’

  Cole headed up the narrow spiral staircase to the upper level of the bus. He wasn’t entirely sure that upstairs would offer the best location for him – he would be further from the exit – but there was always a trade-off, and in this case, Cole wanted to have a good view so that he could monitor any activity around the bus.

  The vehicle was less busy upstairs, and Cole was able to take a seat by one of the windows. What passengers there were paid him no attention whatsoever; there was not so much as a casual glance. Londoners, Cole knew, had long since disassociated themselves from everything and everyone around them, and were dyed-in-the-wool experts on ignoring anything that didn’t directly involve them. Cole again found himself wondering why there weren’t more terrorist attacks in the capital; the utter disinterest of its population left it wide open.

  He wasn’t worried about people seeing him from outside the vehicle either – he knew that the effect of the bright winter sun shining onto the dirt and grime of the window glass would make him all but invisible to those on the street below.

  He once again scanned the occupied seats, casually observing and assessing the other passengers, and was again satisfied that there was nothing to arouse his suspicions. He almost began to relax, but didn’t, knowing that such a thing could well prove fatal. He was a firm believer in the old samurai adage that when the battle was over, it was time to tighten the helmet straps.

  And so, whenever the bus stopped and let on more passengers, Cole was alert. Sometimes new passengers would come upstairs, sometimes old ones would leave; at others stops, there was no movement upstairs at all, people choosing to stay on the level below. But slowly and surely, Cole was able to chart the bus’s progress along the Embankment and towards Tower Bridge. He’d soon be over the river.

  Not five minutes later, he saw the huge, imposing mass of the Tower of London, regal in its ancient architecture; and then the massive twin gateways of Tower Bridge, holding sway over the River Thames like two sentinel guardians.

  He rose and stretched,
then started to go around the upper deck to make quick checks out of all the windows. He acted like a tourist wanting to take in the sights, but really wanted to assure himself that nobody was following him.

  As he moved from window to window, sometimes having to excuse himself to other passengers in his friendly-tourist-just-visiting-what-a-great-city manner, he started to feel that he really would be able to get out of this mess. He’d get across the river, lose himself in the back streets of the East End, contact his family and then move to meet them at the emergency rendezvous. And then? Well, Cole considered, he would just have to think about that later, and –

  Cole stopped short. He had seen something out of the rear window, just a glimpse. But what had it been?

  He squeezed himself between two Chinese teenagers, no longer worried about his friendly pretence. What had he seen? He scanned the street below, sectioning the vista before him into manageable chunks – at first halves, now quarters, now eighths – and scrutinized them carefully.

  Then he saw it – the blue Ford Mondeo. A new registration, which meant that the radio aerial on this model should be housed invisibly within the windscreen. So why was there a large antenna on the front of the roof? Cole knew it could be used for picking up secure satellite communications, as used by the Security Service’s renowned A Branch. Or maybe the car just belonged to a sales rep who wanted a bit more of a selection of radio channels on a long drive?

  Then the car directly in front of the Mondeo pulled away, and Cole momentarily caught a look at the vehicle’s tyres. Far too wide for such a saloon normally, and certainly too wide to be offered as a factory-fitted option, but perfect for holding the road during high-speed car chases. So it was an A Branch car. The question is, Cole thought desperately, is it following me? Or is it just out searching the streets randomly?

  The unfortunate reality was confirmed just seconds later, when Cole saw the head of Edwards lean forwards from the passenger seat to look up at the bus, as if to check it was still there. So, that was it – he’d been spotted. When? Where? Cole knew that it no longer mattered. Who knew how many cars they had following him?

  He looked to the front of the bus – they were already on Tower Bridge, passing under the first big arched gateway. Then something else caught his eye – a flash of blue light. He raced to the front of the bus, looking through the dirty window straight ahead, across the bridge. Already, the traffic was slowing up, and Cole could see why – there were uniformed police setting up a road block on the far side. Doubtless, armed members of the Met’s SO19 specialist firearms unit would be there to ‘assist’.

  Cole ran back to the rear window. Sure enough, the bridge was beginning to be closed off by a series of unmarked cars. Cole could see armed agents running through the traffic from behind the bus, and armed police moving in from the front. Edwards was out of the Mondeo, a gun in his hand and an eager look across his face, starting to run with the other agents.

  The bus finally rolled to a stop. Cole was a sitting duck, trapped and with nowhere to go.

  Looking out of the windows, Cole could see disgruntled drivers jumping out of their cars to complain, then jumping straight back in again when they saw the men with their large automatic rifles running along the bridge towards the big red bus.

  The other passengers were starting to talk, in a cacophony of rising panic – ‘What’s going on?’ – ‘Who are they?’ – ‘They’re coming towards us!’ – ‘They’re heading for this bus!’, but Cole ignored them completely, his mind elsewhere. He watched Edwards and his A Branch driver reach the trapped vehicle, and decided to waste no more time.

  He turned to the nearest window on the left and lashed out savagely with a kick. The window shook with the force, but didn’t break. It was enough to worry the passengers though and, realizing for the first time just why the armed police might be heading towards this particular bus, they screamed in panic and bolted for the stairs, getting jammed in the stairwell as they all tried to cram through the narrow opening.

