STOP AT NOTHING: 'Mark Cole is Bond's US cousin mixed with the balls out action and killing edge of Jason Bourne' Parmenion Books (14 page)

53

Having wrestled his way to the top of the stairs, Edwards’s pistol now led the way. The head and body soon followed, with a face that registered complete disbelief. ‘No!’ he cried. ‘No!’

He saw the legs disappearing out of the window and raced to the huge gaping hole, followed by more agents. He looked out of the shattered glass and saw his target propel himself through the air, straight over the side of the great bridge into a picture-perfect dive towards the icy depths of the tumultuous river below. In frustration, he raised his pistol and loosed off the entire magazine at the rapidly descending figure, but it was too little, too late.

The man was gone.

54

It was almost twenty minutes later when Cole made it onto dry land. He’d let the river’s powerful flow sweep him along towards the east, let the men on the bridge see him struggle helplessly as he was swept along, and then had allowed himself to be pulled under.

Summoning up all his strength, he had then managed to swim back underwater – unobserved by the surrounding security forces – towards the west, fighting hard against the current. He knew he could do it – he had used the same strategy evading his instructors during escape and evasion training when he was one of the youngest ‘tadpoles’ in the SEALs, and was used to holding his breath for extended periods of time.

The task had been made infinitely harder though, due to the pain from his bruised ribs, and for five agonising minutes he had battled, until he was forced to come up for air. He had surfaced near the south bank, and had made about a hundred metres against the current; it wasn’t far, but it was far enough. After seeing him being swept away, the search would be conducted almost exclusively to the east of the bridge.

But he couldn’t risk approaching the bank just yet; there were too many curious onlookers about and, although their attention was directed towards the bridge, the sight of a tired man in a soaking wet business suit pulling himself out of the Thames would soon set alarm bells ringing. But as he continued his exhausting battle against the river, he knew he would have to get out soon – the chilling water of the Thames would soon send him hypothermic, and he’d become unable to swim, or even to move. He could feel it even now, the cold seeping through his skin, into his veins, until it was like ice coursing through his entire body. But he had to press on, he had to keep going until he found a better spot.

He had swum the best part of half a mile by the time he finally pulled his exhausted, pain-wracked body out of the river, collapsing onto a remote, muddy shore of the South Bank. His entire body shivered uncontrollably, wracked with a piercing, numbing coldness that bit into his bones. He knew he couldn’t afford to rest, and clambered the rest of the way up the slippery bank, pulling himself over some old wooden pilings and up onto an abandoned concrete dock.

He started to jog towards a shabby group of old warehouse buildings, but his legs failed him and he stumbled helplessly, weak from both cold and fatigue. He would have to get out of these clothes soon, he thought, or things
would
get bad for him. But first, he had to find a telephone.

55

Yet another call had come through to Albright on the emergency line. He listened intently, nodding his head as if the caller could see him. He finished the call with a simple ‘Yes sir,’ and replaced the receiver, turning to his men.

‘Okay guys,’ he started. ‘The target in London has been confirmed as having escaped. We are now expecting his family to move to an RV with him, and our task is therefore to follow them, without their knowledge, in order to locate the primary target. Any questions?’ There were none. ‘Okay, good. Mr Hansard is none too happy, so let’s not screw this up.’

He turned and moved towards the stairs up to the deck.
Damn
. He didn’t like changes of plan. And he’d rather been looking forward to storming the house. No expected defences, easy targets; just the way he liked it. He stopped in front of a mirror half way up the stairs, examined himself for a few moments, and then adjusted a few strands of rich blond hair that had strayed across his tanned forehead.
There
, he thought with some satisfaction.
That’s better
.

56

As Hansard’s Bentley swept him the last mile to the private airport just outside London, he couldn’t help but be a little perturbed. He could tell that the whole incident had put him out of sorts when it took him three attempts to pack his pipe properly, the first two having degenerated into a sorry mess on the deep carpet.

So, Cole had escaped. It was too bad; really, too bad. Hansard could only hope that the man’s mind would be on meeting up with his family, and not on revealing to the press – or anyone else for that matter – that the death of William Crozier had been an assassination. Because that would
really
put the cat among the pigeons.

But Cole didn’t truly realize the implications behind his latest service, Hansard was sure. Besides which, the issue of secrecy was one which Cole took seriously. Hansard had only ordered Cole’s execution because he had been worried that Cole might talk
after
he had realized what the real reason for Crozier’s death had been. And the real reason wouldn’t be clear for several days yet, Hansard knew. Therefore, he had time.

