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.