by JT Brannan
The operation, it appeared, had been planned and executed by Crozier alone at every step of the way, and this was certainly what the ‘official’ CIA investigation was going to show. It declared him to be perhaps delusional, certainly mentally ill. But also highly intelligent, able to evade pick-up on routine psychological evaluations. After the death of his wife, he had dived headfirst into his work, became obsessed, paranoid by perceived threats which weren’t really there. He had apparently seen Russia and China as a major threat to the US, but his fears were ignored time and time again, until eventually he decided to go it alone and solve the problem by himself, without waiting for official authorization, which he had come to believe he would never get.
Interesting, thought Cole. But not as interesting as the fact that there were two CIA investigations into the US involvement in the attacks occurring simultaneously. The first was to make Crozier the scapegoat for the whole affair, in order to tie things up with as little fuss and with as little diplomatic damage as possible.
The second was to find out what really happened, and although this particular investigation was still ongoing, it gave Cole all the evidence he needed.
It seemed that before the attack in Sweden, Crozier had been having a number of secretive, covert meetings with an unknown group. Nothing particularly unusual in that for a man in Crozier’s position, but it was now CIA policy that a record should be made of all such meetings – even Crozier would have to alert the Director at least. But no such record was kept, and Crozier’s bodyguard Sam Hitchens remembered that his boss was always very upset by the meetings, drinking more than normal both before and after.
Hitchens had also been instructed to erase the journey to and from these particular meetings from the car’s black box recorder. He had not been allowed to be present at such meetings, but at one stage had caught a glimpse of two other people, and had worked with the CIA’s team of identification experts to come up with artist’s impressions, which they were now running through their computers for a match.
So although the official line was that William Crozier was acting alone out of some paranoid need to protect American interests, there were fears that Crozier was actually being controlled – perhaps blackmailed – into running the operation by an outside source. The investigative team had no idea who it might be – elements within the government, the military, big business, even a foreign power, they just didn’t know.
But Cole had recognized the artist’s impressions instantly. To a certain extent, the two men were nobodies – just executive protectors like Hitchens himself. James Garrett and Glen Doring were bodyguards trained by the Defence Intelligence Agency, Cole’s own home agency when he was with the SRG, which was why he recognized them.
What was more interesting was who they were protecting, and a quick search came back with two names that left Cole pausing at the computer screen in disbelief.
Garrett was the bodyguard of Clyde Rutherford, the Secretary for Defence, whilst Doring was the bodyguard of Tim Collins, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.
Cole looked up from the computer screen, blinking his eyes as he looked around the café. Finally his eyes caught the tattooed proprietor’s, and Cole held up his coffee mug with a questioning smile. The man nodded, and went to the kitchen.
Cole stretched his neck and shoulders, hearing the stiffness creaking out of his bones. His ribs still hurt like hell from his fall from the roof in London, and the car crash outside Paris seemed to have left him with a permanent headache. But at least he was still alive.
The owner of the café – six feet six inches of tattoo-covered muscle with hair halfway down his back and a trail of studs running up one side of his nose – brought Cole another mug of steaming hot, super-strength coffee.
Cole thanked the man in fluent German, took a sip of the hearty brew, and then turned back to his computer.
The meetings could of course have had an innocent explanation – it wasn’t unheard of for the Director of the NCS to meet with the SecDef and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs – but why erase the car’s black box? The inference was that Crozier didn’t want the Director of Central Intelligence to know about the meetings. Why?
It also concerned Cole that Hitchens was sure there were many more people at the meeting; it was only that he had caught sight of two, and they had turned out to be only bodyguards. Cole wondered who else would have been at the meetings, and what their connection was.
To get some background, Cole did a brief search of his own home computer files and brought up a wealth of information on Rutherford and Collins. He traced their biographies and professional resumes, then re-read them. An interesting coincidence seemed to have cropped up that aroused Cole’s instincts immediately.
