PLEDGE OF HONOR: A Mark Cole Thriller (20 page)

10

Cole stood at the security checkpoint at Marseille Provence Airport, showing the guard his passport.

He was nervous, but it didn’t show at all; such was his mental control that he could make his palms bone-dry, when they really wanted to sweat and be clammy. He was just a normal man going about his business, with every right in the world to be there.

He was using the secondary ID that had been sourced by Vinson’s contacts in London, the same one he had used to fly in with. He still didn’t know if the Mark White ID had been flagged, and he didn’t want to be detained here for any reason; the longer he remained in the Marseille area, the more likely it was that he would be tied to the carnage back in the city.

He had two main concerns. The first was that the airport would be crawling with cops, all with his picture taken off any city CCTV footage they had; the second that the Thomas Jameson passport would be flagged too, the authorities having matched any surveillance images they had of him with records of recent entries into France.

It was unlikely, however, that there would be any accurate, close-up images of his face; the Old Port area was hardly buzzing with CCTV cameras, and anything they did have was probably still being analyzed. None of the police officers would have had a good look at his face either; by the time they’d arrived on the scene, he was already half-way up the Ferris wheel. The gloomy weather also wouldn’t help them identify him, he knew.

The fact that he’d already passed several armed police officers – many more present now than when he’d arrived from London – and they hadn’t blinked an eye at him suggested that he was safe for the moment; however, he knew that could change at any time, and all it took would be one technician to make a match between any image they had of him and his online-registered passport photograph, and the game would be over.

But in the end, the guard merely nodded at him, handed the passport back, and gestured him through with a grunt.

He walked through into the departure lounge, resisting the urge to look behind him to see how Morgan was getting on.

His cellphone had been destroyed by the sea water, but he’d managed to get in touch with her on a public payphone. She’d had a certain amount of excitement of her own, back on the Rue Sainte; with a few good Samaritans helping her push start the thing, she’d eventually managed to get the car up and running. She knew that it would have been an error to leave it on-site; if the police found it, they would be able to trace it back to them. There was the possibility that witnesses could describe it, perhaps could even remember the license plate; it might also have been caught on surveillance cameras. But tracing it through these secondary measures would take time, and it was certainly worth removing the physical evidence from the scene.

The damaged rental had been on its last legs, but it had just about been capable of wheezing a few blocks south, where Morgan had left it in an underground parking lot, parked hood-to-wall to make the crash-damage less noticeable to anyone walking by.

She’d then walked out, avoiding the police which were already swarming around the area by circling wide around the Old Port district toward the Gare Saint Charles, the city’s main railway station, where she hired a new car under an assumed name. Her perfect French helped mislead the young man behind the counter, who was far more interested in her beauty than her identification. Cole was sure that he would remember her if questioned by the police, but hopefully by that time it would no longer matter as they would both be long gone from France.

Morgan had then spent the next hour driving around the streets of Marseille, cellphone on the passenger seat, radio tuned to the local news. When Cole finally called her, she was only five miles away; but rather than meet up immediately, Cole asked her to go and buy him some new clothes and then drive to a concert venue called Le Dôme, toward the north of the city.

He’d been waiting for her in the parking lot, and had immediately left the stolen car and joined her in the new rental, changing clothes as Morgan drove them the remaining twenty miles northwest to the airport, explaining what he’d learned from Agostini as they went.

Cole checked flight times and destinations on Morgan’s smartphone as they drove, and selected a budget airline flight to Zadar, a popular tourist spot in on Croatia’s Dalmatian Coast famed for its medieval ruins.

They didn’t book their tickets together, and nor did they travel together, lest anyone describe the couple who had dined in Café Corse and put the police on the trail of a man and woman in partnership.

One of the reasons that Cole had selected Zadar – in addition to its proximity to Serbia – was that the flight was already boarding when he arrived at the airport, so that they didn’t have to stand about waiting for too long; and no sooner had he passed through security than he was on his way to the boarding gate, trying to pick up Morgan in his peripheral vision.

The British agent was, as far as he knew, still traveling on her own personal identification, so that – if their investigation paid off – she could eventually claim to have been involved in its success. It was a worry that the passport had been flagged by now but, Cole reminded himself, they’d only flown here this morning and the bureaucratic machine rarely worked so quickly. Still though, it was a concern, and he felt an overwhelming sense of relief as he glimpsed her walking through the departure lounge behind him, happy that she had made it through security too.

And now, as he waited in the queue at the boarding gate with a couple of dozen passengers separating them, he wondered if his happiness at her making it was solely down to the security implications, or if it was something more.

