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.
36
Dorrell was on his feet, standing in front of the wall-to-wall window of armoured glass that dominated his office, looking out at the view. Not that the view out of any of the windows at the Agency’s Headquarters was anything to write home about.
But Dorrell hated to take phone calls from behind his desk, even when the caller was the President of the United States himself. ‘Jim, how are ya?’ greeted President Stephen Abrams effusively.
‘Good sir thank – ’
Abrams cut him off immediately. ‘Stop it with the sir crap, Jim. You know that pisses me off. We’re friends. Call me Stephen, at least when we’re on a secure phone line. How long have we known each other?’
Dorrell smiled. They had known each other for – how long? A long time anyway, that was for sure. But Stephen Abrams was the President of the world’s largest superpower, and calling him by his first name just didn’t seem right, especially for a military man like Dorrell. And so he decided to compromise; he just wouldn’t call him anything.
‘I’m good thanks, how are you?’ Dorrell finally offered.
‘Good thanks Jim, real good. How are things going there in Langley?’
So this wasn’t just a social call. Dorrell had doubted that it would be. ‘Things are okay,’ he said evasively.
‘Any news about Bill?’ Abrams persisted.
‘We’ve checked everything. His office files, his home files, but –’ An insistent bleeping sound filled the room, transmitted from the secure phone’s base unit on the desk; a call on Line Two providing a merciful interruption. ‘Sorry, I’m gonna have to get that, the beeping won’t stop ‘til I do.’
‘Sure, no problem,’ Abrams said graciously. ‘I’ll wait.’
Dorrell switched immediately to the next call. He knew Abrams would not mind, that he would understand that any call coming over the CIA Director’s secure line could potentially be a matter of life and death.
‘Dorrell,’ he answered bluntly, before listening intently for several moments. ‘Hold on,’ he then asked the caller, switching back to Abrams. ‘Sorry, I’m going to have to take this call,’ he explained matter-of-factly.
‘Hey, not a problem Jim, let me know if I can help,’ the President said kindly. But Dorrell had already cut him off, and was back to the caller on Line Two, to whom he gave his undivided attention.
37
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 worcested 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 his 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.
38
Hansard’s private jet had just cleared the east coast of England when Adam Gregory was patched through, appearing on the communications screen in the main cabin.
‘Morning Noel,’ he said cheerfully enough, although the sunken look of the eyes told Hansard that his esteemed leader had indulged in one too many cocktails the night before.
‘Good morning Adam. Sorry I didn’t have time to say my farewells last night, but I had an early flight,’ explained Hansard diffidently.
‘Oh, don’t worry about that,’ Gregory allowed. ‘Just a quick one Noel, I know you’ve got a lot on.’ Hansard saw that Gregory took a swallow of water from a large glass next to him before continuing. ‘My next meeting with Danko is in just under an hour. Did you have any luck with his intelligence men at the do last night?’ he asked hopefully.
Hansard nodded his head carefully. ‘Yes, I think I may have had some qualified success.’
Gregory looked encouraged, but concern soon clouded his features. ‘Why qualified?’ he asked.
Hansard lit his pipe and took a couple of puffs before answering. ‘I spoke to General Vladimir Pushkin, Head of the FSB, as well as his Army counterpart, General Alexander Federov. I also spoke to several others at various points of the evening. I believe I may have managed to convince them of the inadvisability of Danko’s attitude to the situation.’ Indeed, Hansard was sure he had convinced them. After all, the role of an ERA/Chinese conflict in this adventure was soon to be at an end. And it was certainly advantageous for the world to see Gregory as the man to have stabilised things; it would put him in an even stronger position for the next phase.
‘Even the hardliners amongst them have realised the futility of a conflict with China, especially with no direct evidence,’ Hansard continued. ‘All these men are close advisors of President Danko, and all of them share our concerns. I say my success was qualified, however, because I cannot guarantee that they will have courage enough of their convictions to actually approach Danko with a view to changing his approach.’ Taking another puff of his pipe, Hansard added casually, ‘But if they have done so, then I think you will find your meeting today will go in the right direction.’
