There was laughter, and he once again held up a hand for calm. ‘But let us not get ahead of ourselves. The first blow may have been struck, but we all know how much further there is to go before any of us can truly celebrate.’
Hansard watched as heads nodded around the room, taking a sip of Dom Perignon ’49 from the flute in his hand. ‘And let me give another toast,’ he continued in a solemn tone, ‘to the memory of Bill Crozier, until so recently one of our own number.’
Hansard saw some of the group open their mouths to object, but he held up a hand again — amazing how so simple an action could silence even people such as this, he reflected — and said ‘I know how some of you feel, of course. In the end, he was going to subvert his values and go against the whole ethic of the Alumni, perhaps even bringing our plans down around us. But we drink to his memory now for the role he recently played so effectively in such plans.’ He raised his glass again. ‘To Bill.’
Everyone in the room raised their own glasses, some more readily than others. ‘To Bill,’ they all said as one.
‘And now,’ Hansard said, piercing blue eyes looking over the gathered members of the Alumni, ‘we must prepare for the next phase of our plan.’
2
Cole had the radio tuned into the local news. His recent exploits had been given a full three minutes of airtime, and he had heard himself referred to not only as ‘armed and highly dangerous,’ but as a leading member of a murderous break-off group of Al Qaeda known as the Islamist Jihad Martyrs Brigade.
In fact, the news programme then spent the next two minutes describing the growing trend in white middle-class converts to radical Islam, and how such extremist groups were utilising such men for terrorist attacks, as it was easier for such people to avoid surveillance and detection.
As Cole eased the stolen Vauxhaul hatchback into the vast onslaught of traffic on the westbound M25, he had to laugh at the irony of the situation. Here he was, having spent the last two decades fighting terrorists and their various associates, now accused of being one himself. But he could certainly see the logic of such an accusation. Terrorists were big news, and the fact that there was one on the loose — especially an ‘armed and dangerous’ one — would ensure that all resources were directed his way, with full cooperation from the public. Cole felt sure that there would be a ‘shoot first and ask questions later’ policy in operation.
But why? It just didn’t make sense to him. Why would Hansard want him dead now, after all these years? Evidently, it was linked to the assassination of Crozier. Hansard didn’t want him to talk. But why would Hansard have thought he would talk? He hadn’t talked for the year he’d been in P’ang Dakkar prison, and not many men could say that. Hansard knew he could be trusted. So what, then?
The answer was there in front of him, taunting him, jeering at him. He knew there could only be one answer, but he didn’t want to admit it. He couldn’t. And yet, there was no way to avoid it.
Hansard knew that Cole would never talk about a legitimate mission — never. He wouldn’t even talk about illegal missions, if the cause was a just one. Which meant one thing, and one thing only — the mission had been illegitimate. Maybe even a personal job for Hansard himself?
Glancing at his speedometer, he reduced his speed fractionally. He was in a hurry, but there was no reason to attract any unnecessary attention. It was important to keep to the speed limit. The car had been stolen from a small independent garage that was closed until the New Year. The loss shouldn’t be noticed for days, unless police attention was drawn to the car for another reason. He re-checked his headlights, and reassured himself they were functioning. Confident that there was no reason for him to be spotted, he let himself be pulled along by the heavy flow of seasonal traffic, along the most hated road in Britain.
His mind soon drifted back to Hansard. Why did he order me to kill William Crozier? What reason could there be for Hansard wanting Crozier dead? Again, Cole was confronted by a cold certainty; Crozier knew something that Hansard wanted kept secret. The relationship between the two men ran deeper than Cole had thought. He wanted me to silence him, Cole realized with a sickening conviction.
The answers provided him with nothing but more questions. What did Crozier know? What was the relationship between him and Hansard? What was Hansard’s plan? Cole was sure that the man had one, and he was sure it was something huge. It would at least give him something to think about for the long drive to the ferry port at Dover.
3
Sarah surfaced for a visual check just twenty metres to the starboard side of the yacht. She smiled underneath her respirator. Spot on.
The swim had not been hard. After all, Sarah was a professional diving instructor, and her fins were the best on the market. The six-kilometre distance had seemed like a mere fraction of that, and she was still fresh as she slipped once more beneath the waves, angling in on the yacht for her final approach.
Although they didn’t need the money, Sarah still organized dive tours around Cayman Brac and the neighbouring island of Little Cayman. It was simply something she loved, and the open ocean had given Sarah her first real taste of freedom, back when she had still been a teenager.
As she swam easily towards the starboard side of the yacht, unconcerned that she might be spotted — the attention of the men onboard was directed solely on the house — she once again felt that same sense of freedom, of life, she had first felt all those years ago.
But as she placed her little present against the smooth metal hull of the vessel, magnets attaching it firmly in place with a soft thunk, she tried not to think too hard about exactly what she was doing, and the devastating effect it would soon have.
4
Cole had left the car in a quiet residential area of Maxton, a small suburb of Dover, in the early hours of the morning. Just another parked car, it would not arouse suspicion for a number of days. Only when it had been left in the same place for a protracted period of time would the first curious neighbours perhaps contact the police, by which time he would be long gone. He had cleaned the car for prints nevertheless.
As he stepped off the local bus just outside the main ferry port of Dover at just after six in the morning, he was already operating with a firm plan of action. Rather than staying on the bus all the way to the main drop-off at Car Park Four, he decided to approach on foot. Hansard wanted him bad, and there would almost certainly be men there already, looking for him. Stepping off the ferry bus into the main car park would be a pretty major mistake.
Instead, he walked the last mile to the huge port compound, observing constantly as he went. At this hour, it was still pitch-black, and he kept sufficiently to the shadows that passing vehicles would pay him no attention. He couldn’t make out any static surveillance on the roads leading in. Not that he was surprised — not enough time had elapsed since his escape for a full surveillance operation to have been mounted, especially as Cole could be at any one of dozens of international transport hubs around the country. Hansard would want his resources concentrated inside the main port area.