Seven Day Hero

by J. T. Brannan

  He watched the horses exercising for some time, before turning to the two investigators. ‘This is pretty heavy shit, boys, that’s for sure. I wish I could help, I really do. But those men never trained here.’

  The colonel’s voice was firm, believable. Moses was the first to respond. ‘You’re sure? There’s no way those men could have been here?’

  ‘None whatsoever, not without my knowledge.’ He adjusted his hat again, tilting it up against the midday sun. ‘But if what you’re saying is true and it wasn’t really an official CIA job, then Crozier wouldn’t have wanted his men here anyway. Trade Point’s a secret facility, but it’s still an official CIA training establishment. It strikes me that your man would have wanted them trained at less obvious a place.’

  ‘Less obvious?’ Arnold enquired. ‘Do you have any suggestions?’

  Jenkins sucked in some air and gazed out towards the ring, relaxing back into his chair in thought. ‘There are other places,’ he said eventually, ‘but if you go there, don’t say I sent you.’

  Arnold and Moses watched him, waiting expectantly for him to continue. After a few moments, he did so. ‘For a job like this – unofficial, illegal, even – the Agency normally farms the training out to civilian establishments.’

  ‘Normally?’ asked Arnold unbelievingly.

  Jenkins smiled at the man’s naivety. ‘Of course. You guys keep everything so nice and tight so the CIA looks good to the public, but the same things still need to happen, right? And so the work gets farmed out, makes plausible deniability a bit easier. Happens all the time, make no mistakes about that,’ he finished.

  ‘Okay,’ Arnold said decisively, ‘We’ll need details about all of the civilian establishments which to your knowledge take on this sort of work. Locations, names, we want it all.’

  Jenkins nodded his head. ‘Sure,’ he said calmly. ‘Sure. You got a notebook? Cos I sure as shit ain’t writing any of this down myself.’

  Moses took a small leather-bound book out of his pocket, along with a standard biro. ‘Okay, shoot,’ he said.

  Jenkins dictated the names and locations of six unofficial training bases, including the names of the person to contact at each location. ‘Just remember not to mention me, okay? We try and stay on friendly terms, you know?’

  Arnold nodded his head. ‘Sure thing,’ he answered, ‘as long as you do something for us.’ Jenkins raised a questioning eyebrow, and Arnold continued. ‘There’s probably going to be another team here in the next few days investigating the same situation, possibly with European personnel tagging along. The official investigators, if you will. Well, if it’s okay with you, just don’t mention that we were ever here.’

  Jenkins stood, and the other men did the same. He inclined his head to them. ‘Quid pro quo,’ he said, ‘I have no problems with that. Now let’s get you back to your chopper. Sounds like you don’t have much time to lose.’

  17

  A thousand miles to the south, Albright watched Sarah Cole and her two children deplane the jetliner onto the scorching concrete of Miami International’s Runway Three. The kids looked happy, he thought in surprise. Probably no idea what’s going on, he decided. Sarah looked more nervous, but Albright found himself impressed with her composure. But there was no sign of Tarr. Where the Hell was he?

  Albright saw him then, standing a little back from the doorway of the plane, chatting amiably to the stewardess. Albright was under no illusions about what the man was up to, and it was certainly not the hope of getting the girl out to dinner. No, he was staying in the doorway as long as he could so that he could watch to see if anyone was waiting for the Cole family. Albright’s eyes narrowed. He really had underestimated the man the first time he’d seen him.

  He had pressed for the team back in London to make more extensive enquiries into Philip Tarr’s background. Albright no longer believed that the man had been involved solely in the property market back home, as his curriculum vitae suggested.

  Albright, ensconced in the security command centre of the airport after using his official credentials, saw Tarr finish his visual search of the area, and then watched as the big man descended the stairs to the runway.

  He knew that Tarr would keep a distance from the Coles through the airport, keeping tabs on who might be watching. It wouldn’t matter though – they would all have to leave the airport at some stage, and if they tried to get a connecting flight from within the airport, Albright would pick that up right here in the office.

  They wouldn’t get one over on him again, Albright decided.

  Tarr waited until they were through immigration and customs before linking up again with the Coles. He had seen nothing that aroused his suspicions, but that meant nothing – he had no idea who the people following them might work for, and therefore no idea how sophisticated their surveillance would be. For all he knew, they might have access to the airport’s own security apparatus. If that was the case, he knew that their actions within the airport would be monitored electronically, without them ever realizing.

  Tarr’s visual checks were only really to see if there was anything overt to be concerned about. The escape plan accepted the fact that they would be monitored until leaving the airport, and all hinged on the routine they would follow once outside.

  But Tarr knew that it never hurt to check; if he could identify a surveillance team within the airport, it might make avoiding such a team later on a little easier.

  Sarah and Tarr, with the kids in tow, made their way slowly over to a small restaurant in the main foyer, trying as best as they could to avoid the hustle and bustle of the thousands of holidaymakers and business people that swarmed around the airport like bees in a hive.

