by JT Brannan
‘Most of this building,’ he continued, ‘is covered with surveillance equipment of all description. This room, on the other hand,’ he explained conspiratorially, gesturing around the huge lounge, ‘is not. It is a rest area, if you will, free from prying eyes, or ears. It’s where our guests come after their first series of talks, to let off a bit of steam while we decide what to do with them next.’ As Hansard took a sip of his brandy, Cole accepted the confirmation of his earlier deductions about the place. ‘Not that many do,’ Hansard carried on. ‘They’re just too damned suspicious of everyone. Won’t believe the room’s not bugged.’ He smiled. ‘Can’t say I blame them. Don’t suppose I would, in their position. But please believe me when I tell you that this entire building is secure from external listeners, and this particular room is the only one in the building that is safe from internal listeners.’
Cole was already convinced, even before Hansard enthusiastically summed up. ‘My friend, we are now, quite literally, in the most secure location in England. We may discuss whatsoever we like, and only you or I will ever know about it.’ Hansard’s eyes seemed to twinkle as he spoke.
‘Okay,’ Cole agreed. ‘We can talk here. But maybe first of all you can explain just what it is that we have to talk about in the first place.’ Although Cole could not be angry at Hansard – they had been through too much together for that – he was concerned over this whole breech of operational protocol, and wanted the man to know that he was not happy.
‘Mark, I don’t think I need to spell out the ramifications of what we’ve done. This wasn’t some tin-pot North Korean General or some damned psychotic terrorist leader. This was the Director of the CIA’s National Clandestine Service, one of our own people. And we killed him. Now what do you think would happen if anyone ever learnt of our involvement?’
It was a serious question, but Cole considered it only momentarily. ‘It doesn’t matter what they would do if they found out. They won’t do anything, because they won’t find out.’
Hansard took a sip of his brandy and looked at Cole coolly. ‘Normally I would accept that,’ he offered. ‘But not with this. I have to know this won’t come back to haunt us. You have to tell me everything – dates, times, places, people. We have to be absolutely sure that there can be no comebacks.’
‘But sir, they won’t even investigate his death, and even if they do, what then? I don’t even officially exist anymore, so there’s no way to track me, or link me to either you or the US government.’
‘I believe that is probably the case,’ Hansard allowed, ‘but I have to know. We cannot afford to take any chances here, you must realize that. So tell me. Everything.’ He patted the remnants of tobacco out of his pipe and started to repack it. He interrupted his routine to look up at Cole and smile. ‘After all,’ he continued, ‘if you can’t trust me, who can you trust?’
Cole settled back into his chair. He never told anyone the details of his missions; that was the point, wasn’t it? They used him for missions so that there would be plausible denial. But maybe, Cole started to wonder, Hansard was right – maybe there was something that he might have missed. This was no ordinary situation, and Cole couldn’t blame Hansard for wanting to keep a tighter control than usual. And he was definitely right about one thing – whatever his faults, Hansard could be trusted. He couldn’t help but think about how he could still be in that stinking prison in Pakistan if not for Hansard’s intervention.
Finally, slowly, Cole nodded his head. ‘Okay,’ he said simply. ‘I’ll tell you.’
36
It was past noon when Cole finished his report, and the two men had moved over to one of the enclosed booths, where they had ordered lunch. The lounge bar was a little more full now, and most of the booths were occupied. A string of people lined the bar, but still nobody was talking.
Hansard looked satisfied. He was pleased that Cole had lost none of his ability to deliver a good, detailed post-action report. He had covered every aspect of the operation, and seemed to have left out nothing. There was, however, one thing which concerned him. He was about to mention it when a waiter brought over their food – a lobster thermidore for Hansard and succulent roast duck breast in port sauce for Cole. The efficient waiter made sure that everything was satisfactory before making his exit.
Hansard lifted his glass, and Cole did the same. ‘Here’s to a successful operation. Congratulations.’ They clinked their glasses over the table and both took a sip. They both smiled in appreciation at the subtle taste of the wine.
Hansard set his glass down and looked at Cole. ‘There is just one thing,’ he said eventually, as Cole started to cut into the delicate meat in front of him.
Cole stopped what he was doing and looked up at Hansard. ‘Oh?’ he asked in surprise. ‘What?’
‘This bodyguard who saw you at the graveyard.’ Cole knew what was coming. ‘Could he be a problem?’
‘I don’t believe so, sir, no,’ Cole said emphatically. ‘It was fairly dark due to the time of day, I was wearing a hat, and I’d altered my appearance sufficiently. Besides which, Crozier died of a heart attack. Why should anyone ask questions anyway?’
Hansard nodded, inwardly digesting what Cole had said. ‘Yes, but still, given the circumstances, do you not think it may have been prudent to – ’
‘Kill him?’ Cole finished for him. ‘Absolutely not. A middle-aged man dies of a heart attack, nobody bats an eyelid. That same man’s bodyguard dies on the same day – in any way, whether it’s a heart attack, car accident, or a bullet through the head – then alarm bells will start to ring.’
