Aretha gestured to the scales. ‘Just place your bag there please, sir.’ Cole placed down his holdall, smiling inwardly. She had already forgotten his name. The small ten kilogram bag easily passed the baggage allowance, and then Aretha went into her routine of asking if he had any prohibited items — razor blades, sprays, liquids, the list went on and on. Cole merely shook his head and said ‘No.’ It always amazed him that such precautions were taken. It seemed to him that all it did was make things harder for law-abiding, everyday passengers; any terrorist that wanted to get a weapon on board could easily do so, with only a modicum of planning.
He thought back to the time his SEAL section had been tasked with testing security between Heathrow and JFK. He and his three men had managed to board a 747 en route to New York with fake passports, three Glock semiautomatic handguns, one Heckler und Koch MP5K submachine gun, four combat knives, and enough C4 plastic explosive to destroy the entire airport, never mind one single plane. When they got through customs at New York with not even so much as a sign of suspicion, they had revealed to a disbelieving security staff exactly what they had managed to transport across the Atlantic.
The response was typical, and came as no surprise to Cole. The exercise was declared null and void because Cole and his team had ‘cheated’. The security had been told to expect them on a certain flight, and had concentrated their resources on that. Cole had seen the easy trap and therefore chosen another flight. Wouldn’t terrorists have done the same? asked Cole at the debrief. Because people that want to blow up aeroplanes do not generally play by the rules. But the airport authorities had ignored the facts that stared them directly in the face and, once again, had learnt nothing from what could have been a productive exercise; and international passage for men like Cole was still as easy as ever.
Aretha smiled again at Cole, handing over his passport, along with his ticket and boarding pass. ‘Thank you, sir. Have a nice flight.’
Cole smiled back, but not too much. ‘Thanks,’ he said simply, but cheerfully enough. And with that, Brandon Clarke made his way to the departure lounge.
18
Miami International Airport, even at quarter past one in the morning, was a chaotic cacophony of noise and sight; from the regular, monotone electronic announcements over the Tannoy, to the incessant pleading of parents trying in vain to placate their screaming children, to the roar of the big jets themselves out on the runways, everything conspired to destroy any vestige of peace or serenity.
Cole himself sat quietly, having chosen the end seat of a row fixed to a wall, facing out into the departure lounge. He never liked to sit on ‘exposed’ seating, especially in such busy public areas. He much preferred to sit with his back to something solid, so he didn’t have to worry about what was behind him. For the same reason, he would not sit in the middle of the row. A single seat would draw attention towards him however, and so he always sat at the end of a row; at least then he only had to worry about people to one side of him.
The large LCD screen suspended from the ceiling suddenly drew his attention. It was showing CNN, which ran the banner headline ‘ASIAN BLOW UP? WHY RUSSIA AND CHINA MAY SOON BE AT WAR.’ Under the banner, footage played of the attacks in Stockholm, interspliced with the recent speeches made by Vasilev Danko and Tsang Feng.
As the footage was replaced with studio commentators sombrely discussing the situation, Cole couldn’t help thinking: not good. Not good at all.
19
Cole felt the huge mass of the aeroplane shifting as its aerofoils engaged and it began to shed altitude on its slow decent towards Washington.
But the feeling was almost totally ignored by Cole. The body felt the change in pressure, heard the slightly higher whine of the jet engines, sensed the change of his position in space relative to gravity; and the mind interpreted these sensations, recognized they posed no danger or threat, and summarily dismissed them.
For Cole’s mind was locked on something more important. He had spent most of the flight engaged in a thorough mental rehearsal of his mission, visualizing with perfect clarity his every move, every action. Such was his concentration on creating the perfect mental picture, he could actually feel the cold, biting wind of the DC winter numbing his exposed face; could see the kneeling form of Crozier with vivid detail; could feel his heart rate rise with the unavoidable burst of adrenaline as he reached out towards him.
Cole had practised this particular form of psychological rehearsal from an early age. His parents had taken him to his first karate class when he was six years old, and he had taken naturally to the rigorous training. One aspect he had enjoyed from the start was the traditional art of kata; prearranged moves organised into set forms that could be practised alone. His sensei had told him that the key to success at kata was to imagine his opponents in his mind’s eye, in as much detail as possible. Unknown to the instructor, he was teaching the young Cole visualization techniques that would be at the forefront of sports psychology in the years to come. The skill served Cole well, and he took it with him into other sports, including judo and boxing. He enjoyed great success in his youthful competitive career, and rarely lost a fight. And he soon discovered that such a skill was directly transferable into everyday life, and was not just confined to the sporting arena.
As the Airbus lowered its landing gear on its final run, Cole came to the end of his last rehearsal. And the result was identical in every way to the last dozen times he had been through it; the mission successfully accomplished, with the quiet death of William Crozier.
20
By the time Cole left the arrivals lounge at Reagan National Airport, the first glimmers of the dull winter sun were just struggling over the horizon, throwing a greyish cast over the large parking lot towards which he was headed.
He had experienced no problems with security at this airport either, despite the increased alert status that always occurred around the holiday period. As he crunched through the thin layer of snow towards the Chrysler he had just hired from the Hertz desk in the foyer, he adjusted the huge bunch of flowers he had also just purchased, swapping them to the same hand that carried his holdall. It was force of habit to always keep one hand free, and Cole was a creature of habit. Habits like that had ensured his survival on a number of occasions, and he did not believe in taking chances unless absolutely necessary.
Cole soon saw the medium-sized grey sedan, and quickly verified the licence plate number with that provided by the hire agency. The car was like Cole himself — nondescript, unmemorable. Just another dull grey sedan like so many other thousands that trawled the streets of Washington. He blipped the central locking and opened the passenger door, laying the flowers on the seat and the holdall in the foot well.
Next, he spent some time walking around the car, checking it over carefully. The last thing he needed was to get a flat tyre halfway towards his destination.
Finally satisfied, he climbed into the driver’s side, inserted his key and fired up the engine. The driving computer flashed to life, and he set the heater to full. Damn, it was cold. The computer then offered him the option of satellite navigation to his destination, but Cole chose the radio instead; he had already memorized the route, and didn’t want there to be any chance of the rental company tracking where he’d been once he returned the car.