  Prior to meeting up with Sarah, Ben and Amy, Tarr had visited the American Airlines ticket desk and bought four one-way tickets for San Francisco, on a flight leaving in just over three hours. They had no intention of boarding that flight, a fact that would be obvious nearer the time, but Tarr hoped that the enemy, whoever they were, might waste a few resources setting up surveillance on the other side of the country. At the very least, he hoped that the people undoubtedly waiting and watching outside would allow themselves to relax slightly, making things easier for when they did leave the airport.

  Taking time out to have a comfortable meal would help the subterfuge, as they looked for all the world like they were just another family killing time before a connecting flight. It would also give him and Sarah the opportunity to go over their next course of action, for it would be essential for its success that everyone was singing from the same hymn sheet.

  18

  Hansard, posture erect as always, held the gaze of the thirty-one heads of state assembled before him. His report had been clear and concise, and had held the rapt attention of his audience.

  ‘Now you know what I know,’ he concluded, ‘and what the intelligence agencies across Europe know; indeed, at the present time, all there is to know. But before you chaps get down to the policy side of things,’ he said kindly, softening his gaze slightly, ‘are there any specific questions?’

  There was a pause of several moments. Danko was the first to speak, his deep baritone rumbling across the vast conference table. ‘I will be the first to admit that I overreacted to the previous situation,’ he said slowly, which was as much of an apology as could be expected at such a meeting. ‘And so my question to you is – how sure are we of America’s involvement?’

  ‘We have had corroboration from a number of sources, and there has so far been no denial from any US authority. It seems to be an unassailable fact that the Deputy Director of Operations for the CIA recruited the team and orchestrated the operation. What is not known is whether this was on the order of a superior, or if he was just acting alone – a rogue agent, if you will. The official US line is expected to be delivered within the hour.’

  The gathered leaders considered the matter, some entering into whispered discussion with their aides. Meanwhile, Danko decided to pre
ss on. ‘I understand that you are here to disseminate the evidence to us,’ he began, ‘but I am sure that you are aware of the gravity of the situation, and so I ask for some latitude. We are professionals at governing countries, whilst you are an expert in matters of intelligence.’ Hansard smiled graciously, although he knew that Danko was no stranger to intelligence work, having been the Head of Counter-Terrorism at the FSB before his move into politics.

  ‘What I would like to know,’ Danko continued, ‘is your professional opinion, based on the evidence.’

  Inwardly, Hansard smiled again. He had hoped that Danko’s previous outcries would make the man pensive, make him want as much confirmation as possible. It wasn’t within Hansard’s remit to offer an opinion, at least under normal circumstances, but here was Danko virtually demanding that he give one. It really could not have worked out any better; the seed of doubt could be sowed right from the start.

  Hansard made a show of looking towards Gregory for his permission to answer Danko’s question – he was answerable to the British Prime Minister after all, at least in the eyes of the assembled leaders. Gregory, of course, nodded his assent, and Hansard proceeded with conviction.

  ‘I share my views on this matter only at your own request, and ask you to see them purely as my own personal reading of the situation.’ The ERA elite nodded their agreement, and Hansard ploughed on. ‘I would say that it is unlikely – though by no means impossible – that William Crozier was acting alone,’ he began. ‘It isn’t beyond the realms of possibility, of course. Rogue agents have existed in the past, as we know all too well. But after so many scandals at the Agency, there have been many measures put in place to avoid incidents of this sort, not the least of which was the establishment of the CIA’s own Internal Affairs department.

  ‘The aim of this department is primarily to contain such incidents, and it has proven to be very effective thus far. In addition, regular checks are made on the work of all staff, no matter how senior, and there are several protocols in place to protect against the misuse of Agency resources. All staff, up to and including the Director, are also subject to routine psychological profiling, with the results externally and independently verified.

  ‘For such an operation, especially one so complex, to be coordinated by one man, without that man coming to the attention of someone else, seems rather far-fetched. Which means,’ Hansard continued, scanning the pensive faces of his attentive audience, ‘one of two things. One – Crozier was working with outside elements; perhaps some anti-European interest group, perhaps fearful members of the US military, perhaps a business concern wary of increased European trading power, the list goes on. But given that he apparently avoided the scrutiny of the CIA’s own in-house investigators, this seems the less likely option.

  ‘What is perhaps more likely, although somewhat less palatable, is that Crozier was acting on the orders of his direct superiors; within the CIA, and within the United States government.’

  Hansard looked around the room again, and saw that there were no looks of surprise on the faces of the jaded politicians before him; he was merely confirming what they had been cynically fearing from the start. ‘Whatever the reality behind Crozier’s motives,’ Hansard carried on, ‘the official US line will be that the man was acting alone. This is, of course, their best way out, now that we know of their involvement.

  ‘I would expect the US government to admit that one of its men turned rogue, issue an apology, and offer all the assistance it can in the investigation. They will probably even ask us to send a team of our own investigators over, to try and make things as transparent as possible. But all the time, they will be driving us towards accepting Crozier as the sole author of the atrocity.

  ‘Indeed, it may even be so – but, ladies and gentlemen, I would advise that we take the expected US help with a pinch of salt. I believe that we should remain sceptical.’

