STOP AT NOTHING: 'Mark Cole is Bond's US cousin mixed with the balls out action and killing edge of Jason Bourne' Parmenion Books

by JT Brannan

  The response was typical, and came as no surprise to Cole. The exercise was declared null and void because Cole and his team had ‘cheated’. The security had been told to expect them on a certain flight, and had concentrated their resources on that. Cole had seen the easy trap and therefore chosen another flight. Wouldn’t terrorists have done the same? asked Cole at the debrief. Because people that want to blow up aeroplanes do not generally play by the rules. But the airport authorities had ignored the facts that stared them directly in the face and, once again, had learnt nothing from what could have been a productive exercise; and international passage for men like Cole was still as easy as ever.

  Aretha smiled again at Cole, handing over his passport, along with his ticket and boarding pass. ‘Thank you, sir. Have a nice flight.’

  Cole smiled back, but not too much. ‘Thanks,’ he said simply, but cheerfully enough. And with that, Brandon Clarke made his way to the departure lounge.

  18

  Miami International Airport, even at quarter past one in the morning, was a chaotic cacophony of noise and sight; from the regular, monotone electronic announcements over the Tannoy, to the incessant pleading of parents trying in vain to placate their screaming children, to the roar of the big jets themselves out on the runways, everything conspired to destroy any vestige of peace or serenity.

  Cole himself sat quietly, having chosen the end seat of a row fixed to a wall, facing out into the departure lounge. He never liked to sit on ‘exposed’ seating, especially in such busy public areas. He much preferred to sit with his back to something solid, so he didn’t have to worry about what was behind him. For the same reason, he would not sit in the middle of the row. A single seat would draw attention towards him however, and so he always sat at the end of a row; at least then he only had to worry about people to one side of him.

  The large LCD screen suspended from the ceiling suddenly drew his attention. It was showing CNN, which ran the banner headline ‘ASIAN BLOW UP? WHY RUSSIA AND CHINA MAY SOON BE AT WAR.’ Under the banner, footage played of the attacks in Stockholm, interspliced with the recent speeches made by Vasilev Danko and Tsang Feng.

  As the footage was replaced with studio commentators sombrely discussing the situation, Cole couldn’t help thinking: not good. Not good at all.

  19

  Cole felt the huge mass of the aeroplane shifting as its aerofoils engaged and it began to shed altitude on its slow decent towards Washington.

  But the feeling was almost totally ignored by Cole. The body felt the change in pressure, heard the slightly higher whine of the jet engines, sensed the change of his position in space relative to gravity; and the mind interpreted these sensations, recognized they posed no danger or threat, and summarily dismissed them.

  For Cole’s mind was locked on something more important. He had spent most of the flight engaged in a thorough mental rehearsal of his mission, visualizing with perfect clarity his every move, every action. Such was his concentration on creating the perfect mental picture, he could actually feel the cold, biting wind of the DC winter numbing his exposed face; could see the kneeling form of Crozier with vivid detail; could feel his heart rate rise with the unavoidable burst of adrenaline as he reached out towards him.

  Cole had practised this particular form of psychological rehearsal from an early age. His parents had taken him to his first karate class when he was six years old, and he had taken naturally to the rigorous training. One aspect he had enjoyed from the start was the traditional art of kata; prearranged moves organised into set forms that could be practised alone. His sensei had told him that the key to success at kata was to imagine his opponents in his mind’s eye, in as much detail as possible. Unknown to the instructor, he was teaching the young Cole visualization techniques that would be at the forefront of sports psychology in the years to come. The skill served Cole well, and he took it with him into other sports, including judo and boxing. He enjoyed great success in his youthful competitive career, and rarely lost a fight. And he soon discovered that such a skill was directly transferable into everyday life, and was not just confined to the sporting arena.

  As the Airbus lowered its landing gear on its final run, Cole came to the end of his last rehearsal. And the result was identical in every way to the last dozen times he had been through it; the mission successfully accomplished, with the quiet death of William Crozier.

