Seven Day Hero

by J. T. Brannan

  It would be tough, but Cole thought Sarah and Tarr would be able to lose their tails; the route Cole had planed for them was good, and they had practised the drills many times.

  He thought about Ben and Amy, wondering how they were doing, whether they realized things were bad, or whether Sarah’s brave face was convincing them that it was all just a fabulous adventure.

  He snapped himself out of his reverie instants later; he couldn’t afford to lose his concentration for a moment. If he was killed or captured, he knew Hansard would have no more need for Sarah and the children; and so maybe he would kill them to tie up the loose ends, or maybe he would just let them go, but Cole couldn’t afford to take the risk. He had to keep himself safe, if his family was to have a chance.

  Ten minutes later, Cole was glad that he had kept his senses alert. Noises, but faint – footsteps? He listened closer, tuning himself totally to the environment.

  Two men, moving slowly, methodically. Doing what? Cole listened harder as he pulled himself up again under the Toyota. Checking cars; they were checking cars! Cole cursed silently. He didn’t know whether it was a routine security patrol, ordered to makes extra sweeps to check for the ‘escaped terrorist’, or whether they were Hansard’s own men. If they were the latter, Cole was under no illusions that their orders would be to kill him; Hansard wanted him dead, so why bother with arrest, or other half-measures? No, he had to assume that the men were armed agents, intending to silence him. It would mean quite a drastic change of plan, but Cole was an adaptable man; he had learnt early in his career the veracity of the claim that ‘no plan survives contact with the enemy’.

  He waited silently, gauging the position of the two men. They were to his left, perhaps two rows over, about thirty feet back – two car lengths, maybe three.

  He briefly contemplated killing them, but quickly thought better of it. Hiding the bodies would be too problematical, and there was the possibility that they were just ordinary security guards. Hansard’s agents may have been valid targets, but civilians were decidedly not.

  Pausing under the car until he was confident the two men were in motion, walking, and not crouching down to peer under the vehicles, he eventually lowered himself back down to the floor and rolled silently across the cold metal. He passed through the wheels of the next three rows of vehicles to his right, away from the men. There were now five rows between them, so even if they did decide to check underneath the cars, he would be well hidden.

  Just one row further and there was the containing wall of this particular parking sector. Two car lengths up from his present position there were two doors, placed just six feet apart. One, Cole could see, led to the main passenger levels above. The other, labelled ‘No Entry’, and for ‘authorized personnel’ only, Cole knew from his prior experiences led to the service areas below, including the engine rooms.

  Remembering his earlier appraisal, Cole was still reluctant to enter the service areas; wearing civilian clothing, his presence would soon arouse the wrong sort of attention.

  The passenger levels above were not much better, but would give him more opportunity to blend in. Besides which, if there were two agents down here, then there were less likely to be any above. If, Cole reminded himself, these guys are Hansard’s men. He would have to keep a low profile anyway, in case there were others; perhaps do a subtle counter-surveillance run, then find a nice quiet place to hide out. Then maybe just join the crowds when the electronic announcement for people to return to their vehicles came over the PA system, and get lost in the masses. He doubted anyone would be able to spot him in such a vast sea of faces.

  He was equally sure that he would be able to slip under another car for the outward journey when back in the parking lot, again without anyone noticing. Most people are so completely unaware of their environment and anything that goes on around them that Cole would have found it laughable, if it wasn’t that same lack of awareness that terrorists – indeed, criminals of any kind – relied upon for their continued success.

  Again waiting patiently until he could sense the men were moving, mercifully away from him, he finally moved. Keeping at a low crouch, he moved noiselessly up the row of cars until he was parallel to the public access door. Dropping once more to the metal floor, he then rolled under the last set of wheels straight towards the door, his hand snaking up immediately for the handle.