Hansard had not yet issued a national alert for Cole; if captured, he might talk nevertheless before one of Hansard’s men could get to him. But he had plenty of agents out there looking for him, and had his own people posted at every sea port and airport in the country. And at the other end, he had Albright watching the Cole house. If Cole followed normal procedure, he would try and meet with his family in a neutral, secure area. Hansard didn’t know where that was but he felt sure that Cole would be found. If he managed to escape the United Kingdom, his own family would lead Hansard’s men to him.

The galling thing was that Hansard was no longer in direct control of what was happening. Some of the control was now in the hands of fate, and that was something Hansard had no time for. He hated the uncertainty of it, and further hated the fact that his careful plans, which had been years in the making –
years!
– could soon be undermined by one man.

But Hansard was an optimist at heart – he would never have even dreamt of such a venture if that had not been the case – and felt quietly confident that Cole would soon be reacquired, and quickly silenced. There was still plenty of time before he could become a
true
danger.

57

Cole hung up the receiver of the payphone with a shaking hand. In such a run-down area, it had taken him some time to find a phone that worked, and that hadn’t been vandalised beyond either function or recognition.

His extended search had, however, provided him with a new set of clothes, although he would have been the first to admit that they were far from perfect. As he had staggered from one destroyed payphone to another, he had soon become aware that he was being followed. He would normally have realized sooner, but his senses had been dulled by the afternoon’s activity.

It was past four o’clock now, and in the rapidly diminishing light, the predators were already out and operating, looking for victims. And in his obviously weakened state, Cole looked like just such a thing.

They approached him two minutes after he had spotted them. One circled round in order to approach from the side, whilst the other stayed behind, confident that he was out of view.

The first man was casual, almost friendly. ‘Alright mate, have you got the time?’ he asked in a broad cockney accent. Cole was well aware of the trick – distract the victim with a question, make them look away, perhaps down towards a watch, then pull out a knife and demand money, backed up by the second man from behind, who would also be armed – and had no desire to get into a protracted fight with the men, having neither the time nor the energy.

And so no sooner had the man got the words out of his mouth than Cole had knocked him unconscious with a
marma adi
nerve strike to the inside of the collarbone. The second man went down just half a second later as Cole spun round and hit two points on his neck in rapid succession, using the extended middle knuckle of one hand. He was beginning to adjust his movements to compensate for the pain in his ribs, and the three strikes had caused only slight discomfort.

Cole dragged the bodies out of sight into the deep shadows of a nearby side street, and stripped them both, then himself. He used the clothes of one man to dry himself, rubbing his body vigorously with the jacket, top and trousers until they were soaked through. They might not have been the cleanest things in the world, but Cole was not so much concerned with hygiene as with avoiding hypothermia.

Once thoroughly dry, he put on the clothes of the man who was a more similar size to himself, along with the boots; too big, but they would certainly do for now. He found two flick-knives and a knuckle-duster on the men as well – just necessary tools of their chosen trade, Cole supposed – and pocketed the items. He also found over two hundred pounds in cash, and decided that they must have had a busy day. Cole was glad that he had ended it early.

Although they were not an ideal size, the clothes were at least non-descript. The man had obviously chosen them to be bland and unmemorable; victims’ police reports would subsequently not be much help in finding the culprits, and this suited Cole’s needs perfectly.

He had finally found a payphone just around the corner on the next street, and used some of the change he’d found on the men to place a coded call to a bureau in Grand Cayman, who then relayed an innocuous message to his home’s landline telephone. The coded message directly would tell Sarah to move immediately to the emergency RV.

He had faith in her ability to do so; she was tough as well as smart, and he had trained her well. But he had no idea what obstacles she would have to overcome, if there were agents already near the house, if – he stopped himself dead. There was no point in filling his head with ‘what ifs’; such a waste of mental energy would only work against him in the long run.

Cole breathed deeply, the pain in his ribs making him wince in pain. He had to trust that Sarah and the children would make the rendezvous; he simply had to.

The question is
, Cole wondered as he considered the security net Hansard would be spreading out over the country to bring him in,
will I manage to make it there myself?

PART THREE

1

The party was held in the same place all of their regular Alumni meetings were now held – the Office of the Director of National Intelligence. Hansard made sure that nobody registered who the guests were, when they came, or when they left. It was as secure as a meeting of such important men and women could be; even their private security details were not allowed anywhere near.

