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

  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.

  11

  Hansard was feeling older than normal, far from his usual self. He sat quietly in a chair by the window of the private bar in the outside ring of the Pentagon, 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 Director of National Intelligence, he would be giving evidence at the forthcoming emergency meeting of the National Security Council. 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; 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 he just wouldn’t care; but given his background, that was decidedly unlikely, and it was therefore more probable 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 bastards 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.

  12

  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 realized 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. C
ole was one of 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.

  13

  Almost five thousand miles to the south-west, 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.

  Albright, ensconced in the security command centre of the airport after using his official credentials, saw Sarah finish a visual search of the area, and then watched as she and her children started off for the terminal building.

  He knew that Sarah be keeping tabs on who might be watching. It wouldn’t matter though – they would 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.

  14

  Sarah had seen nothing that aroused her suspicions, but that meant nothing – she had no idea who the people following them might work for, and therefore no idea how sophisticated their surveillance would be. For all she knew, they might have access to the airport’s own security apparatus. If that was the case, she knew that their actions within the airport would be monitored electronically, without them ever realizing.

  Sarah’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 Sarah had been told by Mark time and again that it never hurt to check; if she could identify a surveillance team within the airport, it might make avoiding such a team later on a little easier.

  Sarah and her children 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.

  Sarah had already visited the American Airlines ticket desk and bought three one-way tickets for San Francisco, on a flight leaving in just over three hours. She had no intention of boarding that flight, a fact that would be obvious nearer the time, but she 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, she 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 Sarah the opportunity to go over their next course of action, as time spent in mental rehearsal was never wasted. Mark had taught her that lesson well.

  15

  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.

  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 been, 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 h
ands 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.

  Cole’s reactions were quicker. As soon as John moved, he slammed the callused edge of his hand into the agent’s windpipe, crushing the trachea instantly. The man dropped to his knees and Cole dodged sharply to the side as Blue thrust the knife towards his spine.

  Twisting round in a close arc, Cole grabbed Blue with both hands – one secured around the man’s knife-arm, the other gripping his hair – and, using Blue’s own momentum from the forward thrust, he yanked him forwards viciously. Blue’s head smashed into the reinforced porcelain of the urinal with a sickening crunch, and Cole knew the agent was no longer a threat.

  Cole also knew that he couldn’t afford to let either man live and so he leant forwards and jerked Blue’s head violently backwards, breaking the neck cleanly. Cole looked down to the left and saw John on the floor, eyes wide as he struggled in vain to breathe. As Cole reached down, the agent’s eyes were pleading, and yet no words came out of the gargling, shattered throat. A moment later, John joined his partner on the dirty toilet floor, his neck also broken.

  Cole picked up the knife from the floor, a folding Gerber; easy to conceal but deadly nevertheless. Cole was glad he hadn’t had to use it; the blood would have been hard to cover up. As it was, he still had two bodies to hide, and he went to work quickly.