  Good, Cole thought as he attacked the window with another kick. At least it would stop Edwards and his men from getting upstairs, for a few vital moments at least.

  The third kick did it, smashing the window entirely. Cole felt the rush of cold air hit him. He heard shouts behind him, and knew Edwards was trying to beat a path up to him. With no time to lose, Cole climbed up into the window frame, balancing precariously on the thin metal edge.

  He looked both ways and saw a cordon of men start to surround the bus, weapons all trained up at the upper level. Further to each side, he could see the huge towers looming over the bridge, massive figures of authority that seemed to be judging him silently. He saw the policemen and MI5 operatives caressing their triggers, and couldn’t help but wonder what that judgement would be.

  Then his mind cleared, and he jumped.

  Having wrestled his way to the top of the stairs, Edwards’s pistol now led the way. The head and body soon followed, with a face that registered complete disbelief. ‘No!’ he cried. ‘No!’

  He saw the legs disappearing out of the window and raced to the huge gaping hole, followed by more agents. He looked out of the shattered glass and saw his target propel himself through the air, straight over the side of the great bridge into a picture-perfect dive towards the icy depths of the tumultuous river below. In frustration, he raised his pistol and loosed off the entire magazine at the rapidly descending figure, but it was too little, too late.

  The man was gone.

  55

  It was almost twenty minutes later when Cole made it onto dry land. He’d let the river’s powerful flow sweep him along towards the east, let the men on the bridge see him struggle helplessly as he was swept along, and then had allowed himself to be pulled under.

  Summoning up all his strength, he had then managed to swim back towards the west, fighting hard against the current. For five hard minutes he had battled, until he was forced to come up for air. He had surfaced near the south bank, and had made about a hundred metres against the current; it wasn’t far, but it was far enough. After seeing him being swept away, the search would be conducted almost exclusively to the east of the bridge.

  But he couldn’t risk approaching the bank just yet; there were too many curious onlookers about and, although their attention was directed towards the bridge, the sight of a tired man in a business suit pulling himself out of the Thames would soon set alarm bells ringing. But as he continued his exhausting battle against the river, he knew he would have to get out soon – the chilling water of the Thames would soon send him hypothermic, and he’d become unable to swim, or even to move. He could feel it even now, the cold seeping through his skin, into his veins, until it was like ice coursing through his entire body. But he had to press on, he had to keep going until he found a better spot.

  He had swum the best part of half a mile by the time he finally pulled his exhausted, pain-wracked body out of the river, collapsing onto a remote, muddy shore of the South Bank. His entire body shivered uncontrollably, wracked with a piercing, numbing coldness that bit into his bones. He knew he couldn’t afford to rest, and clambered the rest of the way up the slippery bank, pulling himself over some old wooden pilings and up onto an abandoned concrete dock.

  He started to jog towards a shabby group of old warehouse buildings, but his legs failed him and he stumbled helplessly, weak from both cold and fatigue. He would have to get out of these clothes soon, he thought, or things would get bad for him. But first, he had to find a telephone.

  56

  Yet another call had come through to Albright on the emergency line. He listened intently, nodding his head as if the caller could see him. He finished the call with a simple ‘Yes sir,’ and replaced the receiver, turning to his men.

  ‘Okay guys,’ he started. ‘The target in London has been confirmed as having escaped. We are now expecting his family to move to an RV with him, and our task is therefore to follow them, without their knowledge, in order to
locate the primary target. Any questions?’ There were none. ‘Okay, good. Mr Hansard is none too happy, so let’s not screw this up.’

  He turned and moved towards the stairs up to the deck. Damn. He didn’t like changes of plan. And he’d rather been looking forward to storming the house. No expected defences, easy targets; just the way he liked it. He stopped in front of a mirror half way up the stairs, examined himself for a few moments, and then adjusted a few strands of rich blonde hair that had strayed across his tanned forehead. There, he thought with some satisfaction. That’s better.

  As Hansard’s Bentley swept him the last mile to Downing Street, he couldn’t help but be a little perturbed. He could tell that the whole incident had put him out of sorts when it took him three attempts to pack his pipe properly, the first two having degenerated into a sorry mess on the deep carpet.

  So, Cole had escaped. It was too bad; really, too bad. Hansard could only hope that the man’s mind would be on meeting up with his family, and not on revealing to the press – or anyone else for that matter – that the death of William Crozier had been an assassination. Because that would really put the cat among the pigeons.

  But Cole didn’t truly realize the implications behind his latest service for the British government, Hansard was sure. Besides which, the issue of secrecy was one which Cole took seriously. Hansard had only ordered Cole’s execution because he had been worried that Cole might talk after he had realized what the real reason for Crozier’s death had been. And the real reason wouldn’t be clear for several days yet, Hansard knew. Therefore, he had time.

  Hansard had not yet issued a national alert for Cole; if captured, he might talk nevertheless before one of Hansard’s men could get to him. But he had plenty of agents out there looking for him, and had his own people posted at every sea port and airport in the country. And at the other end, he had Albright watching the Cole house. If Cole followed normal procedure, he would try and meet with his family in a neutral, secure area. Hansard didn’t know where that was but he felt sure that Cole would be found. If he managed to escape the United Kingdom, his own family would lead Hansard’s men to him.