‘You’re right, you’re right,’ Hansard muttered. ‘I suppose I’m just getting paranoid. No, you did the right thing. Well done. A good op.’ Hansard toasted Cole again, and then the both of them got on with the serious business of eating the delicious food in front of them.
37
Hansard dabbed at his lips with the linen napkin before placing it carefully down on the table by the side of his empty plate. ‘Excellent,’ he said happily. ‘Quite excellent.’
Cole had to agree. The meal had been delectable. ‘It certainly was,’ he said. ‘Thanks.’
‘Thanks? You’re thanking me? My friend, our entire nation should be thanking you. You’ll probably never even know the contribution you’ve made to your country’s future.’ Hansard stood. ‘Now, I’m terribly sorry, but I’ve got to make a move. I have another meeting to get to.’ Hansard extended his hand, and Cole took it, shaking it firmly. ‘You’re a good man, Mark. Thank you.’
And with that, Hansard turned and walked towards the twin arches, Stern removing himself from his bar stool and coming over to join him.
Cole looked through as the assistant helped Hansard back into his heavy Crombie overcoat, then watched the two men leave. Cole sighed, then finished the last of his wine. Probably the last time I’ll see the old man, he thought. But at least he hadn’t been given another mission; the meeting was, as the message had originally suggested, purely for a post-action debrief. Now he’d be able to get back to his family.
He’d leave it half an hour – he didn’t want to walk out of the front door so soon after Hansard – and maybe treat himself to a glass of the 1977 vintage port he’d seen on the wine list. He’d then go directly to the airport and get the three o’clock flight to Paris, from where he would then transfer to Madrid before getting a connecting flight back to Grand Cayman. He estimated his arrival back at the house on Cayman Brac at no later than eight the next evening. He wondered idly if everything was alright at home, or if Ben and Amy had driven Sarah insane already.
His thoughts wandered back to Hansard, and the strange look he’d had in his eyes when he’d said his farewells. Probably nothing, Cole decided. He was undoubtedly under enormous pressure.
38
After giving Hansard a good head start, Cole finished his drink and wandered over to the reception area, passing once more beneath one of the archways.
The assistant we
nt to get his coat, and helped him on with it upon her return. Cole didn’t feel like he needed the help, but she looked the sort that might take offence at a rejection of the offer. He thanked her and made a move towards the door, but she put a restraining hand on his arm.
‘Sir,’ she began, ‘Mr Hansard thought it might be more prudent to use the back door.’
‘He’s probably right at that,’ he said. ‘Would you care to show me the way?’
‘Of course, sir,’ the assistant replied primly, leading him back through the arch and into the lounge.
She weaved a path through the sofas and armchairs, arriving at a buttoned leather door, slotted between two of the booths on the left-hand wall. She opened the door for him and led him through into a long corridor, which by Cole’s estimation must have stretched through at least four more of the street’s town houses. It had the same décor as the rest of the building that he’d seen so far, and had several doors coming off both sides. Cole wondered if they were the interview rooms.
The pretty assistant gestured to the first door on the right. ‘Just through there, sir,’ she said, before turning to leave.
‘You’re not seeing me out?’ Cole asked in surprise. He had expected some sort of security lock on the doors that she would have to open.
She smiled at him, as if explaining something to a slow-witted child. ‘No sir, it’s all electronically monitored from here. The doors will open and close automatically for you. Through that door is a little chamber – it’ll be dark at first, but the lights will be activated by your movement – and the exit is right on the other side. The room’s like an airlock, the door will lock behind you and if I went with you, I wouldn’t be able to get back in.’ She nodded her head at him, still smiling. ‘Goodbye, sir.’
He smiled back. ‘Goodbye,’ he said, then pushed at the door. As she had explained, it opened freely, and he took a couple of tentative steps into the darkness. As he entered the room, he suddenly tensed. The door swung shut behind him, and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up on end. Something wasn’t right, and he already thought he knew what it was.
He took another pace forwards into the room, and the lights came on, glaring in their intensity. Shit.
He felt the cold press of steel against the back of his head at the same time as he saw the two men in front of him, dressed in plastic coveralls and aiming their own handguns at him.
Cole had no time to think, only to act. He span round in a tight arc to his right, deflecting the gun arm of the man behind him with his own right arm. Continuing the arc even as the other two agents opened fire, Cole’s body snaked behind that of the man who until moments before had been stood behind him, his hand running down the man’s arm to the pistol.
Holding the agent’s body tightly in front of him, Cole felt the jarring impact of the 9mm rounds as they slammed into the makeshift human shield. As the man’s grip loosened, Cole took the pistol smoothly away, aimed instinctively, and loosed off four rounds in quick succession.
Less than two seconds had elapsed since the door had closed and the lights had come on, and Cole surveyed the carnage. He let his human shield drop to the floor, the man’s body ripped apart by his colleagues’ bullets. Those same two colleagues were also now laid spread-eagled on the floor, two neat little holes in each forehead, the backs of their heads blown out.
