by JT Brannan
Cole read, then re-read the message. ‘C’ was his immediate controller, the agent handler who gave Cole his missions. It was previously accepted that after Cole’s relocation, he would have no further physical contact with his controller. And now he was coming directly to the Caymans?
Cole turned the idea over in his mind. It was highly irregular, and Cole felt no comfort in knowing the task that the man was travelling half way across the world to discuss with him. For ‘Mission Type 1’ was the coded designation for an assassination.
12
On board his private Gulfstream Jet, cruising at the speed of sound 38,000 feet above the Atlantic, Charles Hansard struck a match and put it to the bowl of his wooden pipe. A genuine Meerschaum, it had been a gift from the Commandant General of Austria’s Gendarmerieensatz-kommando counter-terrorist team, better known as the ‘Cobra’ force.
He had the cabin all to himself. Nicholas Stern, his trusted personal aide and bodyguard, was also acting as pilot on this particular trip
The teletype suddenly came to life next to him, catching his attention as it printed out a message from his private on-board cipher. It was, indeed, truly private; nobody else knew he had it.
He used it to contact his secret team of operators when he needed to call upon their services.
Before his appointment as Director of National Intelligence, Hansard had worked for over thirty years for the Defence Intelligence Agency, making his way up to Director.
Before he had gained the Directorship, he had been the Head of Department X, the Defence Counterintelligence and HUMINT Centre, responsible for the physical sharp end of the intelligence business. Since the early 90s he had run special projects groups such as the Intelligence Support Activity and Grey Fox, until accusations from the press over alleged government-sponsored assassinations caused him to take a brief sabbatical.
In the aftermath of 9/11, Hansard was again called upon to develop such a government service, and the result was the Systems Research Group, a secretive team that performed specialist operations for the nation’s intelligence services. It built on Hansard’s previous work, and its operators were culled from the very best the military had to offer – Army Special Forces and Rangers, Navy SEALS, Marine Force Recon, Delta Force, the list went on.
The men and women accepted into the unit underwent extensive further training, and immersed themselves fully in the clandestine, internecine underworld of secret intelligence. They were then gainfully employed across the globe as US ‘trouble shooters’, used on particularly sensitive missions where more formal military action would either be too much, or just politically inexpedient.
Mark Cole, formerly Lieutenant Commander Mark Kowalski of the elite United States Naval Special Warfare Development Group – more commonly known as SEAL Team Six – was Hansard’s top man. Before he even joined the SRG, he had already shown himself to be a solid, reliable man who had proved his worth in battle more times than Hansard could believe.
He had selected Cole for this particularly vital mission for these facts, of course, but there were two additional factors that also played a part.
Whereas the men and women who made up the Systems Research Group were all officially active-duty military personnel, albeit with identities that were classified as top secret, Mark Cole had no military background at all. He was simply a professional diving instructor who ran a small dive school with his wife in the Caribbean. He had no links whatsoever with any aspect of the United States government or her military, and therefore anything he did was completely deniable.
When Lieutenant Commander Mark Kowalski had been declared Killed in Action, and had then turned up in Pakistan, Hansard had realised how he could use this to his advantage. Kowalski had been asked to make the supreme sacrifice for his country, and had agreed.
Over the course of the next few months, Kowalski became Cole – there was plastic surgery, retinal implants, fingertip alteration, new official documents, a traceable history including friends and old work colleagues that would support his biography, and a new home in the Caymans. Halfway through his transformation, he had even got himself a new wife, and Hansard hadn’t minded in the slightest – being a family man would only help his cover.
And so Mark Cole had started to be assigned jobs, ones that couldn’t be officially approved through the normal channels but which were nevertheless vital to US security. Rendition, kidnap, undercover investigation, assassination – all were part of the diving instructor’s global remit.
Nobody within the US administration knew who Cole was, except for Hansard, and if anyone wanted a job doing they would contact Hansard as the agent’s controller, and ask for use of ‘the Asset’. And that was all.
Another of the things that made the Asset so useful, and the other reason why he had been selected for this particular task, was that during the time the man had spent in Pakistan, he had developed a certain skill set that was quite unique.