Was he developing some kind of attachment to the woman? Feelings of some sort?

He shook his head, dissuading himself of the notion.

No
, he said firmly.
No
.

There is only the mission.

Nothing else.

And yet, despite himself, he was already looking forward to seeing her face again after they’d landed in Croatia.

11

Ellen Abrams was alone in the Oval Office, seated comfortably behind the famous Resolute desk, a favorite of presidents since Queen Victoria bequeathed it to Rutherford Hayes back in 1880.

On the desk in front of her was a National Security Council dossier on the British Prime Minister, Adam Gregory; and on the telephone was the man himself, speaking from his home and office at 10 Downing Street in London.

The presence of the dossier was nothing unusual – before making a call to any world leader, an aide would bring her an intelligence portrait of the man or woman she would be speaking to. It contained general intel about the subject, plus individual idiosyncrasies, domestic political situation, personal health and relationship status, and anything else that the NSC deemed relevant.

Abrams had accepted the dossier, but had barely glanced at it; she had, after all, known Gregory for years. She had met him many times in person, and spoken to him on the telephone dozens – if not hundreds – more.

Abrams found the telephone to be a pleasant anachronism in the frighteningly hi-tech world she generally inhabited; given the option of texting, emailing, Skyping or video-conferencing, the simple telephone still offered the personal touch that Abrams liked, the basic sound of the human voice and all it held within it. It was also pretty secure, as her intelligence experts kept telling her.

‘So how’s the investigation going?’ Abrams asked.

‘Slowly,’ Gregory admitted from the other side of the Atlantic. ‘We’re not too much further ahead than we were yesterday, to be honest. We’ve got background on Khan, plus an address where he’d been staying in London, but nothing that your own people won’t already have by now. All of our agencies are looking into his financials, trying to find any money going to or from him that might implicate others. But so far, nothing.’

‘Do you think he was connected to the three killers?’ Abrams asked next. She’d already been briefed on the situation by Vinson, but she wondered what Gregory knew, if anything; and if there
was
anything, what he’d be willing to share back with her. Vinson had warned her about telling the prime minister what she knew, as they didn’t want to endanger Cole; but it was a tricky call, seeing as how there might even now be more unfriendly elements in Britain looking at orchestrating a second attack.

It was a balancing act – what to tell the Brits, and how soon? If she told Gregory what they’d learned so far, then he might well be able to order his forces to help find the second terrorist group, if there was one; but on the other hand, if they showed their hand too soon then they might cause the terrorists to change their plans, and then they would be back in the dark again.

At least if Cole managed to find out something worthwhile, they would have a window in which to act, and clear evidence for doing so.

Abrams’ strategy was therefore to give Cole as much time as she could before sharing what they knew with her British counterparts; but if there was no new information developed by Saturday, she would have to tell them everything and hope for the best.

The suggestion from Vinson that the memorial event planned for the city on Sunday was actually the entire purpose of the initial attack, was disturbing to say the least. If he was right, then she would be putting herself willingly into harm’s way.

But what choice did she have?

She sipped coffee from her china cup as she waited for Gregory to respond to her question.

‘Personally, I think he must be,’ the prime minister answered eventually. ‘A man like that, with his history, why else would he be there? And it certainly appears that the three young men who actually carried out the attack would hardly have had the contacts, or the resources, to get hold of those weapons. Our experts here rather think that they must have had training as well, and Khan would have been well-placed to organize that for them, given his background.’

‘But there’s no proof of a connection?’

‘Nothing solid so far, just suspicion – which is hardly enough, as I’m sure you’ll agree.’

‘I understand,’ Abrams said. ‘But is there a feeling that there was someone else behind Khan? A terrorist organization, or even state sponsorship of some sort?’

It was an idea that her own intelligence chiefs had all suggested independently, not one of them feeling that the lone-wolf scenario was credible.

‘Not as far as I can gather,’ Gregory said to Abrams’ surprise. ‘JTAC here think that perhaps Khan had gone independent, that
he’s
the lone-wolf, encouraging proxy attacks and the like.’

Abrams tried to hide her surprise. ‘And do you agree with that theory?’ she asked.

‘Not sure really,’ came the honest answer. ‘Sounds about as reasonable as anything else, given that we’ve got no actual proof.’

‘Okay,’ Abrams began slowly, ‘I can understand that. My own people think differently, however. In fact, one current theory we’re developing is that the attack on the school was only a precursor, a move designed to initiate the memorial event on Sunday.’

