STOP AT NOTHING: 'Mark Cole is Bond's US cousin mixed with the balls out action and killing edge of Jason Bourne' Parmenion Books (16 page)

9

Cole’s back touched down on the cold metal floor of the second-level parking zone, his muscles at first relaxing, before cramping up agonizingly. He had been clinging to the Toyota’s chassis for over an hour, and although he had adopted the most comfortable posture available, he had known that muscle cramps would be inevitable. And so he knew he just had to lie quietly and ride out the pain.

As his mind cleared, he considered his options. The car had been parked for the last twenty minutes, and Cole had still waited, suspended underneath the car, until all the passengers on this level had left for the comforts of the lounge above. He had only let himself slide down to the floor when he could detect no further presence in the parking area – no radios, no doors shutting, no children shouting, no drunkards singing. All was silent, and he was now free to move around the huge vessel like any other passenger.

The lure of a cold beer at one of the bars was certainly tempting, and yet he hesitated to move. Going above to the public areas would certainly be the more comfortable option, but it would not be the wisest. Although he had boarded the ferry undetected, he knew Hansard might have men stationed on all boats leaving port, including this one. Cole didn’t know whether his old boss would have had the time, or the manpower, to launch such an operation; it didn’t seem likely, but he simply could not afford to take the chance.

As his muscles eventually began to properly relax and feeling started to return to his limbs, he considered another of his options. He could access the service areas, and hide within the operational bowels of the massive ship. It would certainly give him room to stretch out, whilst keeping him away from other passengers, and possible agents. But the chances of a crew member stumbling upon him were too great, and then the options would be to either succumb to arrest, or silence the crew member, and Cole wanted to avoid that at all costs.

And so he decided on his third and final option – just stay exactly where he was, keeping himself as warm and mobile as he could, and leave for France underneath the same car he had come in on.

Cole considered briefly the possibility of being found under the vehicle, but thought it unlikely. The cars were densely packed and, even lying on the floor, it would be almost impossible for someone standing up to see him. A child perhaps, but he didn’t think it likely that parents would let their children wander around the parking area. If anyone
did
happen to bend down further, he could just pull himself back up underneath the car anyway, and then someone would
really
have to be looking in order to see him.

A drink, some food, a new set of clothes – all these things would be nice, but they could wait until he was in France. He had been hungry, thirsty, cold and wet before, and he adjusted easily to the discomfort. He had gone through the infamous Hell Week during SEAL training when he was just eighteen years old – five and a half days with only four hours sleep, exercised for twenty hours a day in the freezing cold mud and water of Coronado, running over two hundred miles with his buddies, more often than not carrying an inflatable boat over their heads as they did so. This would be a walk in the park in comparison.

As he started to roll from one shoulder to the other, flexing his arms to get some mobility back and start the blood flowing again, he wondered about his family. Where would they be now? Plane or yacht, he decided, headed for Miami. They’d have to work hard there, he knew, to avoid being followed. Cole didn’t think Hansard would kill them; not yet, anyway. They were too valuable alive, and Cole knew Hansard would be trying to follow them in the desperate hope of finding him.

It would be tough, but Cole thought Sarah would be able to lose their tails; the route Cole had planed for them was good, and they had practised the drills many times.

He thought about Ben and Amy, wondering how they were doing, whether they realized things were bad, or whether Sarah’s brave face was convincing them that it was all just a fabulous adventure.

He snapped himself out of his reverie instants later; he couldn’t afford to lose his concentration for a moment. If he was killed or captured, he knew Hansard would have no more need for Sarah and the children; and so maybe he would kill them to tie up the loose ends, or maybe he would just let them go, but Cole couldn’t afford to take the risk. He
had
to keep himself safe, if his family was to have a chance.

10

Ten minutes later, Cole was glad that he had kept his senses alert. Noises, but faint – footsteps? He listened closer, tuning himself totally to the environment.

Two men, moving slowly, methodically. Doing what? Cole listened harder as he pulled himself up again under the Toyota. Checking cars; they were checking cars! Cole cursed silently. He didn’t know whether it was a routine security patrol, ordered to makes extra sweeps to check for the ‘escaped terrorist’, or whether they were Hansard’s own men. If they were the latter, Cole was under no illusions that their orders would be to kill him; Hansard wanted him dead, so why bother with arrest, or other half-measures? No, he had to assume that the men were armed agents, intending to silence him. It would mean quite a drastic change of plan, but Cole was an adaptable man; he had learnt early in his career the veracity of the claim that ‘no plan survives contact with the enemy’.

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. Cole 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.