Hansard’s reverie was interrupted by the bleep of his cipher, telling him the message had been decoded and printed. He looked down and read the typed words before him. The pipe once more between his teeth, he smiled widely. ‘Crafty bastard,’ he muttered to himself, amused. It was nice to see that Cole had lost none of his panache.
13
Cole heard the seaplane before he saw it, the drone of the engines initially drawing his gaze. It circled lazily for a time, presumably trying to locate Cole’s private yacht, then began its descent to the calmly lapping waves below.
The odd little plane made its landing just two minutes later, sending huge geysers of water surging up past both oversized skis, finally floating to a stop just a few yards from Cole’s yacht.
Stern clambered out onto the port-side ski, the craft reverse-way on to the yacht, and caught hold of the mooring rope that Cole threw to him. The two vessels were linked together, and floated gently side by side in the gathering dusk.
Cole observed Stern closely as he pushed a wooden bridging platform over the gap between the plane and the yacht. Cole knew that Stern had been Hansard’s bodyguard, or ‘personal assistant’ as Hansard liked to call him, for ten years now. Six feet five, an ex-Marine officer and football offensive back, Cole had always thought the man was too big to be an effective BG. Too obvious.
Stern also surveyed the man opposite him, weighing him up him up. Could I take him?, he wondered, as he did whenever he met anyone. More often than not, the answer was a resounding Yes. From his school days, he’d always been bigger than his peers; not just in height, but also in sheer bulk. His sports background had bred a high level of ruthless, win-at-all-costs aggression in him, and this was further honed by his service with the Marines, which was a violent environment by any standard. The night-club fights and bar-room brawls he’d had when out with his school and college football teams continued throughout his military life. He was quick to anger, and even quicker to respond to any perceived challenge. And he’d never yet lost a fight; he was not above using the odd bottle or ashtray when he had to, but he would win.
He looked at Cole carefully. It had been seven years since he’d last seen him, and if Hansard hadn’t told him who it was, he would never have recognized the man’s face. He had changed dramatically, the result of extensive plastic surgery and other surgical procedures designed to disguise him since his official death.
Even though Cole had performed successfully on all the missions assigned to him, Stern expected the easy day-to-day family life Cole enjoyed in his luxury Caribbean hideaway to have blunted his edge.
Stern noted that Cole obviously still kept in shape, his wiry strength evident in the lean muscles of his torso, barely covered by the short-sleeve cotton shirt he wore. But, decided Stern, Cole was simply too small to pose any real threat; Stern had a good half a foot and a hundred pounds on him. Sure, Cole was well-trained, but so was he. And so Stern came to the same inevitable conclusion, and the same conclusion he had reached the last time they had met. Damn right, I could take
him.
There had as yet been no words spoken; Cole and Stern had merely nodded at each other to signify an acknowledgement of the other’s existence. Then Stern turned and moved back inside the seaplane.
‘Ahoy there!’ announced Hansard effusively, waving at Cole as he strode regally along the makeshift gangplank, his other hand using the silver-topped ebony cane for support. Impeccably dressed, as always, Hansard moved across the darkening water with his idiosyncratic limp.
Cole marvelled as he watched him. Seven years after their last meeting, Hansard was still the austere Naval Commander. He could have been stepping out of his cabin aboard the USS Caron, Hansard’s first and last real naval command.
‘Ahoy there yourself,’ Cole responded, taking Hansard’s arm and helping him onto the deck. ‘Welcome aboard. It’s damn good to see you, sir. It’s been a long time.’
They shook hands firmly, and then Cole gestured to the oak parquet stairs that led down to the main cabin. ‘You’ve had quite a journey, sir. Care for a drink?’
Hansard nodded, moving past Cole towards the stairs. ‘Don’t mind if I do, my friend. Don’t mind if I do.’
14
At Cole’s invitation, Hansard settled himself into one of the leather captain’s chairs that were dotted around the yacht’s large, sumptuously appointed lounge area. Even with his militarily erect posture, Hansard seemed instantly at home in the surroundings. ‘I think we must be paying you too damn much,’ he complained finally.
‘You pay me what the jobs are worth,’ Cole countered. ‘Anyway, you could be paying me out of your own pocket and it would only be loose change to you.’
‘Now, now,’ chided Hansard in return, ‘I’m not that wealthy, you know. Anyone would think I was Donald Trump or something.’