All three men were quite clearly dead, and Cole took the opportunity to take a look at the small room. The pretty assistant had at least been telling the truth about one thing, Cole thought bitterly. The room was like a chamber. And this particular chamber had been recently decorated with plastic sheeting, not only for the floor and walls, but also for the ceiling. A professional job for a professional execution.
But Cole had no time to consider the whys and wherefores now – he was a target, and needed to get out. He could work out who wanted him dead and why after he’d managed to escape. He was still feeding off the adrenal dump he’d been given when the lights had come on and he’d seen the guns, and he knew he had to use it while he could, before it left him a shivering, quaking wreck. He had to control it, harness it, and get every last bit of hormonal supercharging that his body would give him.
There was no door on the other side of the room, Cole soon noticed. There was only one way in, and one way out. It was a room with only one purpose, he realized.
Cole checked the door he’d entered through, but it was unsurprisingly locked. He then started a careful search of the room, almost losing his footing on the slippery pools of blood that had collected across the plastic sheeting. There was nothing he could use – no doors, no windows, no hatches. But, he observed with a flash of hope, there were no cameras either. Not the sort of place you’d want permanent records to be kept of, he guessed. But it gave him the briefest glimmer of a chance – it meant that the building’s security probably hadn’t realised what had happened yet.
Cole picked up the two guns that had fallen to the floor and quickly checked them. Six rounds left in one, seven in the other. The gun he’d taken initially had twelve rounds left. He tucked the other two pistols into the waistband of his trousers, then searched all three men. He found an extra fifteen round magazine on all three of them, and slipped these into his pockets.
Only moments later, the door started to open and the first man of a clean-up crew entered the room. There were three men in total, mops and buckets in hand, and their eyes went wide at the dead bodies on the floor in front of them. They started to react, turning and going for their weapons, but it was too late; Cole fired just three shots and all three men dropped dead, the 9mm rounds exploding through their skulls with sickening force, spraying the plastic-covered walls with blood, bright red in the harsh lighting.
He was sure that they were all good men, just doing their job, but Cole never even considered letting them live. Shooting guns out of men’s hands was all well and good for John Wayne, but in real life, things just didn’t happen that way. Cole had to escape and, innocent or not, there were now three fewer men to follow him. Like Cole, they had known the risks of their chosen profession when they had signed up. The guilt would creep up on him one day, perhaps a week later, perhaps a month, but Cole would shed no tears for them. After all, they would have shed none for him.
He spun out into the hallway, keeping close to the doorframe for cover, his eyes tracking the path of his guns as they scanned quickly up and down the corridor. They was nobody else there. He dropped the two pistols he was holding, and immediately crouched over two of the new bodies, quickly searching them. He removed identical handguns from holsters on the waists of both men, and stood up. Better to have two fully loaded weapons, he figured. He felt sure he would be using them again.
As if to prove his scepticism, a crash sounded at the other end of the corridor. Spinning out once more into the hallway, his eyes went wide as he saw another four men rushing out of the huge doorway at the other end of the corridor. Shit. A silent alarm, tripped by the security force that was undoubtedly surveilling the corridor by means of hidden CCTV.
A burst of gunfire from a compact Heckler and Koch submachine gun that narrowly missed his head focussed his attention like a laser beam. Instantly, Cole adopted a low, side-on kneeling position to minimize the target he would present and fired down the long corridor with both guns, rapidly stroking the triggers until both weapons were empty. Even at that distance, all four men went down; perhaps not dead, but certainly out of action. Their inexperience had been clear to Cole from their first shots – fired on the run, without rooting themselves to take proper aim. Cole, on the other hand, had preserved sufficient presence of mind to do so, and the results were apparent.
Another sound started to echo down the room, and it took several precious moments for Cole to realize what it was – doors locking. The sound had started at the far end of the corridor and was working its way rapidly down the hall. All his exits were being cut off. Cole barely had time to wonder if the entire corridor would b
ecome an airlock, allowing them to kill him with some sort of poison gas, before he saw the door to the chamber out of which he had escaped also swing shut and lock with a solid clunk.
Spinning round desperately, he dropped his guns as he reached out for the door that led back into the lounge area. He only barely managed to grab the handle and yank the door open, mere fractions of a second before the lock electronically activated, thick steel bolts shooting out from the inside edge of the door; mercifully not into the housings in the doorframe, but into fresh air.
Hearing more noises behind him, he just had time to glance back through the doorway as more armed men poured into the far end of the hallway, before he jumped through the gap and into the lounge bar, swinging the heavy door shut behind him. He heard the impacts of the bullets on the far side of the door, but ignored them. Instead, he immediately surveyed the room in which he now found himself, analysing his every option. As he quickly took in every feature of the big lounge, he realised with disheartening realism that there were not many choices open to him.
As he watched, armoured doors slid powerfully shut across the arched entranceways through which he had initially passed earlier that morning. There didn’t seem to be any other doors, except for one on the library’s mezzanine level, on the right hand side opposite that of the one on the ground floor, although it was undoubtedly securely locked by now.