  20

  By the time Cole left the arrivals lounge at Reagan National Airport, the first glimmers of the dull winter sun were just struggling over the horizon, throwing a greyish cast over the large parking lot towards which he was headed.

  He had experienced no problems with security at this airport either, despite the increased alert status that always occurred around the holiday period. As he crunched through the thin layer of snow towards the Chrysler he had just hired from the Hertz desk in the foyer, he adjusted the huge bunch of flowers he had also just purchased, swapping them to the same hand that carried his holdall. It was force of habit to always keep one hand free, and Cole was a creature of habit. Habits like that had ensured his survival on a number of occasions, and he did not believe in taking chances unless absolutely necessary.

  Cole soon saw the medium-sized grey sedan, and quickly verified the licence plate number with that provided by the hire agency. The car was like Cole himself – nondescript, unmemorable. Just another dull grey sedan like so many other thousands that trawled the streets of Washington. He blipped the central locking and opened the passenger door, laying the flowers on the seat and the holdall in the foot well.

  Next, he spent some time walking around the car, checking it over carefully. The last thing he needed was to get a flat tyre halfway towards his destination.

  Finally satisfied, he climbed into the driver’s side, inserted his key and fired up the engine. The driving computer flashed to life, and he set the heater to full. Damn, it was cold. The computer then offered him the option of satellite navigation to his destination, but Cole chose the radio instead; he had already memorized the route, and didn’t want there to be any chance of the rental company tracking where he’d been once he returned the car.

  Without further pause, Cole put the car into gear and pulled out of the parking lot, heading from the airport out towards Interstate 95, which would take him to his rendezvous with Bill Crozier.

  21

  The big Cadillac pulled along the gravel driveway of the Four Lakes Cemetery, rolling along at a respectful 3mph.

  In the driver’s seat, Sam Hitchens aimed the car between two of the ornamental lakes, heading towards the set of gravestones by the third, larger lake. He once again thought about how hard Crozier made his job. He liked the man, that was for sure, but he thought some of the demands he made were entirely unreasonable. Such as wanting his bodyguard to also be his driver. None of the other top CIA guys just had one man with them; they all had bodyguards and drivers at the very least. But not Bill Crozier. Sometimes Hitchens thought that his boss didn’t feel that he deserved such protection. But that was just silly, Hitchens decided.

  Another objection Hitchens had was his boss’s insistence on visiting his wife’s grave at 7:30 every morning. Hitchens had always felt it was unwise, and unsafe in the extreme to follow such an obvious schedule. But in the end, his opinion didn’t really matter, and Hitchens just had to do the best he could with the circumstances he was given. Besides which, Crozier had been a decorated Captain in the 82nd, and as a former All American himself, Hitchens felt a strong bond with the NCS Director.

  As the armoured vehicle rolled to a stop on the high lane that sat above the row of graves on the east side of the big lake, Hitchens noticed a man by one of the headstones, kneeling in the cold snow and placing a large bunch of flowers on the white ground in front of the grave. He seemed to be deep in prayer.

  As Crozier got out of the car, Hitchens followed suit. Crozier threw the man a sharp look. ‘What are you doing? Stay in the car.’

  Hitchens
came over to Crozier. ‘I know that’s your rule, boss, but there’s a guy down there at the next grave over. I’ll go check him out, then I’ll come back and stay in the car.’

  Crozier looked genuinely outraged. ‘You’ll do no such thing!’ he said quietly, but forcefully. ‘That man is offering his respects for a loved one. Don’t you dare disturb him!’

  Hitchens sighed to himself in resignation. ‘Then will you at least wait in the car until he’s finished?’

  ‘I have a meeting with Dorrell in less than an hour,’ explained Crozier patiently, as if to a child. ‘So no, I cannot wait. Now get back in the car. I’ll be ten minutes.’

