Authors: JT Brannan
STOP AT NOTHING: 'Mark Cole is Bond's US cousin mixed with the balls out action and killing edge of Jason Bourne' Parmenion Books (7 page)
Fifteen minutes after this, Cole had visited his children, asleep in their rooms, and kissed them goodbye. He didn’t wake them; Sarah would explain things to them in the morning. He had stared at them for a time though, gaining strength from their peacefulness. It was a calm that came only from innocence – they had not yet encountered the brutal reality of the world, as their father had. And he knew he had to succeed in his task, so that the innocent could continue to sleep untroubled.
And now he stood in the doorway, a light leather holdall in his hand, his car waiting for him outside. ‘Remember what to do if I make the call?’ he asked Sarah, who stood with him in the doorway, the cool breeze of the sea blowing blissfully over them.
‘Of course I do, honey,’ she answered. He had, after all, gone to great lengths to explain it to her; her exact actions should Cole ever be compromised on a mission. She knew the drills, and had practised them regularly under her husband’s direction. ‘But you know talk like that makes me nervous.’
Cole held her face in his hands, looking directly into her eyes. ‘Don’t worry, baby,’ he said with genuine feeling. ‘I’ll be back before you know it. I promise.’
Then Cole kissed away the single tear that rolled down her cheek, turned, and was gone.
Cole smiled at the young lady behind the check-in desk, handing over his passport as he did so. He looked, now, sufficiently like the photograph so as to arouse no concern – mousy blond hair, acne scars, thick-rimmed glasses – not that the girl gave it more than a cursory glance anyway.
More stringent would be the checks at passport control, but even biometric data could be forged, and Cole knew he would be presented with no problems. Thousands of people flew between Grand Cayman and Miami every week, and New Zealand citizen Brandon Clarke, whose identity Cole had now assumed, was just one more casual traveller.
‘Any luggage, Mr Clarke?’ the young lady, whose badge read Aretha Gibson, enquired cheerfully.
Cole patted the leather holdall next to him. ‘Just this,’ he replied. Whenever he travelled on a mission, he knew never to say too much, but also never too little; just enough to go through whatever motions were required of him. He left no lasting impression; just another face in a sea of faces, instantly forgettable.
Aretha gestured to the scales. ‘Just place your bag there please, sir.’ Cole placed down his holdall, smiling inwardly. She had already forgotten his name. The small ten kilogram bag easily passed the baggage allowance, and then Aretha went into her routine of asking if he had any prohibited items – razor blades, sprays, liquids, the list went on and on. Cole merely shook his head and said ‘No.’ It always amazed him that such precautions were taken. It seemed to him that all it did was make things harder for law-abiding, everyday passengers; any terrorist that wanted to get a weapon on board could easily do so, with only a modicum of planning.
He thought back to the time his SEAL section had been tasked with testing security between Heathrow and JFK. He and his three men had managed to board a 747 en route to New York with fake passports, three Glock semiautomatic handguns, one Heckler und Koch MP5K submachine gun, four combat knives, and enough C4 plastic explosive to destroy the entire airport, never mind one single plane. When they got through customs at New York with not even so much as a sign of suspicion, they had revealed to a disbelieving security staff exactly what they had managed to transport across the Atlantic.
The response was typical, and came as no surprise to Cole. The exercise was declared null and void because Cole and his team had ‘cheated’. The security had been told to expect them on a certain flight, and had concentrated their resources on that. Cole had seen the easy trap and therefore chosen another flight. Wouldn’t terrorists have done the same? asked Cole at the debrief. Because people that want to blow up aeroplanes do not generally play by the rules. But the airport authorities had ignored the facts that stared them directly in the face and, once again, had learnt nothing from what could have been a productive exercise; and international passage for men like Cole was still as easy as ever.
Aretha smiled again at Cole, handing over his passport, along with his ticket and boarding pass. ‘Thank you, sir. Have a nice flight.’
Cole smiled back, but not too much. ‘Thanks,’ he said simply, but cheerfully enough. And with that, Brandon Clarke made his way to the departure lounge.
