But, Cole wondered, could there be another reason that Crozier’s death had not been mentioned? Could he have failed in his mission? Could Crozier have lived?
Cole silenced the doubt as soon as it arose. He knew the man could not have lived. At the cemetery, Cole had struck three of Crozier’s vital nerve points, in quick succession. As he’d stepped ‘accidentally’ backwards into Crozier, the point of his elbow hit a nerve inside the man’s forearm, next to the long radiobrachialis muscle. It was fairly harmless in itself, but Cole’s steel-like fingertips had then grasped one of the series of nerves lying near the medial deltoid muscle of the shoulder, and he had then lightly tapped the Seventh Cranial nerve near the hinge of the jaw.
After the initial impact felt by Crozier when Cole had stepped back into him, the next two nerve manipulations had appeared to be nothing more alarming than natural moves by Cole to check if the man he’d bumped into was okay. But they had made the initial, otherwise harmless strike into a deadly one, interrupting the flow of blood to both the brain and the heart with devastating effect. Cole knew the results would not be instant, but also knew they would be permanent. After the incident, Cole had estimated that Crozier’s death would occur approximately one hour later.
Such nerve strikes were known to the Chinese as dim mak, and to the Japanese as atemi; to the Indians, from whom Cole had learned the art, it was known as marma ardi. To its adepts, the title didn’t matter, only the results. Depending upon the skill of the practitioner, these could range from temporary paralysis, to instant death, to a certain death, delayed up to several hours. It was a deadly art indeed, and Cole had learned its secrets well.
Having studied martial arts from his youth, Cole had thought only of strength and aggression; he had had little time for rumours of such mystic ways. He had won countless fights with basic moves, honed through thousands of repetitions, and with a brutal and aggressive application of those moves. He had trusted nothing that couldn’t be both learned, and retained, easily. But that was before his capture in Pakistan, and before he’d met Panickar Thilak, an Indian ‘cross-border terrorist’ who had occupied the cell next to him for over a year. Panickar had shown him that such skills were no myth; they were real, and could be used.
Knowledge of such a skill was what now made Cole such a valuable asset for the British government, and to Hansard. ‘Enemies of the state’ could now be killed cleanly, effectively, and with no indication as to how it had been done – no alien chemicals in the body, no severed brake lines, no accidental ‘falls’ in front of speeding trains. Just a heart attack, a stroke, a brain haemorrhage. Unfortunate, but often just an unavoidable part of life, and unworthy of further investigation. And all Cole had to do was get close to them.
As Cole took another sip of his Guinness, he closed the paper and placed it back on the table next to him. No, thought Cole, Crozier was dead. He never failed.
It was nearly ten o’clock when Hansard entered the reception lobby, Stern at his side. There was no search or metal-detector check-in for him, Cole noticed. An assistant came out to greet him, taking the coat from his shoulders before he ventured through the archway into the lounge.
Leaning on his ebony cane and puffing on his pipe, Hansard scanned the room, his eyes lighting up as they met with Cole’s. He said something quietly in Stern’s ear, and the big man nodded grudgingly and moved across to the end of the bar. He pulled up a stool and sat down, all the while looking sullenly across at Cole, who ignored him.
As Hansard approached, Cole stood to greet him. Hansard propped his cane against a nearly chair and offered his hand, which Cole took. ‘Well, old boy, looks like you’ve done it again. Got confirmation last night.’ He nodded at Cole approvingly. ‘Good man.’
So Cole had been right; there was nothing to worry about. Crozier was dead.
‘May I?’ Hansard said, gesturing to the chair near Cole upon which his cane rested.
Cole looked surprised. ‘Here?’ he asked.
Hansard sat down into the armchair and was followed, reluctantly, by Cole. A brandy was brought over immediately by the attentive barman. ‘My dear boy,’ Hansard began soothingly, ‘would you rather we had our little discussion in one of the interview rooms? Despite my influence, whatever we said there would be recorded and filmed. Likewise outside these walls,’ he continued. ‘You know nowhere is safe from Echelon.’ Cole nodded his head. The Echelon eavesdropping system was indeed an incredible technological marvel. As well as scanning every voice and electronic message sent around the world, its ingenious systems could turn anything into a voice recorder; it could take over the power of a mobile telephone and activate its internal microphone, or it could translate the reverberations of a pane of glass in a restaurant into voices. It was an incredible weapon, and Cole knew that if Hansard wanted the conversation recorded, there was nothing he could do to stop him.
