Without further pause, Cole put the car into gear and pulled out of the parking lot, heading from the airport out towards Interstate 95, which would take him to his rendezvous with Bill Crozier.
21
The big Cadillac pulled along the gravel driveway of the Four Lakes Cemetery, rolling along at a respectful 3mph.
In the driver’s seat, Sam Hitchens aimed the car between two of the ornamental lakes, heading towards the set of gravestones by the third, larger lake. He once again thought about how hard Crozier made his job. He liked the man, that was for sure, but he thought some of the demands he made were entirely unreasonable. Such as wanting his bodyguard to also be his driver. None of the other top CIA guys just had one man with them; they all had bodyguards and drivers at the very least. But not Bill Crozier. Sometimes Hitchens thought that his boss didn’t feel that he deserved such protection. But that was just silly, Hitchens decided.
Another objection Hitchens had was his boss’s insistence on visiting his wife’s grave at 7:30 every morning. Hitchens had always felt it was unwise, and unsafe in the extreme to follow such an obvious schedule. But in the end, his opinion didn’t really matter, and Hitchens just had to do the best he could with the circumstances he was given. Besides which, Crozier had been a decorated Captain in the 82nd, and as a former All American himself, Hitchens felt a strong bond with the NCS Director.
As the armoured vehicle rolled to a stop on the high lane that sat above the row of graves on the east side of the big lake, Hitchens noticed a man by one of the headstones, kneeling in the cold snow and placing a large bunch of flowers on the white ground in front of the grave. He seemed to be deep in prayer.
As Crozier got out of the car, Hitchens followed suit. Crozier threw the man a sharp look. ‘What are you doing? Stay in the car.’
Hitchens came over to Crozier. ‘I know that’s your rule, boss, but there’s a guy down there at the next grave over. I’ll go check him out, then I’ll come back and stay in the car.’
Crozier looked genuinely outraged. ‘You’ll do no such thing!’ he said quietly, but forcefully. ‘That man is offering his respects for a loved one. Don’t you dare disturb him!’
Hitchens sighed to himself in resignation. ‘Then will you at least wait in the car until he’s finished?’
‘I have a meeting with Dorrell in less than an hour,’ explained Crozier patiently, as if to a child. ‘So no, I cannot wait. Now get back in the car. I’ll be ten minutes.’
22
From his position in front of the gravestone, Cole had heard the noise of the Cadillac as it pulled onto the lane up the hill behind him. He had heard one door open, then the other, and then some exchanged words. What were they saying? Would they wait for him to move on? Would Crozier’s bodyguard come down with him? Cole sincerely hoped not.
He had read of Crozier’s habitual custom of visiting his wife’s grave from surveillance reports collated by the French secret service. Mary Elizabeth Crozier had died at the age of thirty-six in a car crash, had been pronounced dead at the scene. That had been seventeen years ago, and Crozier had been crushed by the incident. Many people had said that he could have got the Directorship of the whole CIA had his mind not been distracted by the tragedy.
The French intelligence report had other interesting information, including the fact that he had kept no close company since the accident, was a borderline alcoholic, was what the psychological profile labelled a ‘dependant obsessive’, but who was also extremely good at his job, perhaps looking to lose himself in his work. The report also said that Crozier’s bodyguard, Samuel Hitchens, always stayed with the vehicle on these visits.
And now what would happen? Would Hitchens accompany Crozier? Would they just call off the visit? Cole thought not. His own analysis of the man was that Crozier was not the sort to be perturbed by the presence of a fellow mourner; indeed, he would probably sympathize.
And so, as he knelt opposite the frozen lake in the cold, wet snow that had started to soak through the material of his trouser legs, he hoped that his reading of the man had been right.
23
Crozier slowly crunched his way down the small hill towards his wife’s gravestone. He had finally appeased Hitchens by letting him wait next to the car instead of in it; he would at least be able to respond more quickly should anything happen.
Not that Crozier expected it to. He was safe here. His wife was watching over him, as he had conversely failed to watch over her. And he would once again ask for her forgiveness, and find comfort in her answers. And then he would ask her what to do at the meeting that morning. And she would know.
Cole heard the single set of footsteps approaching from his left, moving towards the grave on the far side of him. The grave of Mary Elizabeth Crozier.
Good. Hitchens had stayed with the car. Cole had already decided on his plan of action should Hitchens have decided to accompany Crozier, but was grateful he didn’t have to go through with it. It wouldn’t have been as neat or as clean as he would have liked the operation to be, but sometimes you just had to improvise.
He once again thanked providence that this wasn’t one of those times.
Crozier was near the grave now, and had already started to pray. Please, Mary. Please forgive me. I love you. Please forgive me.
He had all but forgotten the existence of the other man, even as he stepped behind him to get to his wife’s grave.
Judging the moment perfectly, Cole made the sign of the cross and stood up, bumping directly back into the body of William Crozier.
24
From his vantage point by the car, Hitchens reacted to the sudden move. As the second man turned to face Crozier, a look of surprise on his face, Hitchens already had his gun out of the speed holster on his belt and was racing towards the scene.
Crozier himself was just as surprised, and felt the man touch his arm, then the side of his face, as if checking to make sure he was unhurt.
‘Whoa! Sorry buddy, I didn’t see you there!’ said the man apologetically in a mild Virginian accent. ‘Are you hurt?’
Crozier had regained his composure, and dusted himself down. ‘Not at all, don’t worry about it.’
‘Okay, thanks, I — ’ The man’s words caught in his throat, and Crozier could see a look of abject fear in his eyes.
‘Put your hands in the air! Now!’ Hitchens screamed at Cole, Sig Sauer pistol aimed towards his head. Acting with perfect believability, Cole’s hands went straight up in the air, voice panting and breathless with fear.
‘I … I — ’ He gulped down breaths of air, saw Crozier spin round to confront him.
Hitchens saw the face of his boss turn accusingly towards him. ‘Sam, what the Hell do you think you’re doing?’ Crozier hissed at him. ‘Get back in the car, now!’
Crozier seemed fine. Maybe it had just been an accident. Hitchens tentatively started to lower his gun. Crozier’s eyes widened at him. ‘Now!’ he spat, and Hitchens realized he had no choice.
Holstering his weapon, the bodyguard nodded his head and climbed back up the hill towards the car.
‘I’m sorry about that,’ Crozier offered. ‘He’s rather protective.’
‘You can say that again!’ said Cole, backing away slowly, fear still showing in his eyes. ‘Er, look, sorry again about knocking into you. Real sorry.’