  As the men and women gathered around the huge table pondered what they had heard, Hansard considered his speech. He had kept to the facts, such as they were, but had used them to prime the minds of ERA’s leaders to more readily accept the next phase of the project. All in all, he was not dissatisfied with his performance.

  President Chalois was the first to speak. ‘It is strange,’ he began in his soft, dulcet and almost seductive tone, ‘that the United Kingdom would so doubt their American allies. Is this an admission that you have been wrong all these years in keeping so close a relationship with such an obviously dangerous aggressor?’

  Hansard’s reply was instant. ‘I do not speak for the United Kingdom, your Excellency. I was asked to give my professional opinion, and I have given it. It sounds as if now is the time for the meeting to turn to policy however, and so if you will excuse me?’ he asked with a raise of the eyebrow. The members nodded their assent and offered their mutual thanks, and Hansard smiled in return before gathering his papers and heading for the door.

  He gave Gregory a reassuring nod as he passed. He had laid the groundwork, and now it was up to Gregory to build on it. Hansard was glad to see that the man was already standing before he had reached the chamber doors.

  ‘My esteemed colleagues,’ Hansard heard the British Prime Minister begin, ‘our relationship with the US has been no mistake. In fact, should the situation degenerate, I think you will all be more than grateful for the United Kingdom’s close ties with America, for the advantages that will undoubtedly bring to the Euro-Russian Alliance.’

  Perfect, Hansard thought as he left the conference room. Absolutely perfect.

  19

  Once Cole had verified that the men were definitely tailing him, he decided to act quickly, before the four of them had time to regroup and develop a plan of their own. He looked through the window at the view outside the colossal ship. The weather was filthy, rain driving hard against the thick glass. It reminded him of the ferry crossings he’d made with his friends back when he was just a young marine, breaking the monotony of life on base with a quick jaunt across the Channel for fun and games. The weather then, he remembered, was seldom pleasant.

  He turned away and traversed the busy corridor, stopping outside a jewellers to peer through the window, watching the door to the men’s toilets just adjacent to the shop with his peripheral vision. He couldn’t see the two men from the parking sector yet, but assumed they would be waiting, hidden, until called by the others.

  Of the second pair, the one Cole had labelled ‘Mr Blue’ due to his blue denim jeans, was watching him surreptitiously from inside the jewellers, whilst the other – ‘John Wayne’, because of the curious, bow-legged way he walked – was about ten feet to Cole’s left, sitting on a plastic bench pretending to read a copy of Newsweek.

  Out of the corner of his eye Cole saw a lone man push through the toilet door back into the corridor. Cole knew the toilets would now be empty, and took it as his cue to move. Turning away from the shop window, he started to wander down the wide corridor. Acting as if he had just spotted the toilet sign, he stopped as if wondering whether he needed to go, and then pushed through the door into the bathroom beyond.

  He didn’t know if the men would follow, but at least it would let him know what the men’s orders were. If they were merely to observe him, possibly with the hope of arresting him after, they would wait patiently outside until he had finished. If, on the other hand, they had orders to kill him, then an empty bathroom would be too good an opportunity to miss and they would soon be joining him.

  He made his way to a urinal on the wall straight ahead, stomach turning at the smell of the place. That was another thing that would never change about ferry crossings, he guessed; toilets constantly blocked with vomit from alcohol and general seasickness, along with diarrhoea from disagreeable food. Holding his breath, he unzipped and immediately started to urinate. If the men did enter, Cole’s apparent vulnerability would make them relax, and possibly be more likely to make mistakes. In addition to which, he couldn’t even remember the last time he’d bee
n, and he actually did need to go quite urgently.

  Moments later, he heard the door open behind him. He watched the reflection in the curved metal of the cistern pipes in front of him, and the distorted image showed the two agents entering, the rear man – Mr Blue – placing some sort of jam under the door to stop any unwanted visitors from coming in and spoiling the fun. He’d been right, Cole thought as they approached; their orders were to kill him.

  Cole knew the men wouldn’t risk using guns. Silenced weapons could slow the velocity of a bullet sufficiently to negate the telltale sonic crack, but ricochets were always a danger, especially in such a confined space. Additionally, gunshot wounds were messy, and the agents surely wouldn’t want to raise suspicions too much. They wouldn’t want it to appear like a professional hit, not in so public a place.

  Cole expected knives, at close quarters; something that could be blamed on a robbery, or an argument. Or maybe they’d use a garrotte, and try to strangle him. Or a taser, hitting him with 50,000 volts and causing a heart attack that would only later be determined as unnatural. Whichever method, Cole knew that they would have to get close.

  One of the men approached the urinal next to him. From the heavy footsteps he knew it was John Wayne; Mr Blue was hanging back. As Cole started to zip up, he turned to the man stepping in front of the adjacent urinal, and smiled the slightly coy, self-conscious smile that was common in men’s public toilets around the world. John nodded back, and Cole finished zipping, catching the glint of a knife reflected in the pipes in front of him.

  John’s hands went down to his trousers as if to unzip, but then he suddenly burst sideways at Cole, in an attempt to grab and pin him whilst Blue did his work with the knife.