  Pulling the door open slowly, he used the handle to pull himself up and through the thick doorway, only reaching his full height when he was through to the corridor, the big metal door pulling shut behind him. He didn’t know whether the two men had seen him for the precious half-second before the door shut fully, but he had other things to worry about now – mainly, how he was going to avoid any other agents that might be stationed anywhere within the massive passenger ship.

  Ah well, he thought in resignation as he started towards the stairs to the third level lounge, out of the frying pan and into the fire. Same old story.

  12

  Alexei Severin steered the Mercedes limousine across Chelsea Bridge and onto Grosvenor Road, a full police escort surrounding the vehicle. Indeed, the Metropolitan police had wanted one of their own men to drive the limousine, but Severin, as always, insisted on doing it himself.

  He didn’t always get his own way, however, which was evinced by the fact that President Vasilev Danko was now sat beside him in the passenger seat, rather than back in the rear. Since the attack, he simply didn’t like to sit in the back, and although Severin would have preferred him to be in the normal position, he knew that arguing with the man was useless.

  Already there had been suggestions that perhaps Danko was scared, and wanted to be closer to his ‘heroic’ bodyguard in case of another attack, but Severin knew better. He recognized that Danko’s anger over the previous incident was partly the result of his perceived helplessness during that attack. He furthermore realised that Danko’s request to sit up front was less from the need to feel protected by Severin, and more to do with the desire to be responsible for his own safety.

  As the two men and their police entourage moved slowly along Millbank towards their rendezvous at the Houses of Parliament in Westminster, Severin tried to read the emotions of the man next to him.

  Danko was, Severin decided, obviously distracted. Although he had spent the vast majority of their journey fully attentive and vigilant to the environment immediately around him, as per his decision to sit in the front, Danko now seemed more and more preoccupied with his own thoughts as they ploughed on through the icy streets of the capital. And now, nearly at the journey’s end, he was staring blankly out of the passenger side window, totally absorbed in a world of his own.

  Severin didn’t have to spend too long working out what Danko was thinking about. Convinced at the time that he was right, Danko’s forceful tirades against the People’s Republic of China had almost pushed ERA into a premature confrontation, and his assumptions had subsequently turned out to be drastically wrong. He now had to live with that error of judgement, a fact that did not sit well with the man’s inherent sense of self-pride.

  Although Danko had done his best to hide it, Severin knew that the man was seething with anger at the duplicity of the United States, but after his previous lapse in protocol would be torn about how to approach the subject at the ERA meeting. Severin was aware of the Western saying ‘once bitten, twice shy’, and wondered if it would apply to his country’s President.

  Severin was surprised when Danko turned to him moments after these thoughts and spoke. ‘What do you think, Alexei? I’d better watch what I say at this meeting, eh?’

  It concerned Severin that Danko should be asking his opinion on such a matter. Although an intelligent man, Severin would never be a politician; he was straightforward in his views, and distrusted the internecine machinations of politics.

  ‘I wouldn’t know, sir,’ he responded at last. ‘I am but a humble servant of the Federation.’

  Danko snorted. ‘Don’t
give me that, Alexei. What is your opinion?’

  Severin had only really ever had one opinion about such matters. ‘I think it is always best just to say what you think,’ he offered. ‘But then again, I am not a politician,’ he added after a pause.

  As the majestic, sweeping towers of Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament came into view through the morning gloom, Severin could see that Danko was genuinely thinking about what he had said. And almost immediately, he began to wonder if it had really been good advice.

  13

  The walk to Colonel Jarvis’s office was interesting, to say the least. Explosions rocked the nearby tree line, a rifle range echoed with the sharp cracks of repeated shots, men abseiled down fifty-foot towers and, a little further away, a group of cars were spinning round a track in a series of startlingly quick manoeuvres. Moses and Arnold both felt that they’d stumbled onto the set of a James Bond movie. And what they could see, Jarvis was quick to point out, was only the ‘open’ side of the training establishment; there were also a series of underground facilities where skills of a more clandestine nature were learnt, practised and perfected.