Although he made a mockery of it, the truth of the matter was that Vice Admiral Hansard was one of the richest men in the United States, although he used his connections to ensure that his name never appeared on any of the nation’s ‘rich lists.’ Most of his peers did the same; in fact, America’s ‘official’ richest man, the genius billionaire behind the Lantex Leisure conglomerate, was actually only the nation’s eighth richest. Hansard’s vast wealth came primarily from his landholdings, passed down through generations of his family, but also from some rather shrewd business investments, some of which were also far from public knowledge.
Hansard took a sip of his brandy Cole had given him. ‘But there is serious business to attend to, I’m afraid. And I mean deadly serious. That’s why I’m here personally. No middleman, you see, not this time. We just can’t risk it. I couldn’t even risk sending you a cipher. We can’t have anything written down or printed. I need to give you the details verbally.’
‘Who’s the target?’
Hansard nodded to Cole’s bottle. ‘Have another sip of that,’ he suggested. Cole did so, raising a questioning eyebrow once finished.
Hansard seemed satisfied. ‘Your target,’ he began, ‘is William James Crozier.’ Cole’s brow furrowed upon hearing the name and he started to speak, but Hansard lifted a hand to stop him. ‘Yes, my friend. I will make it quite clear for you, so that there is no misunderstanding.
‘I want you to kill Bill Crozier, the Director of the CIA’s National Clandestine Service.’
15
Sarah was waiting for Cole when he returned to the house shortly after nine. He smiled as he came in, and she smiled back weakly. ‘How long?’ she asked simply.
Cole approached her, holding her arms, and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Only a short one this time, babe. Should be back the day after tomorrow by the latest.’ Sarah didn’t look convinced, so Cole added ‘Really, honey. I mean it.’
She nodded her head in resignation. ‘What time do you leave?’
‘An hour,’ he answered immediately. ‘I just need to go down to the office and then I have to get straight off.’
She nodded once more, knowing there was nothing she could say to stop him. ‘It’s important?’ she asked finally.
Cole kissed her gently on the lips and looked directly into her deep blue eyes. His own eyes, also blue, seemed to take on a strangely opaque quality as he replied ‘Yes. Yes it is.’ He hugged her tightly to him, and his warmth and strength immediately reassured her. I shouldn’t worry, she decided. He’ll come back safe. He always does.
Forty five minutes later, Cole closed down his computer system. The internal database stored detailed information on literally thousands of military, intelligence, police and political personnel from around the globe. Anyone of any importance was on it, and it was continually updated by secure link direct from the Office of the DNI, on Hansard’s orders.
Cole additionally had direct access, through a series of ingenious cyber-hacking programmes, to the internal computer mainframes of all major intelligence services from around the world.
In essence, Cole was able to obtain detailed information, official and unofficial, about anyone he needed. In this particular case, just half an hour after entering his secret room, Cole had turned up literally hundreds of pages of information on William James Crozier, including his military service record, his current CIA/NCS personal file, medical records, and even a diary of his movements.
Cole hadn’t balked at the idea of assassinating Crozier. It was an unusual request, certainly, but not without precedent. In the internecine world of espionage and intelligence, it wasn’t as simple as black and white. Very often, the most dangerous people were those who worked for the same country.
Indeed, for all Cole knew, the order to kill Crozier might even have come from the US President herself; that was how the programme was set up, so nobody would know where the orders came from. People with the necessary security clearance would contact Hansard on an encrypted communications network and put through their requests for ‘the asset’. Hansard would then assess the job and pass it along to Cole. It was possible even Crozier himself had used Cole’s services in the past, with neither man being aware of it.
Cole wasn’t about to question his orders – if the high-level politicians using the programme wanted the NCS Director dead, there would be a good reason, and Hansard himself would not necessarily know what it was. Such compartmentalisation was what ensured complete operational security, something that was often sadly lacking when politicians were involved.
Cole had sifted quickly through the gathered intelligence from his database, picking up on whatever was useful and discarding everything else.
And so, shortly after ten o’clock that evening, he had his mission completely planned out; exactly where, when and how he would kill William James Crozier.
16
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.
17
Cole smiled at the young lady behind the ch
eck-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.