‘Thank you Noel,’ Gregory said earnestly. ‘We may yet be able to drag our way out of this mess, eh?’
‘Yes,’ Hansard replied, nodding sagely, ‘perhaps we may.’
39
Dorrell broke the connection and stood perfectly still for some moments, staring pensively out of the window. What the fuck was going on? And just what exactly should he be
doing about it?
Eventually he started to envisage his plan of action, and strode purposefully over to the intercom on his desk. After the buzz, his secretary answered. ‘Yes, sir?’
‘Miss Harkins, get Harry Trencher up to my office immediately.’ Although they had worked together closely for the past three years, since Dorrell had assumed the CIA Directorship, they still used the terms ‘Sir’ and ‘Miss Harkins’ whenever they spoke to one another. Dorrell preferred it that way.
‘Yes, sir. Right away,’ she replied efficiently. At the age of fifty-four, Margaret Harkins did not object to the formality. She had served as personal secretary for the past six Directors, and had been at Langley longer than almost anyone, starting in the administrative typing pool just after she had turned seventeen. And she had seen all manner of people occupying Dorrell’s position in the intervening time, all with their own little idiosyncrasies and peculiarities. Dorrell, she figured, was just one more.
As Dorrell sank down into the large armchair behind his desk, he was wholly unaware of his secretary’s opinions. All he could think, bleakly, was what next?
40
Tarr had appeared at Sarah’s doorstep at six that evening, a big smile on his huge face.
‘Phil!’ Sarah had said in surprise, opening the shutter and giving him a hug. ‘How are you? You should have called to let me know you were coming!’
‘Sorry Sarah, I didn’t know I’d be coming myself less than an hour ago,’ Tarr said truthfully.
Sarah’s face dropped. ‘Mark?’ she said quietly.
‘Mark’s fine, I promise,’ Tarr assured her. ‘He just wanted me to come round to keep an eye on things for him until he gets back.’ He looked around from side to side. ‘Can I come in?’ he asked.
Sarah suddenly seemed to remember herself. ‘Oh, what was I thinking? Come in, come in! The kids are already in bed,’ she explained as she led the big man into the house, ‘but they’ll be so happy to see you in the morning.’ She led him into the kitchen. ‘Can I get you a drink?’ she asked, still annoyed at herself for keeping him standing at the front porch like that.
Tarr smiled. ‘I think I’ll have one of Mark’s little imports,’ he replied, and Sarah went to get him a bottle of Guinness from the fridge. She needn’t have worried about offending him. It wasn’t Sarah’s impropriety that had made him prompt her to let him in, but the slight concern he had about the pin-prick of light he could detect out to sea. Probably nothing, but he had lived his entire life with a healthy dose of paranoia that had steered him through with relative safety thus far; and a vessel anchored off the coast of Cayman Brac with a direct line of sight to the Cole house could be a potential problem.
It was a good job Cole had called him, he decided.
Dan Albright didn’t like the fact that the yacht’s side lights 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.
But who was this? Albright wondered as his second in command, Ben Daly, tapped him on the shoulder before passing him the night-vision binoculars. He saw the big man walk up the long path to the front door. No sign of a vehicle, Albright noticed. Who was he? Albright wondered again. He was certainly big, that was for sure; he had the muscular build of a long-time weightlifter. And he seemed to be aware, as well. Sharp. At one point on his walk along the path, the man looked out to sea. He didn’t break his stride, but Albright wondered if they’d been spotted. They were a long way out from shore, but these damn lights!
Albright decided to call it in. Punching in the code on his radio, he got the control desk in London, who patched him through to his commander. ‘Sir, we have a male approaching the Cole household. He’s at the door now, obviously a friend, he’s now entering the house. Mrs Cole is no longer on her own, repeat, there is an unidentified man now in the house with Sarah Cole and the two children.’ Albright listened intently to his orders over the secure radio link. ‘Yes sir, understood,’ he responded.