Miami International Airport, even at quarter past one in the morning, was a chaotic cacophony of noise and sight; from the regular, monotone electronic announcements over the Tannoy, to the incessant pleading of parents trying in vain to placate their screaming children, to the roar of the big jets themselves out on the runways, everything conspired to destroy any vestige of peace or serenity.
Cole himself sat quietly, having chosen the end seat of a row fixed to a wall, facing out into the departure lounge. He never liked to sit on ‘exposed’ seating, especially in such busy public areas. He much preferred to sit with his back to something solid, so he didn’t have to worry about what was behind him. For the same reason, he would not sit in the middle of the row. A single seat would draw attention towards him however, and so he always sat at the end of a row; at least then he only had to worry about people to one side of him.
The large LCD screen suspended from the ceiling suddenly drew his attention. It was showing CNN, which ran the banner headline ‘ASIAN BLOW UP? WHY RUSSIA AND CHINA MAY SOON BE AT WAR.’ Under the banner, footage played of the attacks in Stockholm, interspliced with the recent speeches made by Vasilev Danko and Tsang Feng.
As the footage was replaced with studio commentators sombrely discussing the situation, Cole couldn’t help thinking:
not good. Not good at all.
Cole felt the huge mass of the aeroplane shifting as its aerofoils engaged and it began to shed altitude on its slow decent towards Washington.
But the feeling was almost totally ignored by Cole. The body felt the change in pressure, heard the slightly higher whine of the jet engines, sensed the change of his position in space relative to gravity; and the mind interpreted these sensations, recognized they posed no danger or threat, and summarily dismissed them.
For Cole’s mind was locked on something more important. He had spent most of the flight engaged in a thorough mental rehearsal of his mission, visualizing with perfect clarity his every move, every action. Such was his concentration on creating the perfect mental picture, he could actually feel the cold, biting wind of the DC winter numbing his exposed face; could see the kneeling form of Crozier with vivid detail; could feel his heart rate rise with the unavoidable burst of adrenaline as he reached out towards him.
Cole had practised this particular form of psychological rehearsal from an early age. His parents had taken him to his first karate class when he was six years old, and he had taken naturally to the rigorous training. One aspect he had enjoyed from the start was the traditional art of kata; prearranged moves organised into set forms that could be practised alone. His sensei had told him that the key to success at kata was to imagine his opponents in his mind’s eye, in as much detail as possible. Unknown to the instructor, he was teaching the young Cole visualization techniques that would be at the forefront of sports psychology in the years to come. The skill served Cole well, and he took it with him into other sports, including judo and boxing. He enjoyed great success in his youthful competitive career, and rarely lost a fight. And he soon discovered that such a skill was directly transferable into everyday life, and was not just confined to the sporting arena.
As the Airbus lowered its landing gear on its final run, Cole came to the end of his last rehearsal. And the result was identical in every way to the last dozen times he had been through it; the mission successfully accomplished, with the quiet death of William Crozier.
By the time Cole left the arrivals lounge at Reagan National Airport, the first glimmers of the dull winter sun were just struggling over the horizon, throwing a greyish cast over the large parking lot towards which he was headed.
He had experienced no problems with security at this airport either, despite the increased alert status that always occurred around the holiday period. As he crunched through the thin layer of snow towards the Chrysler he had just hired from the Hertz desk in the foyer, he adjusted the huge bunch of flowers he had also just purchased, swapping them to the same hand that carried his holdall. It was force of habit to always keep one hand free, and Cole was a creature of habit. Habits like that had ensured his survival on a number of occasions, and he did not believe in taking chances unless absolutely necessary.
Cole soon saw the medium-sized grey sedan, and quickly verified the licence plate number with that provided by the hire agency. The car was like Cole himself – nondescript, unmemorable. Just another dull grey sedan like so many other thousands that trawled the streets of Washington. He blipped the central locking and opened the passenger door, laying the flowers on the seat and the holdall in the foot well.
Next, he spent some time walking around the car, checking it over carefully. The last thing he needed was to get a flat tyre halfway towards his destination.