‘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 dear Major, we are now, quite literally, in the most secure location in England. We may discuss whatsoever we may 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.
‘Major, 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 Deputy Director of the Central Intelligence Agency of the United States of America. And we killed him. Now what do you think would happen if the Americans 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 British 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, Major. 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 and took another sip of his pint. He never told anyone the details of his missions; that was the point, wasn’t it? They used him for missions so that the government could have plausible denial. But maybe
, Cole started to wonder, Hansard was right – maybe there was something that he may 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.’
49
Ted Moses and Charles Arnold finally entered Trencher’s office shortly after six in the morning. Moses had arrived over an hour earlier, but had waited in the outer office at Trencher’s direction, as he wanted to speak to the two men together.
Trencher looked up from the clutter on his desk as the two men came into the room. He was always struck by the dichotomy of the two men, and this morning it was even more pronounced than usual.
Moses was dressed in a smart, if conservative, business suit, his shoes tired and worn but polished, nevertheless. Trencher could see that, despite the early hour, the man was cleanly shaven, his moustache neatly trimmed.
Arnold was also dressed in a suit, but it carried a Brioni designer label. Gold dripped from his wrists and neck. Trencher had told him countless times not to wear such expensive jewellery to work – it went against the whole ethos of the Internal Affairs Department – but Arnold kept on doing it. It was his style, he said, and he wouldn’t change it for anyone. He wore no tie, Trencher also noted, but at least it looked like the man had tried to shave, although the result was hardly what could be described as smooth.
But it wasn’t their dress sense that really separated the two partners; it was their total physical dissimilarity. Ted Moses was black, tall – six feet five inches according to his personnel file – and muscular. He’d been an offensive tackle for the at high school, and had been about to turn pro before a bad hip injury put paid to the idea. But the NFL’s loss was the Agency’s gain. The man looked as if he could intimidate a rhino.
Arnold, on the other hand, was white, short – not quite five feet six in his stockinged feet – and extremely slim. But whatever he lacked in size, he more than made up for in naked aggression. In fact, although initial appearances would indicate that Moses would be the partner to be wary of, the reality was that he was the calm one, a well-balanced and peaceful family man. It was Arnold who people really had to watch out for. He was what the CIA on-site psychologists called a ‘Type A, success-orientated individual with a forceful persona,’ but what everyone else described as ‘a psychotic little midget.’
But whatever the physical characteristics and psychological profiles of the two men, the fact was that as a team they were unparalleled in their investigative work. They were the best men Trencher had; and now, more than ever, he needed the best.
‘Glad you could join us,’ Trencher said to Arnold, only half-jokingly. ‘You look as bad as I feel.’
‘Yeah?’ Arnold replied in his slow Southern drawl. ‘And I reckon I feel even worse than I look. What’s all this about, sir?’
Trencher gestured for the two men to sit down. He thought it was a good idea before Arnold fell down. As the agents settled themselves onto the chairs across the desk from Trencher, he picked up his phone and dialled an internal number. ‘Tom? Glad you’re still here. Bring three coffees to my office will you? Strong, black, lots of sugar. Thanks.’ He replaced the receiver and looked across at the two men. ‘Right,’ he said positively, ‘I’ll get straight to the point. Sorry to have to drag you both in like this, but we have something of a situation here, and it’s something that’s going to have to be dealt with quickly and, more importantly, quietly. We cannot afford to mess this up, gentlemen.’
‘So what’s the score, sir?’ asked Moses in his deep voice, like rolling thunder.
Trencher held the eyes of both men. ‘It’s to do with the ERA and China situation,’ he said matter-of-factly. He saw the look of confusion on the faces of both men.