  As Jarvis led them towards the single-storey brick building that housed the administrative centre of the complex, he seemed to have second thoughts. He adjusted the wide-brimmed Stetson on his head and turned his tanned, weather-beaten face to his guests. ‘I’m sure you boys don’t wanna be cooped up in a small little office after your flight out here,’ he said with his slight Texan drawl, suppressed by his years in the military but without ever really being lost.

  Moses and Arnold concurred and Jarvis led them around the low-level block to the far side, where a huge set of stables, beautifully made and evidently well-cared for, lay sprawling across the plain in front of them.

  Jarvis caught the looks on the faces of the CIA men and smiled. ‘Yeah, it’s a sight, ain’t it? The place is a working horse ranch, after all. Come on,’ he said, leading Moses and Arnold through the large main doors into the main stable, ‘let’s walk and talk.’

  Large stalls ran down the stable block on both sides of the wide, clean but well-used walkway, and horses could be both seen and heard behind the low doors. Neither Moses nor Arnold knew much about horses, but they both recognized the quality of the magnificent animals before them. They could palpably sense the barely controlled power of the muscles beneath the taut, glossy coats that shimmered in the glow of the stable lamps.

  Jarvis nodded his head in understanding. ‘Impressive ain’t they?’ He looked wistful as he approached the nearest door to his left. A four year old Spanish colt put his long, smooth head over the door as Jarvis approached, letting him pat his nose. ‘Yeah, this ain’t such a bad posting. Not bad at all.’

  The quiet moment of reflection was broken then by a muted buzzing sound, and Arnold instantly pulled the vibrating cell phone from his pocket, flicking it open. ‘Yes?’ he said simply.

  As Arnold’s brow furrowed, Moses shrugged his shoulders and gestured to the horse. ‘He doesn’t seem bothered by the phone,’ he commented to Jarvis.

  The Colonel laughed. ‘These horses don’t rattle easy son,’ he replied, ‘not with everything we’ve got going on around here. Hell, if they can show jump with C-4 going off fifty yards away, they can cope with a telephone.’

  Moses smiled too, although he couldn’t help but be concerned by the look on his partner’s face.

  Seconds later, Arnold said his goodbyes and snapped the phone shut. ‘Harry,’ he said simply to Moses, and the big man understood. Time was running out.

  Arnold turned then to Jarvis. ‘Colonel,’ he began in his straightforward tone of business, ‘we need your help.’

  14

  Hansard was feeling older than normal, far from his usual self. He sat quietly in a chair by the window of the Lords private bar in the West Wing of the Houses of Parliament, finishing off his second brandy of the morning.

  The smooth flavour of the 1966 cognac improved his feelings somewhat, but he would have to be careful not to overdo it – as Chairman of the JIC, he would be giving evidence at the forthcoming emergency ERA meeting. Hansard wanted to be happy about it; it was, after all, exactly in line with the second phase of the plan. A convincing performance here might well ensure its ongoing success.

  But he felt less thrilled than he had anticipated, and he was all too aware of why that was. The idea for the project had first come to him almost two decades before, and he had spent the last fifteen of those years in earnest planning for the events that were now occurring. He had been meticulous, painstaking in his preparations, and the desired result was for the first time within his grasp.

  But now there was a not inconsiderable spanner in the works; namely Mark Cole, who had indeed been a part of that same plan, albeit one that should have been eliminated. Hansard had never really wanted to have Cole killed; he was in many ways like a surrogate son to him, and in fact reminded Hansard on some occasions of his own son, who had been tragically killed in Afghanistan many years before. But Hansard was a man of vision, and knew that to achieve the outcome he so desired, he had to take care of even the tiniest pieces of the jigsaw.

  Hansard didn’t doubt Cole’s loyalty, at least not towards Britain; but he knew the man was intelligent, and feared that the events he hoped to occur over the next few days would have made his plans all too apparent to Cole. And what would he do then? It was possible that Cole might even have approved – the project was certainly in the best interests of Britain; but unfortunately for both men, it was equally possible that Cole might have undermined everything. And still might, Hansard thought uncomfortably.