Joint Military Intelligence College. Both men had attended the college from 1999 to 2000, taking their Masters in Science of Strategic Intelligence.
Working quickly, he called up the information on Crozier he had read before travelling to Washington to kill him.
There it was. Master of Science of Strategic Intelligence, Joint Military Intelligence College, 2000.
Shit. Cole took a deep breath, a slug of the thick black coffee, and began to interrogate the files of the National Defence Intelligence College, the name the JMIC was now operating under.
Who else had graduated from the class that year?
Before long, Cole had the entire class list for the JMIC’s Masters programme for 1999 to 2000.
His breathing was shallow as he read from the computer screen in front of him.
JMIC MASTER OF SCIENCE OF STRATEGIC INTELLIGENCE 2000 ALUMNI:
JERRY ADAMS
TIM COLLINS
WILLIAM CROZIER
ALBERT FRASIER
ELIZABETH HARDEN
RICHARD JENSEN
DONALD NORLAND
DENNIS PITTMAN
FRANKLIN RICHARDS
CLYDE RUTHERFORD
DIANA WESTLAKE
He knew many of the names, and Google searched the ones he didn’t. The repercussions hit him instantly. The list was like a who’s who of Washington power brokers.
Although back in 2000 they had yet to hit the heady heights they now enjoyed, they had all been vibrant, go-getting up-and-comers, and it seemed they must have been mutually supporting each other ever since.
Their current positions demonstrated their success, and Cole made a mental note of the details:
JERRY ADAMS – DIRECTOR OF THE DEFENCE INTELLIGENCE AGENCY
TIM COLLINS – CHAIRMAN OF THE JOINT CHIEFS OF STAFF
WILLIAM CROZIER – DIRECTOR OF THE NATIONAL CLANDESTINE SERVICE
ALBERT FRASIER – CHAIRMAN OF AMERICAN AEROSPACE INC
ELIZABETH HARDEN – SECRETARY OF HOMELAND SECURITY
RICHARD JENSEN – VICE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES
DONALD NORLAND – OWNER OF TRANSWORLD ARMAMENTS INC
DENNIS PITTMAN – CEO OF ALLLIED DEFENCE SYSTEMS INC
FRANKLIN RICHARD – NATIONAL SECURITY ADVISOR
CLYDE RUTHERFORD – SECRETARY OF DEFENCE
DIANA WESTLAKE – PRESIDENT OF WESTLAKE INC
It was almost too much to take in. The JMIC alumni list for 2000 was incredible. Richard Jensen, the Vice President of the United States of America himself was on the list!
But what did it all mean?
Cole interrogated the JMIC files again, looking for further information. When he found it, his stomach tightened reflexively.
MASTER OF SCIENCE OF STRATEGIC INTELLIGENCE GROUP MENTOR 1999-2001 – REAR ADMIRAL CHARLES HANSARD USN
So that was it. They were all linked, all – controlled? – by Charles Hansard himself.
Some of the most powerful political, military, intelligence and business leaders in the United States, all unified under one man, a man who had recently ordered the death of one of their own number, William Crozier.
So why had Crozier’s death been ordered if he was one of the group? It seemed quite obvious now,
Cole thought sadly.
The attack in Sweden had obviously been concocted by this group, and the work had been farmed out to Crozier, as Director of the NCS. He had obviously run the operation effectively, but had then perhaps expressed opinions on the outcome which were contrary to the group’s own opinion. The result? Crozier’s execution, followed by Cole’s own death in order to get rid of any links.
It all started to make some sort of sick sense, but there remained one burning question –
Why had an elite, secret Washington cabal ordered an attack on the Russian President and sought to blame China? And how was this industrial-military complex enshrined in Hansard’s private little club going to benefit?
Cole knew he would not have time to make his conclusions now though – the CIA would register the security breech before long, and he wanted to be long gone from the café by the time they picked it up. He therefore downloaded every available piece of information to his pen drive, before completely purging the computer he had been working on.
