STOP AT NOTHING: 'Mark Cole is Bond's US cousin mixed with the balls out action and killing edge of Jason Bourne' Parmenion Books by JT Brannan Page A
Authors: JT Brannan
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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.
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
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.
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
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