  22

  From his position in front of the gravestone, Cole had heard the noise of the Cadillac as it pulled onto the lane up the hill behind him. He had heard one door open, then the other, and then some exchanged words. What were they saying? Would they wait for him to move on? Would Crozier’s bodyguard come down with him? Cole sincerely hoped not.

  He had read of Crozier’s habitual custom of visiting his wife’s grave from surveillance reports collated by the French secret service. Mary Elizabeth Crozier had died at the age of thirty-six in a car crash, had been pronounced dead at the scene. That had been seventeen years ago, and Crozier had been crushed by the incident. Many people had said that he could have got the Directorship of the whole CIA had his mind not been distracted by the tragedy.

  The French intelligence report had other interesting information, including the fact that he had kept no close company since the accident, was a borderline alcoholic, was what the psychological profile labelled a ‘dependant obsessive’, but who was also extremely good at his job, perhaps looking to lose himself in his work. The report also said that Crozier’s bodyguard, Samuel Hitchens, always stayed with the vehicle on these visits.

  And now what would happen? Would Hitchens accompany Crozier? Would they just call off the visit? Cole thought not. His own analysis of the man was that Crozier was not the sort to be perturbed by the presence of a fellow mourner; indeed, he would probably sympathize.

  And so, as he knelt opposite the frozen lake in the cold, wet snow that had started to soak through the material of his trouser legs, he hoped that his reading of the man had been right.

  23

  Crozier slowly crunched his way down the small hill towards his wife’s gravestone. He had finally appeased Hitchens by letting him wait next to the car instead of in it; he would at least be able to respond more quickly should anything happen.

  Not that Crozier expected it to. He was safe here. His wife was watching over him, as he had conversely failed to watch over her. And he would once again ask for her forgiveness, and find comfort in her answers. And then he would ask her what to do at the meeting that morning. And she would know.

  Cole heard the single set of footsteps approaching from his left, moving towards the grave on the far side of him. The grave of Mary Elizabeth Crozier.

  Good. Hitchens had stayed with the car. Cole had already decided on his plan of action should Hitchens have decided to accompany Crozier, but was grateful he didn’t have to go through with it. It wouldn’t have been as neat or as clean as he would have liked the operation to be, but sometimes you just had to improvise.

  He once again thanked providence that this wasn’t one of those times.

  Crozier was near the grave now, and had already started to pray. Please, Mary. Please forgive me. I love you. Please forgive me.

  He had all but forgotten the existence of the other man, even as he stepped behind him to get to his wife’s grave.

  Judging the moment perfectly, Cole made the sign of the cross and stood up, bumping directly back into the body of William Crozier.

  24

  From his vantage point by the car, Hitchens reacted to the sudden move. As the second man turned to face Crozier, a look of surprise on his face, Hitchens already had his gun out of the speed holster on his belt and was racing towards the scene.

  Crozier himself was just as surprised, and felt the man touch his arm, then the side of his face, as if checking to make sure he was unhurt.

  ‘Whoa! Sorry buddy, I didn’t see you there!’ said the man apologetically in a mild Virginian accent. ‘Are you hurt?’

  Crozier had regained his composure, and dusted himself down. ‘Not at all, don’t worry about it.’

  ‘Okay, thanks, I - ’ The man’s words caught in his throat, and Crozier could see a look of abject fear in his eyes.

  ‘Put your hands in the air! Now!’ Hitchens screamed at Cole, Sig Sauer pistol aimed towards his head. Acting with perfect believability, Cole’s hands went straight up in the air, voice panting and breathless with fear.

  ‘I … I – ’ He gulped down breaths of air, saw Crozier spin round to confront him.

  Hitchens saw the face of his boss turn accusingly towards him. ‘Sam, what the Hell do you think you’re doing?’ Crozier hissed at him. ‘Get back in the car, now!’

  Crozier seemed fine. Maybe it had just been an accident. Hitchens tentatively started to lower his gun. Crozier’s eyes widened at him. ‘Now!’ he spat, and Hitchens realized he had no choice.

  Holstering his weapon, the bodyguard nodded his head and climbed back up the hill towards the car.