Passing the binoculars back to Daly, Albright descended the stairs into the living quarters, which were set up as an impromptu surveillance centre. He ordered the man at the recording equipment to rewind the footage of the last couple of minutes, until they finally got a clear print of the unidentified man’s face as he stared out towards the boat. ‘Send that to London,’ Albright said, smiling.
They would know who this man was within the hour.
41
Three hours after he’d been summoned to Dorrell’s office, Harry Trencher returned to his own. Unlike the Directorates of Operations and Intelligence, which were situated in the main headquarters building, Trencher’s department had a small block of its own, ferreted away out of sight behind the small hill at the far side of the giant parking lot. He and his staff kept to themselves over there, as part of their remit was to remain separate from the rest of the CIA machinery; all the better to keep a watchful eye over it.
Although already subject to Congressional oversight, the CIA was always open to charges of illegal operations, corruption, embezzlement of slush funds, and various other questionable practices, and so Dorrell’s predecessor had sensibly established the Department of Internal Affairs, of which Harry Trencher was Director. It was thought prudent, in any instances of ‘irregular behaviour’, to have the capability to clear things up in-house, before Congressional oversight committees – and, more importantly, the press – ever got started. Since the department’s inception, public scandals had fallen to almost zero, and the CIA’s reputation was, as far as it had ever been in its long history, rather favourable.
The department was therefore an absolutely vital part of the modern CIA, and it was operated like the majority of police Internal Affairs agencies. And like the officers of those particular police departments, the men of the CIA’s own Department of Internal Affairs were skilled, reliable and conscientious – and almost without exception hated by the rest of the CIA staff, which was another reason they were located in their own building.
As Trencher entered his outer-office on the building’s second floor, his secretary greeted him. ‘Hi Harry, how did it go with - ’
‘Get me Moses and Arnold in my office right away,’ he interrupted, before storming through the door into his office proper.
Julie Simons, Trencher’s personal secretary of fifteen years, was somewhat taken aback. Harry was never normally like that; he was, on the whole, the most considerate of men. Something terribly important must have come up, she decided.
Suddenly, she felt foolish for wasting precious seconds. She immediately picked up her phone, punching in a quick-dial number. ‘It’s Julie,’ she said urgently as soon as the phone was picked up. ‘Where are Moses and Arnold?’
42
Cole was up early. He ordered a full English breakfast and a pot of strong coffee, which he asked to be brought to his room – the less people that saw him at the hotel the better – and occupied himself with carefully pressing his new clothes whilst he waited.
The breakfast came at just after seven o’clock, and Cole turned on the television as he ate, sitting himself at the small oval table at the far side of the room. Flicking through the channels, he came to Sky News, and left it on. After the business update, he saw what he wanted – an update on the ERA situation.
He watched for several minutes, his knife and fork ceasing their movement for the duration of the report.
This was interesting. It seemed Gregory had been in Moscow for emergency talks with Danko, and progress was apparently being made. Danko appeared outside the Kremlin for an interview with the press, and the news channel showed a short excerpt. ‘My talks with Mr Gregory have been very fruitful,’ he said confidently. ‘He has highlighted certain issues which we need to address, and I am confident that the situation will soon be resolved.’
>
The scene then switched to Gregory, evidently as he was about to board RAF One for the journey home. He appeared satisfied and content as he spoke. ‘The meetings with President Danko have gone well,’ he enthused, ‘and he was receptive to our message. A joint statement from ERA can be expected by this evening.’
As the view switched back to the studio commentators, Cole started back on his breakfast. It looked like his mission had been a success, he thought with a smile.
43
The report came through to Albright just fifty minutes after his request. He read it thoughtfully for several minutes.
Philip Tarr, forty-seven years old, owner of the Brac Restaurant and Bar, and the P. T. Dive School on Cayman Brac. Moved here three years ago from London, where he was evidently involved in property. Never served in the military. No criminal record to speak of.
Albright read on, before putting the report down on the small trestle table by his side. A nobody, he decided finally. Nobody that would pose a threat, anyway.
44
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 SIS 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 UK’s intelligence services.
Seven Day Hero Page 11
