He would also have known that the bodies would have eventually been traced to America, which meant that Hansard wanted the world to believe that the US government, or at least elements within that government, had orchestrated the attack on ERA.
And this meant that Hansard had all along wanted to engineer what appeared to be a possible nuclear conflict between the United States and Europe.
But why? Cole wondered. He would find out soon enough though, as Binder was currently organising a set of forged documents for Cole, which he would soon use for the short flight back to London.
4
Moses and Arnold arrived at Heathrow in the early hours of the morning. They had managed less than an hour of sleep between them, but were wide awake nevertheless, fuelled by adrenaline. They were about to try and capture and interrogate the most powerful man in European intelligence, on his home soil. They could sleep later, maybe in prison if this didn’t work out.
Their British passports worked perfectly, and they slipped mercifully unopposed through passport control and customs. Others weren’t so lucky, however, and the two CIA agents could see many passengers being escorted away for questioning.
As they left the air-conditioned comfort of the arrivals lounge, the cold winter air whipping at their unprotected faces, they stopped and looked at one another.
‘Right,’ Moses said, ‘we’re here. Now what?’
Gregory had left London for the JNCC the previous evening, and would now be ensconced with the other ERA leaders, making last minute plans before proceeding with the main event; an event that Hansard now believed was all but inevitable.
Hansard had worked at his office until late, before deciding to go back to his apartment for some much needed sleep. He had checked and double-checked all of his preparations, and his assets were all in place, ready to act.
They would be activated the very next day if everything else happened as expected, and so Hansard realized that there was nothing else he could usefully do until then. He would be better off getting some rest, as he had no idea when he might get the chance again.
Hansard stirred under the covers, rolling over in his bed, arm reaching out. The bed was empty. It was still dark outside, but he saw the clock on the bedside table read that it was already after seven. Nicholas would be up making breakfast. Good boy.
Hansard sniffed the air and could detect a faint hint of bacon. Like the brandy, he decided to ignore the doctors’ advice about cooked English breakfasts.
He got out of bed and donned a silk dressing gown, tying the sash around his waist as he opened the door to the hallway.
Hansard smiled. Breakfast with Nicholas would be nice, a normal start to what he hope would prove to be an extraordinary day.
He followed the smell of bacon, eggs and coffee down the expansive hallway and into the kitchen. ‘Morning Nicholas, how –’
Hansard stopped dead as he saw the two men in front of him, their handguns aimed towards his head, Stern sprawled unconscious on the polished marble floor.
‘Good morning sir,’ said the tall black man with an American accent. ‘We’re hoping you can help us with our enquiries.’
5
Cole arrived at Gatwick at just after ten in the morning, and was met by absolute chaos. The airport was full of British citizens returning to the UK, and foreign citizens returning to their own countries.
The latest news was that government foreign offices the world over were recalling their citizens due to the current crisis, and the airport was therefore full to overflowing.
Public announcements were made by each country’s foreign secretary, each claiming that the move was purely precautionary and there was no need for alarm. But the message was clear; global conflict was deemed imminent.
It was even more disconcerting that there seemed to be no sign of any European head of state, which indicated that they had already left for a safe location. Cole wondered where that might be. The information would of course be classified as ultra-top secret, but he thought the computer vault in his home back in the Caymans would probably tell him. It was a shame he would probably never see the place again.
Cole thought about catching a taxi to the city, but knew it would be crazy to do so; the roads in and around London would be at complete gridlock as frightened people fled the city, or else tried to reunite with their loved ones before disaster struck.
Cole decided to get the train instead, and made his way to Gatwick railway station, which was linked directly to the South terminal.
The station was packed, but luckily for Cole, most passengers were headed in the opposite direction, away from London, and he therefore managed to squeeze onto the next train bound for Victoria.
Moses came up from behind the camera viewfinder and looked at Arnold. ‘Holy shit,’ he said, eyes wide.
Arnold was sitting across the kitchen table from Hansard, who looked drunk, his eyes rolling in his head, bleary and bloodshot. The empty vials and syringes on the table, part of an open medical pack, had contained a drug known by the code-name S319. It was a far more reliable form of the truth serum sodium pentathol, developed by the US Department of Defence for interrogating terrorist suspects. It affected the higher cortical functioning of the brain, causing the subject to become both more verbose, and unable to lie.
Its accuracy in its latest incarnation was close to one hundred percent, but as well as injecting Hansard with the required dosage, the agents had also linked him up to a portable polygraph, the results of which Moses was careful to include in the camera frame.
‘Holy shit is right,’ Arnold agreed. ‘Come on,’ he said, getting up from the table and pulling Moses away to the sitting room. Both Hansard and Stern were secured, so they weren’t worried about them running off anywhere.
They hadn’t really expected Hansard to be at the apartment, the good fortune would have been too much. But fortune had indeed smiled upon them, and after breaking into the underground parking garage, they had been pleasantly surprised to find Hansard’s Bentley parked there, in amongst the Ferraris, Lamborghinis, Rolls Royces and Aston Martins of the other residents. This was an apartment block for the London elite, there was no doubt about that. Even the garage concrete looked as if it was swept several times a day.