Before leaving the small cyber café, he spent some time chatting to the heavily tattooed proprietor. When he left, it was with the pen drive and a new, secure laptop computer.
He would continue his search elsewhere, and he would get answers.
62
Sarah was now sure this must be the man from the yacht. He was relentless, that much was clear, and it was a realisation that made her stomach turn.
She tried her best to hide the reaction of recognition, and thought she had done a good job, even though her heart seemed like it was instantly trying to punch its way out of her chest.
No matter what, she promised herself, she was going to keep this man, and anyone else he was with, away from Ben and Amy. No matter what.
Albright could tell that Sarah Cole wasn’t watching the scenery – the focus of her eyes indicated that she was instead watching the interior of the carriage in the reflection of the window.
He wondered momentarily where the children were. Still on the train? Or had they got off at the station, been picked up by an unseen contact? At this stage, it would hardly matter anyway. Still, it was a shame they weren’t present – children could always be used effectively as extra leverage.
He sat down across from Sarah and smiled. She glanced at him, just another attractive, lone female passenger being admired by a lecherous male. ‘Do I know you?’ she asked him in German as he continued to stare, trying hard to keep her voice steady. Her hands gripped the ends of the chair arms, and she could feel her knuckles turning white.
All she needed to do was to string him along for fifteen minutes. Just fifteen minutes. She’d chosen her seat carefully, next to the emergency stop lever. A quarter of an hour, and the train would be in just the right place. All she had to do was hold out until then.
‘Mrs Cole,’ Albright said cheerfully in English, ‘please don’t play games with me. And let go of those arms before you tear them off the chair.’
Sarah looked at her hands, saw the way she was gripping them, and released them immediately. It was no good; she just wasn’t used to this. Get yourself used to it, she told herself. Ben and Amy are depending on you.
She considered the emergency cord nearby. They were several miles away from the RV, but they could hike the distance. She hoped it would distract Albright long enough to escape. The train would jolt violently to a halt and people – hopefully the blond man included – would be thrown from their seats, with total chaos presumably to follow shortly after. Sarah would then be able to grab Ben and Amy and jump from the train, escaping in the dark.
‘Please, don’t even think about going for the cord,’ Albright continued. Like a magician’s conjuring trick, a gun appeared in his hand, covered by the jacket laid over his lap. ‘I promise you, you wouldn’t like the consequences.’
Sarah looked at the gun. Shit. ‘You wouldn’t shoot me in front of all these people,’ she said, and even she could hear the lack of conviction in her voice.
‘Try me,’ he said coldly, and the smile was gone, his eyes glistening with anticipation.
Sarah believed him. What now? Sarah began to think of another plan, but Albright interrupted her thoughts. ‘Get up. Now,’ he commanded. When she didn’t move, his eyes grey colder, greyer.
Sarah could sense that this man in front of her was capable of irrational violence, and she got up out of her seat as he demanded. With her dead, her children would have nobody to protect them.
Albright ordered her to turn around, and she did so with no comment. He urged her to start walking, but the fear that was starting to flood through her body like iced venom caused her body to freeze on the spot, unable to move.
‘Move,’ she heard the blond man whisper and, slowly, she started to walk. She wondered where he was taking her, but then it hit her. The toilets. He knows they’re there!
Sarah felt the gun in the small of her back and carried on walking. What can I do?, she asked herself, the panic rising inside. I can barely put one foot in front of the other.
They got to the first toilet door – where Ben and Amy were playing their silent game – and Albright pushed it. Please don’t make any noise, she pleaded silently.
But Albright didn’t even wait for a response from behind the door, he just tried the next one along. It opened, and he ushered her urgently inside.
The relief hit her like a wave. He doesn’t know they’re there. And as long as they keep quiet, he won’t find out.
Okay, she decided, steeling herself. Don’t make any noise, Sarah. Whatever he does to you, don’t make a sound. If Ben and Amy hear your voice, they might say something.
