‘You pay me what the jobs are worth,’ Cole countered. ‘Anyway, you could be paying me out of your own pocket and it would only be loose change to you.’
‘Now, now,’ chided Hansard in return, ‘I’m not that wealthy, you know. Anyone would think I was Donald Trump or something.’
Although he made a mockery of it, the truth of the matter was that Vice Admiral Hansard was one of the richest men in the United States, although he used his connections to ensure that his name never appeared on any of the nation’s ‘rich lists.’ Most of his peers did the same; in fact, America’s ‘official’ richest man, the genius billionaire behind the Lantex Leisure conglomerate, was actually only the nation’s eighth richest. Hansard’s vast wealth came primarily from his landholdings, passed down through generations of his family, but also from some rather shrewd business investments, some of which were also far from public knowledge.
Hansard took a sip of his brandy Cole had given him. ‘But there is serious business to attend to, I’m afraid. And I mean deadly serious. That’s why I’m here personally. No middleman, you see, not this time. We just can’t risk it. I couldn’t even risk sending you a cipher. We can’t have anything written down or printed. I need to give you the details verbally.’
‘Who’s the target?’
Hansard nodded to Cole’s bottle. ‘Have another sip of that,’ he suggested. Cole did so, raising a questioning eyebrow once finished.
Hansard seemed satisfied. ‘Your target,’ he began, ‘is William James Crozier.’ Cole’s brow furrowed upon hearing the name and he started to speak, but Hansard lifted a hand to stop him. ‘Yes, my friend. I will make it quite clear for you, so that there is no misunderstanding.
‘I want you to kill Bill Crozier, the Director of the CIA’s National Clandestine Service.’
15
Sarah was waiting for Cole when he returned to the house shortly after nine. He smiled as he came in, and she smiled back weakly. ‘How long?’ she asked simply.
Cole approached her, holding her arms, and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Only a short one this time, babe. Should be back the day after tomorrow by the latest.’ Sarah didn’t look convinced, so Cole added ‘Really, honey. I mean it.’
She nodded her head in resignation. ‘What time do you leave?’
‘An hour,’ he answered immediately. ‘I just need to go down to the office and then I have to get straight off.’
She nodded once more, knowing there was nothing she could say to stop him. ‘It’s important?’ she asked finally.
Cole kissed her gently on the lips and looked directly into her deep blue eyes. His own eyes, also blue, seemed to take on a strangely opaque quality as he replied ‘Yes. Yes it is.’ He hugged her tightly to him, and his warmth and strength immediately reassured her. I shouldn’t worry, she decided. He’ll come back safe. He always does.
Forty five minutes later, Cole closed down his computer system. The internal database stored detailed information on literally thousands of military, intelligence, police and political personnel from around the globe. Anyone of any importance was on it, and it was continually updated by secure link direct from the Office of the DNI, on Hansard’s orders.
Cole additionally had direct access, through a series of ingenious cyber-hacking programmes, to the internal computer mainframes of all major intelligence services from around the world.
In essence, Cole was able to obtain detailed information, official and unofficial, about anyone he needed. In this particular case, just half an hour after entering his secret room, Cole had turned up literally hundreds of pages of information on William James Crozier, including his military service record, his current CIA/NCS personal file, medical records, and even a diary of his movements.
Cole hadn’t balked at the idea of assassinating Crozier. It was an unusual request, certainly, but not without precedent. In the internecine world of espionage and intelligence, it wasn’t as simple as black and white. Very often, the most dangerous people were those who worked for the same country.
Indeed, for all Cole knew, the order to kill Crozier might even have come from the US President herself; that was how the programme was set up, so nobody would know where the orders came from. People with the necessary security clearance would contact Hansard on an encrypted communications network and put through their requests for ‘the asset’. Hansard would then assess the job and pass it along to Cole. It was possible even Crozier himself had used Cole’s services in the past, with neither man being aware of it.
Cole wasn’t about to question his orders — if the high-level politicians using the programme wanted the NCS Director dead, there would be a good reason, and Hansard himself would not necessarily know what it was. Such compartmentalisation was what ensured complete operational security, something that was often sadly lacking when politicians were involved.
Cole had sifted quickly through the gathered intelligence from his database, picking up on whatever was useful and discarding everything else.
And so, shortly after ten o’clock that evening, he had his mission completely planned out; exactly where, when and how he would kill William James Crozier.
16
Fifteen minutes after this, Cole had visited his children, asleep in their rooms, and kissed them goodbye. He didn’t wake them; Sarah would explain things to them in the morning. He had stared at them for a time though, gaining strength from their peacefulness. It was a calm that came only from innocence — they had not yet encountered the brutal reality of the world, as their father had. And he knew he had to succeed in his task, so that the innocent could continue to sleep untroubled.
And now he stood in the doorway, a light leather holdall in his hand, his car waiting for him outside. ‘Remember what to do if I make the call?’ he asked Sarah, who stood with him in the doorway, the cool breeze of the sea blowing blissfully over them.
‘Of course I do, honey,’ she answered. He had, after all, gone to great lengths to explain it to her; her exact actions should Cole ever be compromised on a mission. She knew the drills, and had practised them regularly under her husband’s direction. ‘But you know talk like that makes me nervous.’
Cole held her face in his hands, looking directly into her eyes. ‘Don’t worry, baby,’ he said with genuine feeling. ‘I’ll be back before you know it. I promise.’
Then Cole kissed away the single tear that rolled down her cheek, turned, and was gone.
17
Cole smiled at the young lady behind the check-in desk, handing over his passport as he did so. He looked, now, sufficiently like the photograph so as to arouse no concern — mousy blond hair, acne scars, thick-rimmed glasses — not that the girl gave it more than a cursory glance anyway.
More stringent would be the checks at passport control, but even biometric data could be forged, and Cole knew he would be presented with no problems. Thousands of people flew between Grand Cayman and Miami every week, and New Zealand citizen Brandon Clarke, whose identity Cole had now assumed, was just one more casual traveller.
‘Any luggage, Mr Clarke?’ the young lady, whose badge read Aretha Gibson, enquired cheerfully.
Cole patted the leather holdall next to him. ‘Just this,’ he replied. Whenever he travelled on a mission, he knew never to say too much, but also never too little; just enough to go through whatever motions were required of him. He left no lasting impression; just another face in a sea of faces, instantly forgettable.