Cole considered briefly the possibility of being found under the vehicle, but thought it unlikely. The cars were densely packed and, even lying on the floor, it would be almost impossible for someone standing up to see him. A child perhaps, but he didn’t think it likely that parents would let their children wander around the parking area. If anyone did happen to bend down further, he could just pull himself back up underneath the car anyway, and then someone would really have to be looking in order to see him.
A drink, some food, a new set of clothes — all these things would be nice, but they could wait until he was in France. He had been hungry, thirsty, cold and wet before, and he adjusted easily to the discomfort. He had gone through the infamous Hell Week during SEAL training when he was just eighteen years old — five and a half days with only four hours sleep, exercised for twenty hours a day in the freezing cold mud and water of Coronado, running over two hundred miles with his buddies, more often than not carrying an inflatable boat over their heads as they did so. This would be a walk in the park in comparison.
As he started to roll from one shoulder to the other, flexing his arms to get some mobility back and start the blood flowing again, he wondered about his family. Where would they be now? Plane or yacht, he decided, headed for Miami. They’d have to work hard there, he knew, to avoid being followed. Cole didn’t think Hansard would kill them; not yet, anyway. They were too valuable alive, and Cole knew Hansard would be trying to follow them in the desperate hope of finding him.
It would be tough, but Cole thought Sarah would be able to lose their tails; the route Cole had planed for them was good, and they had practised the drills many times.
He thought about Ben and Amy, wondering how they were doing, whether they realized things were bad, or whether Sarah’s brave face was convincing them that it was all just a fabulous adventure.
He snapped himself out of his reverie instants later; he couldn’t afford to lose his concentration for a moment. If he was killed or captured, he knew Hansard would have no more need for Sarah and the children; and so maybe he would kill them to tie up the loose ends, or maybe he would just let them go, but Cole couldn’t afford to take the risk. He had to keep himself safe, if his family was to have a chance.
10
Ten minutes later, Cole was glad that he had kept his senses alert. Noises, but faint — footsteps? He listened closer, tuning himself totally to the environment.
Two men, moving slowly, methodically. Doing what? Cole listened harder as he pulled himself up again under the Toyota. Checking cars; they were checking cars! Cole cursed silently. He didn’t know whether it was a routine security patrol, ordered to makes extra sweeps to check for the ‘escaped terrorist’, or whether they were Hansard’s own men. If they were the latter, Cole was under no illusions that their orders would be to kill him; Hansard wanted him dead, so why bother with arrest, or other half-measures? No, he had to assume that the men were armed agents, intending to silence him. It would mean quite a drastic change of plan, but Cole was an adaptable man; he had learnt early in his career the veracity of the claim that ‘no plan survives contact with the enemy’.
He waited silently, gauging the position of the two men. They were to his left, perhaps two rows over, about thirty feet back — two car lengths, maybe three.
He briefly contemplated killing them, but quickly thought better of it. Hiding the bodies would be too problematical, and there was the possibility that they were just ordinary security guards. Hansard’s agents may have been valid targets, but civilians were decidedly not.
Pausing under the car until he was confident the two men were in motion, walking, and not crouching down to peer under the vehicles, he eventually lowered himself back down to the floor and rolled silently across the cold metal. He passed through the wheels of the next three rows of vehicles to his right, away from the men. There were now five rows between them, so even if they did decide to check underneath the cars, he would be well hidden.
Just one row further and there was the containing wall of this particular parking sector. Two car lengths up from his present position there were two doors, placed just six feet apart. One, Cole could see, led to the main passenger levels above. The other, labelled ‘No Entry’, and for ‘authorized personnel’ only, Cole knew from his prior experiences led to the service areas below, including the engine rooms.
Remembering his earlier appraisal, Cole was still reluctant to enter the service areas; wearing civilian clothing, his presence would soon arouse the wrong sort of attention.
The passenger levels above were not much better, but would give him more opportunity to blend in. Besides which, if there were two agents down here, then there were less likely to be any above. If, Cole reminded himself, these guys are Hansard’s men. He would have to keep a low profile anyway, in case there were others; perhaps do a subtle counter-surveillance run, then find a nice quiet place to hide out. Then maybe just join the crowds when the electronic announcement for people to return to their vehicles came over the PA system, and get lost in the masses. He doubted anyone would be able to spot him in such a vast sea of faces.
He was equally sure that he would be able to slip under another car for the outward journey when back in the parking lot, again without anyone noticing. Most people are so completely unaware of their environment and anything that goes on around them that Cole would have found it laughable, if it wasn’t that same lack of awareness that terrorists — indeed, criminals of any kind — relied upon for their continued success.
Again waiting patiently until he could sense the men were moving, mercifully away from him, he finally moved. Keeping at a low crouch, he moved noiselessly up the row of cars until he was parallel to the public access door. Dropping once more to the metal floor, he then rolled under the last set of wheels straight towards the door, his hand snaking up immediately for the handle.
Pulling the door open slowly, he used the handle to pull himself up and through the thick doorway, only reaching his full height when he was through to the corridor, the big metal door pulling shut behind him. He didn’t know whether the two men had seen him for the precious half-second before the door shut fully, but he had other things to worry about now — mainly, how he was going to avoid any other agents that might be stationed anywhere within the massive passenger ship.
Ah well, he thought in resignation as he started towards the stairs to the third level lounge, out of the frying pan and into the fire. Same old story.
11
Hansard was feeling older than normal, far from his usual self. He sat quietly in a chair by the window of the private bar in the outside ring of the Pentagon, finishing off his second brandy of the morning.
The smooth flavour of the 1966 cognac improved his feelings somewhat, but he would have to be careful not to overdo it — as Director of National Intelligence, he would be giving evidence at the forthcoming emergency meeting of the National Security Council. Hansard wanted to be happy about it; it was, after all, exactly in line with the second phase of the plan. A convincing performance here might well ensure its ongoing success.
But he felt less thrilled than he had anticipated, and he was all too aware of why that was. The idea for the project had first come to him almost two decades before, and he had spent the last fifteen of those years in earnest planning for the events that were now occurring. He had been meticulous, painstaking in his preparations, and the desired result was for the first time within his grasp.