by JT Brannan
Cole looked across at the bored, dejected ticket sellers in their reinforced Plexiglas safety cells. They had seen it all before, and if it had ever interested them, it certainly failed to do so now. Cole smiled. The perfect place to escape attention. Nobody cared.
He had left the Chrysler with the Baltimore branch of the rental agency, after first erasing the memory of the vehicle’s satnav device; a laborious task, but an absolute necessity. He had then walked the two miles to the bus depot, his collar turned up against the December chill all the way.
He never returned home by the same route after a mission, nor did he ever use the same identity. New passports were easy enough to come by, and why take a chance? His plan this time was to take the Greyhound to New York, then fly from La Guardia over to Hawaii before connecting back to Grand Cayman. He figured he would be home by late evening the day after. Not bad at all.
He thought briefly of Crozier. He would certainly be dead by now, Cole surmised. Killing a man was never an easy thing, but Cole was not unduly perturbed by his own actions. It was a simple case of numbers. If Crozier had lived, others would probably have died. It was unfortunate that Cole had to be the implement of such a policy, but it was a policy that he could see the intrinsic value of, and he had killed many times in order to protect the lives and interests of his fellow countrymen.
The first time Cole had killed, he had been only twenty years old; a lifetime ago. A newly-badged SEAL, he’d been on a reconnaissance patrol in the border provinces of Iran, when his four-man section was ambushed by a group of approximately twenty – Cole never found out exactly how many it had been – well-armed militiamen. Barely out of training, Cole’s baptism of fire was as short as it was brutal.
Petty Officer 1st Class Pete Miller, the section commander, was an experienced man and was able to keep his men focussed as he screamed out fire orders at them. They blasted their way out of the ambush, killing eight of the militiamen before the others fled the scene. Cole had taken three himself. A Navy and Marine Corps Commendation Medal had followed, as did a promotion to E5, PO 2nd Class. His officers had congratulated him, and his team-mates had almost drowned him with beer.
It also brought him to the attention of a senior officer who saw Kowalski’s potential and recommended that he attend Officer Candidate School. The young SEAL had never considered becoming an officer, but at the insistence of his own unit commander, he had gone to OCS at Pensacola Naval Air Station and had graduated as an Ensign soon after.
The instructors back at the Naval Special Warfare Training Centre in Coronado had always said that the first kill would be the hardest. Before the team’s deployment, psychologists had had long chats with all the men, going through strategies on how to cope with the guilt and attendant stress and anxiety that came with taking a human life.
Cole had never really experienced such feelings, however; he had just been glad to live through the experience. When the armed militia had opened up on them, the loud chatter of the AK-47s deafening in the close proximity of the mountain pass, Cole had momentarily frozen, scared into immobility. It had taken the kindly words of Petty Officer Miller – ‘Kowalski, snap the fuck out of it and get on that fucking rifle!’ – to move him to action. And when Cole had moved, he had moved well.
The guilt he felt afterwards was not for the taking of a human life – not even three – but for freezing, for nearly letting his buddies down. And he had vowed then and there that he would never let anyone down again through his inaction – not his country, not his friends, and not himself.
And that was how Cole had operated from that moment on – always doing everything that was asked of him if it was for the ‘greater good’, even if that meant killing a man in cold blood.
As Cole thought about Crozier, he muttered a quick prayer. A remnant of his Catholic upbringing, a prayer for the dead was always offered by Cole when someone died at his hand. When he was given to contemplate theological matters, he failed to see the irony; for he was sure that on his day of judgement, the Good Lord would see all of the lives that had been saved by his actions, and therefore forgive him for those that he had taken.
Satisfied that his duty was done, Cole decided to give no more thought to William James Crozier.
But there was one more thing to do before he could start his journey home; he had to report on the success of his mission. Trudging through the cold brown filth that had been trodden into the foyer from the snow-slicked streets outside and now slid its way across the drab tiled floor, Cole headed towards the bank of payphones clustered over by the entrance.
Keeping his gloves on in order to ensure no prints were left on the phone, Cole inserted some coins into the machine and then dialled the number. Although the mission was classified beyond any normal security level, he felt comfortable calling the telephone number Hansard had given him; only Hansard would understand the message that Cole was going to leave.
The phone was picked up after just two rings. What sounded like an elderly woman answered from the other end, a frail voice that could have been anyone’s grandmother. ‘Hello?’
‘Hi Edna, it’s Tom, how are you?’
‘Oh, Tom!’ The voice seemed to gather strength upon hearing his name. ‘I’m very well, thank you, dear, how are you? How was your holiday?’
Cole knew the woman would understand that ‘holiday’ was code for ‘mission’, but also knew that she would have no idea what it had entailed; she would just report back through the proper channels that ‘Agent X’ had made positive contact.
‘It was good, thanks, saw everything I wanted to see. Hopefully be back home soon.’
‘That’s great, Tom, glad to hear it.’ There was a pause on the other end of the line, and Cole’s senses instantly came alert; there was going to be something else, wasn’t there? ‘You know, it would be really nice to see you here in London before you went back, do you think you could pop by to say hello before you go? You could tell us all about your trip.’
Hansard wanted to debrief him in London? Why? It was completely against procedure. But what could he say? ‘Of course, I’d love to. I should be there by evening.’
‘Oh, that’s lovely Tom, we’ll look forward to seeing you. Bye now.’