Albright shut and locked the door behind them and turned to her. Without an introductory word, he raised the heavy steel pistol and cracked it straight down into her face.
Her nose shattered instantly, blood flying everywhere. Stars flickered across her vision and her knees buckled, sending her tumbling to the floor.
‘That was just to illustrate that I’m serious,’ he said. ‘I won’t be so nice again.’
Sarah looked up at him through her dazed vision, saw him glaring down at her with those cold, grey eyes, and knew he meant it. She wondered briefly whether he blamed her for the damage to his own face, and was about to extract a measure of vengeance. Put yourself somewhere else, she urged herself. Put yourself somewhere else, and don’t make a sound.
Albright reholstered his pistol and withdrew a pair of calfskin gloves from a jacket pocket. He looked at the woman, kowtowed down at his feet, and was satisfied that he could break her. Most women simply weren’t used to being hit, especially in the face. The dazed look in Sarah Cole’s eyes told Albright that this one was no different.
‘Now,’ he began, left hand wrapping itself around her long, dark hair and pulling back her head, forcing her to look at him, his right hand raised, poised to strike. ‘We’ll start with an easy one. Where are you supposed to meet your husband?’
But Sarah Cole simply looked up at him, not saying a word. Defiance?, he wondered, pausing with momentary disbelief. Well, he thought, even as his right hand lashed out towards her, it won’t last long.
63
Ben tried as hard as he could to help Amy ignore the sounds coming from the cubicle next door, holding her small head to his chest, covering her ears.
He didn’t know what all of the sounds were – a low, male voice, distorted through the wall, followed by a series of bangs and crashes and thuds – but it had been going on for well over five minutes.
Amy sobbed into his shoulder, and Ben was doing his best to hold back his own tears. Whatever was happening next door, it wasn’t good. But they couldn’t leave until Mummy gave them the special knock.
‘Shhhh …’ he whispered to his sister. ‘It’ll be alright. Mommy’ll be here soon. It’ll be okay. Don’t worry, Amy. Don’t worry.’
Suddenly, a muffled scream broke through from the other side of the wall. And before Ben could stop her, Amy’s head was up, ale
rt. ‘Mummy!’ she cried.
64
Albright’s ears pricked up instantly. ‘Mummy?’ he repeated, a grin spreading across his face.
This Sarah Cole had been one tough bitch. He had beaten her black and blue, but she’d made no noise at all – no grunts of pain even, let alone any useful information. He’d been starting to think that she was just in shock, and therefore unable to give him anything useful.
So, just to be sure, he had screwed a silencer onto his pistol and shot her in the foot. The scream had been genuine, and the fact that she had tried to muffle the sound told him that she still had control of her faculties.
The cry from next door that followed told him everything else; she’d been hiding the kids there and was being quiet to protect them.
Admirable, he thought as he looked down at her, clutching her foot and writhing in agony, gouts of blood spilling over the dirty floor. But ultimately fruitless.
‘You’ve been impressive Sarah, I’ll give you that,’ he said, again reholstering his gun. ‘You can handle your pain well.’ He cleared his throat and rotated his neck with a crack. ‘But I wonder how well little Ben and Amy will handle it?’
He looked down at her and her saw her looking at him, eyes changing. Was it fear? Worry? Panic? Albright couldn’t tell for sure.
A second later, he realized it was something different entirely. The look on Sarah Cole’s face was rage, plain and simple.
The cry of Amy, the look on the blond man’s face, his direct threat to her children; all of it immediately erased all of the pain, the fear, the shock, replacing them with anger.
Ignoring the pain, Sarah leapt up from the floor, supercharged on the adrenaline which was flooding her body, and attacked, her hands sliding their way up to Albright’s face, scratching the skin, her thumbs finding his eyes; she felt the left thumb slip into the socket and she tugged at the soft, gooey flesh there.