Clyde Rutherford raised his glass first, clearing his voice as the excited chatter ceased and all eyes turned his way. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he announced, ‘let’s show our appreciation for Vice Admiral Charles Hansard!’

There were whoops and cheers, and loud applause as Hansard raised his own glass, acknowledging the praise. He let it continue for a few moments before holding up a calming hand, waiting for the applause to finish before he spoke.

‘Thank you,’ he said finally. ‘Thank you for your kindness, and thank you for the work you have all put in yourselves. Do not forget that we are all in this together, brothers and sisters striving for a new path for our nation; a better path, a safer path, and certainly a more profitable path.’

There was laughter, and he once again held up a hand for calm. ‘But let us not get ahead of ourselves. The first blow may have been struck, but we all know how much further there is to go before any of us can truly celebrate.’

Hansard watched as heads nodded around the room, taking a sip of Dom Perignon ’49 from the flute in his hand. ‘And let me give another toast,’ he continued in a solemn tone, ‘to the memory of Bill Crozier, until so recently one of our own number.’

Hansard saw some of the group open their mouths to object, but he held up a hand again – amazing how so simple an action could silence even people such as this, he reflected – and said ‘I know how some of you feel, of course. In the end, he was going to subvert his values and go against the whole ethic of the Alumni, perhaps even bringing our plans down around us. But we drink to his memory now for the role he recently played so effectively in such plans.’ He raised his glass again. ‘To Bill.’

Everyone in the room raised their own glasses, some more readily than others. ‘To Bill,’ they all said as one.

‘And now,’ Hansard said, piercing blue eyes looking over the gathered members of the Alumni, ‘we must prepare for the next phase of our plan.’

2

Cole had the radio tuned into the local news. His recent exploits had been given a full three minutes of airtime, and he had heard himself referred to not only as ‘armed and highly dangerous,’ but as a leading member of a murderous break-off group of Al Qaeda known as the Islamist Jihad Martyrs Brigade.

In fact, the news programme then spent the next two minutes describing the growing trend in white middle-class converts to radical Islam, and how such extremist groups were utilising such men for terrorist attacks, as it was easier for such people to avoid surveillance and detection.

As Cole eased the stolen Vauxhaul hatchback into the vast onslaught of traffic on the westbound M25, he had to laugh at the irony of the situation. Here he was, having spent the last two decades fighting terrorists and their various associates, now accused of being one himself. But he could certainly see the logic of such an accusation. Terrorists were big news, and the fact that there was one on the loose – especially an ‘armed and dangerous’ one – would ensure that all resources were directed his way, with full cooperation from the public. Cole felt sure that there would be a ‘shoot first and ask questions later’ policy in operation.

But why?
It just didn’t make sense to him. Why would Hansard want him dead now, after all these years? Evidently, it was linked to the assassination of Crozier. Hansard didn’t want him to talk. But why would Hansard have thought he
would
talk? He hadn’t talked for the year he’d been in P’ang Dakkar prison, and not many men could say that. Hansard
knew
he could be trusted. So what, then?

The answer was there in front of him, taunting him, jeering at him. He knew there could only be one answer, but he didn’t want to admit it. He couldn’t. And yet, there was no way to avoid it.

Hansard knew that Cole would never talk about a legitimate mission –
never
. He wouldn’t even talk about
illegal
missions, if the cause was a just one. Which meant one thing, and one thing only – the mission had been illegitimate. Maybe even a personal job for Hansard himself?

Glancing at his speedometer, he reduced his speed fractionally. He was in a hurry, but there was no reason to attract any unnecessary attention. It was important to keep to the speed limit. The car had been stolen from a small independent garage that was closed until the New Year. The loss shouldn’t be noticed for days, unless police attention was drawn to the car for another reason. He re-checked his headlights, and reassured himself they were functioning. Confident that there was no reason for him to be spotted, he let himself be pulled along by the heavy flow of seasonal traffic, along the most hated road in Britain.

His mind soon drifted back to Hansard.
Why did he order me to kill William Crozier?
What reason could there be for Hansard wanting Crozier dead? Again, Cole was confronted by a cold certainty; Crozier knew something that Hansard wanted kept secret. The relationship between the two men ran deeper than Cole had thought.
He wanted me to silence him
, Cole realized with a sickening conviction.

The answers provided him with nothing but more questions. What did Crozier know? What was the relationship between him and Hansard?
What was Hansard’s plan?
Cole was sure that the man had one, and he was sure it was something huge. It would at least give him something to think about for the long drive to the ferry port at Dover.