They had been given a detailed file on Sir Noel Hansard before their journey, and had discounted the man’s family estate out in Surrey as a target location, believing Hansard would have wanted to keep close to the action. This meant he would either be at work, or at his penthouse apartment in a supremely affluent neighbourhood off Sloane Square.
Getting into the offices of the JIC at Whitehall would be near impossible, of course. His other office in the administrative quarters of Number Ten Downing Street would have been even more impenetrable. The apartment was therefore their only real hope, and both men had prayed that Hansard would be there.
Even as they had glided up to the top floor in the leather-lined elevator, they still didn’t know if he would be there, or if he had just left the car and was still working, or even sleeping, at one of his offices.
Security at the apartment block was noticeable only by its absence; the building was no more secure than any other luxurious complex which housed the rich and influential. Which was to say, wholly insecure against trained professionals.
But perhaps this was why Hansard didn’t seem to take security very seriously. In his position, he was aware that most precautions – CCTV, alarms, detectors and such like – were for psychological peace of mind only, and anyone who really wanted to get to someone would always be able to do it anyway.
And because Hansard was an all but unknown figure – he never appeared publicly, he rarely spoke to the press, he always remained hidden back in the shadows – he knew he would only ever be targeted by the kind of professionals to whom such precautions were mere child’s play.
Moses and Arnold had therefore found themselves treading quietly down the deep, thick wool carpet of the apartment’s la
rge entrance hallway shortly before seven that morning, soon after entering the building.
They had received handguns, the medical pack and the portable polygraph from the local CIA liaison soon after leaving the airport, with no questions asked, and they now edged into the kitchen with those guns raised.
They paused as they saw Stern, dressed in a silk dressing gown with his back to them, frying eggs on the stove whilst bacon sizzled in the pan next to him.
Arnold kept his gun trained on the big man’s back as Moses crept silently forward.
The heavy blow with the butt of his pistol to the man’s skull had dropped him to the floor, instantly unconscious, and Arnold had hurried over, helping to tie his legs and arms. Both men were interested to see that the big man was Nicholas Stern, Hansard’s private aide who had been present at the meetings with Crozier.
When Hansard had come out moments later, he had behaved like a gentleman, following the demands of the CIA agents to the letter. He had asked who they were, but was not surprised when no answer had been forthcoming, and had not wasted his breath asking again.
Moses had filmed Arnold administering the drug, so that everything would be on record, and kept filming as Arnold had then attached the polygraph and asked some test questions to establish a baseline reading. They had then sat in silence, waiting patiently for the drug to take effect.
The interview had then started in earnest, and Hansard’s subsequent confessions, incredible in their audacity, were what Moses and Arnold were now discussing in Hansard’s ornate sitting room.
‘What are we going to do?’ Moses said urgently. ‘We need to get this to Trencher right away.’
‘We’ll call him as soon as we get outside,’ Arnold replied, checking his cell phone. ‘We’re not getting any kind of signal in this damned building. We’ll call him, and download the tape directly to him.’
‘Okay, but what are we going to do about him?’ Moses asked, gesturing towards the kitchen.
‘Hansard? We should probably just shoot the son of a bitch.’ Moses frowned, and Arnold said ‘Just joking. He deserves it though, the bastard.’ He considered the matter for a few moments. ‘Well, what can we do? Kidnap him and take him back with us? I don’t think so. We’ve got what we came for, let’s just leave him here and get the hell back home. We need to get this to Trencher straight away anyway.’
‘Do you believe him?’ Moses asked, not wanting to believe what Hansard had told them, despite the truth serum and lie detector virtually guaranteeing the information to be genuine.
‘What can I say? He can’t be lying, which means it’s all true. Which might mean we’re all fucked if we don’t get this to Trencher and the President fast enough. Now come on.’
‘Okay, let’s go,’ Moses confirmed, and they went back into the kitchen to retrieve their equipment, including the all-important video camera with Hansard’s full, taped confession.
They had left him tied to the kitchen chair, but Hansard wasn’t helpless quite yet. The drug had certainly caused him to tell the truth over the past couple of hours, but the physical effects were now starting to wear off.
The stand with the telephone was right next to him, and Hansard started to rock his chair, gently at first and then more and more violently until he toppled over, taking the stand and the phone down with him.
The impact on the cold marble floor was hard, but he instantly squirmed over to the phone until it was beside his head. He had to use his chin, his tongue, his lips and his teeth to dial the number, but it worked, and the call went through to the public networks officer at Government Communications Headquarters.
‘It’s Hansard,’ he said into the handset lying beside his head. ‘Identity code zero zero five alpha zulu foxtrot two zero nine foxtrot echo zulu. Order is hereby issued for operation ‘Blackout’. I repeat, order is given for operation ‘Blackout’. Confirm.’ Hansard heard the order confirmation and then hit the call cancel button with his chin.
Despite his current predicament, Hansard smiled. The order would be carried out before the two American agents even got out onto the street.
Next, he manoeuvred himself slowly across the floor to the medicine cupboard. The drug was wearing off, but he was sure he could find something that would help it out of his system faster. He didn’t want to divulge any more secrets today.