‘Yeah. Bye.’ Cole replaced the receiver, but stood motionless for a full minute. What did it mean? Did Hansard have another job for him? Cole hadn’t been debriefed in person in almost nine years, before Pakistan. Why did Hansard want him there now? And why London? It didn’t make sense, and Cole distrusted anything that didn’t make sense; especially when it concerned his job.
But if Hansard had asked for him, there would be a good reason. And so, misgivings or not, Cole walked up to one of the Plexiglas safety cells and asked the bored attendant for a one-way ticket to Dulles International. The British Airways flight, Cole knew, left for London Heathrow at midday.
27
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 Navy 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. 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 a visit to London? Cole felt sure that there must be another mission awaiting him.
Or maybe the whole situation was panicking Hansa
rd, 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.
28
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. The city was familiar to him; he had been to Britain many times in the past, on exchanges with military and intelligence groups, and had even performed a job here in London just two years earlier.
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.
Before his flight, he had 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 CIA safe house near 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, the intelligence wing of the Metropolitan Police, 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.
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.
Instead, he pulled his collar up against the icy wind and started to trudge towards Oxford Street, on his way to the Devonshire. It would take no more than half an hour, he figured, and so he was assured of a good night’s sleep. Because even five hours was considered a good night’s sleep on operations; and until Cole was safely at home with his family, he still considered himself to be very much involved in his mission.
29
Cole finally slipped into bed a short time after three in the morning. He stretched out underneath the warm, luxurious sheets, his body aching from the thousands of miles he had travelled in the last forty-eight hours, and the debilitating after-effects of adrenaline from the short but crucial period of action.
He had not walked straight to the Devonshire, but had followed a circuitous route instead. By walking in a certain unpredictable pattern, by taking unlikely diversions across the London underground, and by generally using anything but the easy route, he would be able to pick up on any surveillance that might be watching him. It was a habit born out of years of experience.
As he had approached Oxford Street, he decided that he would need a change of clothes for the meeting later that morning. On reflection, Cole also decided that it would be prudent to destroy the clothes he was wearing. After all, there was no point walking around covered in potential DNA evidence.
He therefore entered a clothing store on Oxford Street at one o’clock that morning, selecting a light blue cotton shirt, conservative grey business suit, a plain silk tie, and new underwear. From the camping store a few doors up, he also purchased some more casual travelling clothes and trekking boots, and he then obtained some leather brogues and a new leather holdall from a gentlemen’s outfitters just a few minutes walk away. Not for the first time, he was grateful for the twenty-four hour culture that this country had finally embraced.
At half past one, he descended the steps of the Tottenham Court Road tube station, and changed into his new casual clothes in the cubicle of the public toilets. He stuffed his old clothes and shoes into his original holdall and transferred his documents to the new one. He then put his suit and other clothes into the new bag, and all the shop’s plastic packaging into the old one. Satisfied, he caught the next Northern Line train to Warren Street.
After ascending to street level once again, Cole strolled easily for five minutes, before heading down one of the dark alleys off Great Portland Street, where he set fire to his old holdall and all its contents. He watched it burn, until all that was left inside the skeletal carcass of the holdall was a large pile of ash. He scattered the ashes over the rain-slicked street of the back-alley, then threw the useless, burnt leather bag into a nearby wheelie bin.
He had then continued, via Portland Place, on to the Devonshire Hotel in Devonshire Street, confident that he had not been followed. After a quick check-in he had gone up to his room, where he had indulged in a wonderfully long, hot bath before crawling into bed.
Stretching complete, Cole reached over to set his alarm for half past six, rolled back, and was asleep.
30
Sarah noticed the tiny pinprick of light as she stared out to sea. Ordinarily she would have thought nothing of it. After the coded message she had received from Mark though, her paranoia level had increased considerably.
Not that there was anything unduly worrying about the content of the message – he had merely been informing her that he would be delayed by a couple of days.
However, Mark had always stressed that whenever there was a deviavtion from the norm, precautions should always be taken. And so here she was, Ben and Amy fast asleep in bed, staring out across the Caribbean and looking for anything out of the ordinary. And the light out at sea, so late at night, fell directly into that category.
It was certainly worthy of further investigation, s
he decided.
Dan Albright didn’t like the fact that the yacht’s sidelights were on, but those were the orders from the harbour-master, and it would be even more trouble to get into a conflict with him. Because the last thing Albright wanted to do was to bring any untoward attention down on him and his men.
Besides, he didn’t expect Sarah Cole or her children to notice their presence. Not until it was too late.
31
Cole strolled down the street towards the safe house, the air crisp and cold. There was a fresh layer of snow covering the road, although the snow was no longer falling. In fact, there were no clouds in the sky at all as far as Cole could make out, and the sun was trying its best to pierce the icy atmosphere. But despite its efforts, it was still bitterly cold, and Cole observed how his breath crystallised as he exhaled. The snow would soon turn to ice, he knew, and then just the very act of walking would become somewhat treacherous in his leather-soled brogues. He was glad he’d be able to change into his new boots after the meeting.
The small terraced street was a quiet place, running off a much larger and busier road nearer to the park. It held long stretches of large, four-storey Georgian town houses on both sides, and seemed well cared for. It was certainly an affluent area, and Cole wondered for how long the CIA had kept a safe house here. He felt certain that it would have been several decades at least, as current property prices would now scare off government purchase of such a site, even with the generous black budgets currently enjoyed by the US intelligence services.