‘Sir, what’s – ’ Arnold began, but Trencher cut him off.
‘What do you know about the situation?’ he asked them.
Arnold spoke first, and gave a concise, but quite complete, précis of the publicly available information, his monologue interrupted only briefly by the arrival of coffee. Trencher was impressed. Arnold might have been hauled, half-cut on whisky, out of a nightclub at the other end of the country just three hours before, but his mind was as sharp as ever.
‘That about sums it up, yes,’ Trencher agreed.
‘But what does it have to do with CIA Internal Affairs, sir?’ Arnold asked, although he was beginning to suspect that he knew the answer.
‘After the incident,’ Trencher began, ‘the Head of the British SIS asked us, along with various other agencies, to help try and identify the terrorist suspects. We agreed, of course, as we’re still on good terms with the Brits.’
Moses and Arnold nodded their heads; they both knew where this was going.
‘Yesterday,’ Trencher continued, ‘one of our analysts in the DI was running photographs of the dead men through his computer, checking them against known foreign agents we have on our files. It wasn’t turning up anything.’ Trencher’s throat was drying up, and he took a sip of the sweet black coffee. ‘The analyst was then visited by a friend – Paul Richmond, from the Special Projects Group at the DO.’ Moses and Arnold exchanged knowing looks, but said nothing. ‘He happened to take a look at the photos on the computer . . . and he happened to recognise the men on those photos.’
‘Shit,’ Moses said simply.
‘Shit indeed,’ Trencher confirmed. ‘Turns out that Richmond had recruited them, about eighteen months ago.’
‘Recruited them for what?’ asked Arnold immediately.
‘He didn’t know. It was all compartmentalized. His instructions at the time were to interview illegal Chinese immigrants to the US who were currently being held in custody, and select two dozen men with the best physical and mental aptitudes, preferably those with prior military training.’
‘And?’ prompted Arnold.
‘And offer them US citizenship if they would perform a mission for the US government.’
‘Shit,’ Moses repeated morosely.
‘Who did Richmond report to?’ Arnold asked.
Trencher cleared his throat before answering. ‘Bill Crozier,’ he said finally.
‘Who conveniently died yesterday,’ Arnold continued for him. ‘We don’t like coincidences, sir.’
‘Me neither. I’ve already asked Dorrell to order a search of all of Bill’s files, both here and at his home. Nothing’s been found so far. If he did have any involvement in the mission, he was very careful to cover his tracks.’
‘Sir,’ Arnold began, now looking fully alert as if he’d had a good ten hours sleep the night before, ‘with Crozier’s death occurring at such a time, we can’t rule out the possibility that he was working on the orders of someone else, and he was just a loose end they wanted to tie up.’
Trencher was nodding his head. ‘The thought already occurred to me. He appears to have died of a heart attack, but who knows? I’ve ordered the lab to perform a full autopsy, I’ll keep you posted on the results.’
‘Good,’ Arnold said. ‘We’re going to have to talk to Richmond immediately. Where is he?’
Trencher’s spirits were rising. The men were good. He didn’t have to spell out for them just how delicate a situation this was. They instinctively knew. Atomic war had been threatened when China was involved; Heaven only knew what would happen if America’s involvement was made public.
‘At home. Here’s the address.’ He pushed across a piece of paper to the two men. Moses picked it up, gave it a brief glance, then pocketed it.
The men rose to leave. They both knew that time was critical. Trencher was pleased at their eagerness to get on with the job, but he needed to have one last word with them. ‘Guys, at this moment in time there ar
e only four men in the world who know what we’re doing – the three of us and Dorrell. Even the President hasn’t been made aware of it yet, and he won’t be until we have some concrete information. It would seem there has been some sort of illegal CIA paramilitary operation, but we just cannot know how far up the chain of command it was authorized. And we have to find out before ERA does.’ He looked at the two men. ‘Do you understand?’
Moses and Arnold both understood, and saw no point in wasting more time on words. They simply turned and left the office; their mission had already started and the clock was ticking.
50
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, Major. 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, Major,’ he said eventually, as Cole started to cut into the delicate meat in front of him.
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