Down in the street outside the apartment building, Arnold checked his phone again.
‘Still nothing!’ he exclaimed.
Moses pulled his own phone out. ‘Me neither. ‘Network unavailable’, can you believe that shit?’
‘Shit, the network’s probably jammed with a million people calling their families.’ Arnold connected the phone to the video camera and attempted to download the recording. ‘Nothing! Damned thing won’t let me do anything!’
They were walking rapidly down to the street towards the subway station, where they would travel directly back to Heathrow. Moses spotted a payphone, and sprinted over, jerking loose change out of his pocket as he did so.
Arnold got there just as Moses entered the money into the slot. They waited in anticipation, but there was nothing on the other end of the line. Absolutely nothing. Moses took the phone, wanting to smash it against the coin box, but resisted the temptation, not wanting to draw attention to themselves. The street was swarming with people, all in a hurry, fear and panic in their eyes.
‘Come on,’ Arnold said. ‘Let’s get to the airport. We’ll keep trying on the way, and then we’ll try the payphones and computers there, landline email, if we still haven’t managed.
Moses nodded his head, and the two men took off towards Kensington tube station.
What the two men didn’t realize was that operation ‘Blackout’ had immediately suspended all electronic communications facilities within the capital.
Designed as an emergency measure for use if under serious terrorist or military attack, it meant that no form of communication was possible, except for specialist radio equipment kept solely by the UK government.
As Hansard knew, there was no way that his confession would be sent to the American government. The two agents would have to fly back home and present the evidence in person. And if Hansard managed to free himself fast enough, they might never make it.
6
Cole had called both the JIC offices and Number 10, asking to be put through to Sir Noel Hansard, and had been told he wasn’t there. Not that he was in a meeting or that he was otherwise engaged, but that he wasn’t there. Hoping this was true, he had headed straight for the luxury apartment he knew the man kept in Chelsea.
Cole’s caution was immediately aroused as he touched the door of Hansard’s penthouse apartment and it popped open, unlocked.
He had no weapon and so entered the hallway very slowly, very cautiously. When he got to the kitchen, the sight that confronted him was more surprising than he had anticipated.
Stern was unconscious on the floor, trussed up like a hog, whilst Hansard was strapped to a chair on the floor, one of the legs broken in what looked to be a futile effort to release himself.
The old man looked up at Cole as he approached, eyes wild, darting from side to side and wide with fear. ‘Mark?’ he said at last.
Hansard seemed to be at a loss for words, and Cole couldn’t help but wonder what the hell had been going on here.
‘N . . . No! You can’t!’ Hansard screamed at him. The man’s behaviour was unlike any Cole had seen him exhibit before. The man was never ruffled, never agitated, and this was the furthest removed possible from the calm, calculating man Cole knew and hated. He realized straight away that Hansard had been drugged.
As Cole continued towards him, Hansard continued his rant – ‘No! You don’t understand! You’ve got to listen!’
Something in his voice caused Cole to stop. Hansard was hysterical. ‘You’ve got to stop them! We’ll all die if you don’t! All of us!’
Cole continued to edge closer, stopping when he got next to him. ‘Why sho
uld I believe anything you say?’ Cole asked coldly, devoid of emotion.
‘They . . . They gave me . . .’
‘They drugged you?’ Cole asked, and Hansard nodded. Cole could see the silk sleeve rolled up, the puncture mark in the upper arm. Most likely Demerol, sodium amytal or pentathol, or even some even more effective new hybrid. The man couldn’t lie, that much was certain. Cole was glad that he would finally be able to get some answers.
‘American agents were here,’ Hansard managed, still sprawled on the floor. Cole didn’t offer to help him up. ‘They . . . They made me tell them . . . Made me tell them . . .’
‘What?’ Cole asked. ‘What did you tell them?’
‘Don’t you see?’ Hansard asked in return, his voice quivering. ‘The US missile defences . . . makes the situation unstable . . . We needed to take out their defences to equalize us, to save us from war. We have agents in America . . .’
‘Wait,’ Cole said, kneeling down beside Hansard and pulling him up. He unstrapped him and pulled him through to the sitting room, placing him in a leather wingback armchair. His hatred for the bastard had not waned one bit, but he wanted answers, and wanted Hansard to relax a little. The quivering voice was too much to bear.
Cole went to the drinks cabinet and poured him a measure of 1983 Almagnac. Seeing his pipe on the side, he also passed that over, lighting it for him. He considered it to be something of a last meal for a condemned man.
‘Now start at the beginning. Why did you really have me kill Crozier?’
Hansard took a sip of the Almagnac and a puff on his pipe. ‘Thank you . . . I . . . Bill was an agent of mine, he would feed me information, detailed information on US plans, policies, secret ops. He told me about the plan to assassinate Danko some time ago.’
‘Wait a minute,’ Cole interjected, ‘you mean you didn’t plan it?’
‘No, not at all. It was ordered by James Dorrell, Director of CIA, and had full Presidential approval. Bill had to plan and carry out the mission, but he warned me about it.’
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