  It had been a mistake bringing him to London, Hansard thought with regret. He should have allowed him to return home, and then let Albright take care of the lot of them over in the Caymans. But, Hansard considered, he had no idea of what Cole’s return plans were, how long it would take for him to get back home. If it was more than a few days, Cole would have realized that he was sent on the mission under false pretences and would have started to put two and two together.

  Hansard straightened. No, he told himself, it wasn’t a mistake bringing Cole to London. It was a mistake trusting those useless buggers at the safe house to do as I asked.

  And now Cole was nowhere to be found, perhaps already starting to piece the puzzle together. The feeling of losing control was starting to creep up on him, placing its first tentative hand on his shoulder, but he quickly shook it off. He had to. There was no point in worrying about the situation; he would just have to ensure that the rest of his plan went so well, and influenced so many people, that even if Cole did turn up with some crazy story, it would be too late to change anything anyway.

  He rather fancied another brandy, but decided to forego the pleasure; there was business to attend to, and he was due to speak in under half an hour. As he stood, he felt his secure phone buzz in his pocket. He looked at the number, recognized it, but didn’t allow his hopes to rise too far. ‘Yes?’ he answered.

  He walked to the thick oak door, his cane keeping time with his steps on the tiled floor as he listened to the man on the other end of the phone. When he finally replied with a whispered ‘Kill him. Immediately,’ his face remained resolutely impassive; inwardly, however, he was at last smiling.

  15

  Cole had spotted the two other men easily. Unfortunately, they had also spotted him. His assumption about the two men below must have been correct, he realized. They were Hansard’s men, and they must have seen the door in the parking sector mysteriously opening and closing, and then radioed their colleagues up above to check it out.

  And so, as soon as Cole got to the top of the stairs and turned into the main corridor, he had immediately seen the two men approaching. Upon Cole’s sudden appearance they had split up, veering off in different directions; one pretended to look in the window of a nearby boutique, whilst the other just carried on walking up the busy corridor.

  Cole was sure that the men hadn’t even re
alized he’d spotted them, so sure they would be in their own professionalism. But Cole had known their type instantly. Both men were of medium height and medium build – harmless, unobtrusive. Nondescript hair, nondescript clothes. It was the eyes that gave it away, aware and alert. For someone who knew what to look for, it was a dead giveaway. Only very few men and women could disguise the look in the eyes. Cole was one them, and he didn’t let the recognition flash across his own eyes even for an instant.

  But he couldn’t be entirely sure of who the men were, of course, just as you could never really be sure of anything in this particular business. But there were ways of assessing the possibilities, and so Cole decided to carry on with his planned counter-surveillance run and see if the two men followed. It would put some space between him and the two other agents downstairs as well, as Cole was sure that they would soon be summoned upstairs to help.

  As Cole turned left into the corridor, he saw the first man’s head twitch. Not that interested in the boutique window, then. Within seconds, the same man was on the phone, starting to follow him.

  The second man was nowhere to be seen, probably circling round to intercept the tail further on. This would enable the two men to switch, and therefore be much less obvious. Against an untrained target it would almost certainly work, and Cole could see that the men were not amateurs.

  As Cole stopped to look at the menu of a small restaurant, he saw out of the corner of his eye that the phone call had finished. Had he been summoning the men below? Or calling Hansard for orders on how to proceed?

  Either way, Cole knew, the agents would have to be taken care of. And as he turned from the menu to continue his stroll through the ferry, he was already developing a small plan of his own.

  16

  By the time Arnold had explained the situation to Jenkins, they had passed through the length of the central stable and once again found themselves outside, near to the main exercise ring. There were rows of seats around the ring, where professional horsemen were putting half a dozen of the animals through their paces, and Jenkins gestured for them to sit down.