  ‘I’m sorry about that,’ Crozier offered. ‘He’s rather protective.’

  ‘You can say that again!’ said Cole, backing away slowly, fear still showing in his eyes. ‘Er, look, sorry again about knocking into you. Real sorry.’

  ‘Forget about it,’ Crozier said, then turned to his wife’s grave, kneeling. The man was forgotten. He didn’t have time to get into a conversation with him. Besides, the guy looked scared enough to pee his pants, Crozier figured. After that display by Hitchens, he’ll just be happy to get out of there.

  Crozier was right. Cole was happy to leave. Still with the worried look on his face, he edged away slowly, eyes darting from Crozier to Hitchens; the reactions of any normal citizen who had just been threatened at gun point.

  After retreating a safe distance backwards, Cole turned and walked away as quickly as he could off in the opposite direction, back towards the car that was carefully hidden on the road outside the cemetery.

  He smiled to himself as he went. The mission had been successfully accomplished.

  25

  Crozier entered the grand foyer of the CIA Headquarters at Langley just forty minutes later.

  It was when he had passed through the first security gate that he first felt it; a sharp pain in his head, a powerful thumping, pounding away at the inside of his skull. At the same time, he felt a loosening of his bowels. He decided immediately to ignore it. Probably just a lack of food and sleep and too much whisky the night before. It would pass.

  The feelings returned, even stronger, when he placed his hand over the palm-print identifier that opened the twin steel doors of the executive elevator. As the metal box fired rapidly up the smooth shaft towards the sixth floor and the CIA Director’s office, he began to feel faint. Terribly faint. His chest started to constrict around his lungs, and he felt his breath become caught in his throat.

  As soon as they had arrived, the symptoms faded, and the elevator door opened and he made his way down the long corridor towards the next set of security checks before the top-level offices.

  Jacob Maitlin, the senior security official on duty that morning, smiled widely as Crozier approached. ‘Hey Bill, how you doing?’ he asked pleasantly.

  Crozier smiled. ‘I’m doing good thanks, Jake.’ He handed over his card, which was examined by the officer.

  Jake nodded, then gestured for Crozier to lean forward to the machine that would scan his retina. The machine bleeped once and then the light on top turned green. Satisfied, Jake handed Crozier back his pass.

  As Crozier was about to step through the security gate, he was swamped by the same feelings; pain in his head, heaviness in his stomach. He staggered to one side slightly.

  Jake’s hand went out
to steady him. ‘Hey there, Bill, go steady!’ He looked at Crozier’s eyes, saw the redness from the blood vessels that had started to burst. ‘You sure you’re okay?’ Jake, like most of the staff there, knew about Crozier’s alcohol habit, and put the man’s state this morning down to nothing more than a heavy night.

  Crozier nodded weakly, and walked through past the metal barrier. Jake reached out for Crozier’s arm and bent his head close to whisper in his ear. ‘Bill, you look awful, man. Take my advice and go a bit easy, okay?’

  As Jake wondered if he’d gone too far – did a security officer have any business preaching to the Director of NCS? – he figured that his twenty-eight year tenure at the CIA gave him the privilege of being able to talk straight when necessary.

  But Jake needn’t have worried. Because Crozier just looked faintly at him, nodded weakly, and collapsed, dead, on the floor.

  26

  Cole pushed through the dirty chrome and glass doors into the Greyhound Bus Depot in Baltimore and was immediately accosted by the stench of stale urine, sweat, alcohol and desperation. He looked around the large, dull foyer and saw the groups of winos gathered in little clusters; the young, wide-eyed teens just arriving to the big city from their little rural backwaters; others, only slightly older, restlessly awaiting their transport back to the simplicities of country life, the big bad city having chewed them up and spat them back out; women with their small children running away from their abusive husbands; drug dealers meeting up for deals; students setting out for college. The depot was a true melting pot, a thousand people from all walks of life wanting to take the Greyhound across America for a thousand different reasons.