Finally satisfied, he climbed into the driver’s side, inserted his key and fired up the engine. The driving computer flashed to life, and he set the heater to full. Damn, it was cold. The computer then offered him the option of satellite navigation to his destination, but Cole chose the radio instead; he had already memorized the route, and didn’t want there to be any chance of the rental company tracking where he’d been once he returned the car.
Without further pause, Cole put the car into gear and pulled out of the parking lot, heading from the airport out towards Interstate 95, which would take him to his rendezvous with Bill Crozier.
The big Cadillac pulled along the gravel driveway of the Four Lakes Cemetery, rolling along at a respectful 3mph.
In the driver’s seat, Sam Hitchens aimed the car between two of the ornamental lakes, heading towards the set of gravestones by the third, larger lake. He once again thought about how hard Crozier made his job. He liked the man, that was for sure, but he thought some of the demands he made were entirely unreasonable. Such as wanting his bodyguard to also be his driver. None of the other top CIA guys just had one man with them; they all had bodyguards
and
drivers at the very least. But not Bill Crozier. Sometimes Hitchens thought that his boss didn’t feel that he deserved such protection. But that was just silly, Hitchens decided.
Another objection Hitchens had was his boss’s insistence on visiting his wife’s grave at 7:30 every morning. Hitchens had always felt it was unwise, and un
safe
in the extreme to follow such an obvious schedule. But in the end, his opinion didn’t really matter, and Hitchens just had to do the best he could with the circumstances he was given. Besides which, Crozier had been a decorated Captain in the 82
nd
, and as a former All American himself, Hitchens felt a strong bond with the NCS Director.
As the armoured vehicle rolled to a stop on the high lane that sat above the row of graves on the east side of the big lake, Hitchens noticed a man by one of the headstones, kneeling in the cold snow and placing a large bunch of flowers on the white ground in front of the grave. He seemed to be deep in prayer.
As Crozier got out of the car, Hitchens followed suit. Crozier threw the man a sharp look. ‘What are you doing? Stay in the car.’
Hitchens came over to Crozier. ‘I know that’s your rule, boss, but there’s a guy down there at the next grave over. I’ll go check him out, then I’ll come back and stay in the car.’
Crozier looked genuinely outraged. ‘You’ll do no such thing!’ he said quietly, but forcefully. ‘That man is offering his respects for a loved one. Don’t you
dare
disturb him!’
Hitchens sighed to himself in resignation. ‘Then will you at least wait in the car until he’s finished?’
‘I have a meeting with Dorrell in less than an hour,’ explained Crozier patiently, as if to a child. ‘So no, I cannot wait. Now get back in the car. I’ll be ten minutes.’
From his position in front of the gravestone, Cole had heard the noise of the Cadillac as it pulled onto the lane up the hill behind him. He had heard one door open, then the other, and then some exchanged words. What were they saying? Would they wait for him to move on? Would Crozier’s bodyguard come down with him? Cole sincerely hoped not.
He had read of Crozier’s habitual custom of visiting his wife’s grave from surveillance reports collated by the French secret service. Mary Elizabeth Crozier had died at the age of thirty-six in a car crash, had been pronounced dead at the scene. That had been seventeen years ago, and Crozier had been crushed by the incident. Many people had said that he could have got the Directorship of the whole CIA had his mind not been distracted by the tragedy.
The French intelligence report had other interesting information, including the fact that he had kept no close company since the accident, was a borderline alcoholic, was what the psychological profile labelled a ‘dependant obsessive’, but who was also extremely good at his job, perhaps looking to lose himself in his work. The report also said that Crozier’s bodyguard, Samuel Hitchens, always stayed with the vehicle on these visits.
And now what would happen? Would Hitchens accompany Crozier? Would they just call off the visit? Cole thought not. His own analysis of the man was that Crozier was not the sort to be perturbed by the presence of a fellow mourner; indeed, he would probably sympathize.
And so, as he knelt opposite the frozen lake in the cold, wet snow that had started to soak through the material of his trouser legs, he hoped that his reading of the man had been right.