‘You’re suggesting that the deaths of those children was merely to create a secondary event that could then also be attacked?’ Gregory said in surprise, and Abrams could imagine him in his study three and a half thousand miles away, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘Ellen, please understand that I have the utmost respect for your intelligence agencies, but this claim is beyond the pale. Are you really suggesting that whoever was behind the attack on the school actually had the foresight to plan so far ahead? Do you actually think that they were crazy enough to kill all of those kids just on the
off-chance
that we’d hold a memorial event?’

‘I think that the memorial event could have been predicted,’ Abrams answered, ‘given what happened in Paris a few years back. It was then just a question of orchestrating something so vile that you had no choice but to commemorate the victims.’

‘I see,’ Gregory said. ‘Yes, I suppose I see where your people are coming from. But don’t you think that gives the terrorists rather more credit than they deserve? I mean, has any group ever done anything remotely like this before?’

‘My people suggest that this is precisely why we should take it seriously,’ Abrams said. ‘Look at Nine Eleven – we weren’t expecting terrorists to fly passenger jets into buildings, and we ignored some good early indicators
because
we weren’t expecting it.’

‘Well, I’ll mention it to the heads of Five and SIS, but I’m not sure they’ll be sold on it.’

‘I’d still appreciate it if you could raise it with them,’ Abrams said, ‘at least that it’s a possible concern.’

‘I will, but – ’

‘I don’t expect Sunday’s events to be called off,’ Abrams interjected, anticipating the prime minister’s words. ‘I agree that there’s not enough evidence to support cancelling it. But we should at least be vigilant to the possibility of a secondary attack.’

‘London is as secure as it ever has been,’ Gregory responded. ‘I have thousands of extra officers on the streets, and Five is breaking down the doors of anyone ever suspected of having ties to a criminal or terrorist organization. We’ll be safe as houses Ellen, I assure you.’

‘I’m sure we will,’ Abrams said, although she would be the first to admit the unease she felt over the whole affair. ‘Director O’Hare of the Secret Service has sent an advance party over to help with security arrangements, I hope they will be accommodated by your agencies.’

‘I’ll make sure of it personally. Bryce Kelly at JTAC still has his knickers in a twist over that FBI agent of yours, but I’ll insist the Secret Service is made perfectly welcome.’

‘Thank you Adam, I appreciate that,’ Abrams said, hoping that he wouldn’t ask any more questions about ‘that FBI agent’ of hers.

With no help forthcoming from the Brits, it looked like one of the only chances they had left to uncover the real people behind the attack was that same man.

And as she said her farewells to the prime minister, Abrams felt herself hoping desperately that Mark Cole would have some success in Serbia.

She had a feeling that a great deal might depend upon it.

At the same time that President Abrams was talking to her opposite number in London, Vice President Clark Mason was also on the phone.

He was in his first floor West Wing office, reclining back in his chair with his feet up on his desk as he chatted to Noah Graham, who was in his own office at FBI Headquarters just down the street.

‘So what have you got for me?’ Mason asked after the niceties were out of the way.

‘Not much so far,’ Graham had to admit. ‘She’s been spending almost all of her time over at the Forest Hills compound, only been home once in the past couple of days and even then it was only for a few hours. Bugs didn’t pick up on anything unusual.’

Mason frowned. ‘But why is she there so much?’ He kicked his legs off the desk, sat up straight in his chair as he spoke. ‘It’s almost as if she’s working on something, right? Something that’s happening now, a live operation maybe? What job is she listed as having?’

‘Systems analyst in the IT department, debugs the computers, sorts out network security, that sort of thing.’

‘Bullshit,’ Mason said, eyes narrowing. ‘Doesn’t wash with me. She’s into something else. Did you find
anything
at her apartment?’

‘The kid likes computers, we know that much – the place was littered with every hi-tech device you could think of, and probably more. Good with the security too, we tried to get access but couldn’t get anywhere near.’

‘Anything else?’

‘We found the fingerprints of several people, quite a few from Dr. Alan Sandbourne.’

‘And is our good doctor fucking her?’ Mason asked next.

‘We don’t know. No signs of semen found with the ultraviolet, no prints of the doc’s in the bedroom either.’

‘Maybe he practices safe sex and they do it in the lounge,’ Mason suggested.

‘Maybe,’ Graham allowed. ‘Maybe not.’

‘You have any other theories?’

‘Only that they’re friends, or else they work closely together. You know, like cops do, meet up with their partners at home to hack out the cases they’re working on when they’re off-duty.’

‘The girl could be a researcher for him or something?’

‘Maybe. You think that Sandbourne was a government assassin, right? Well, we’re still looking into that, but let’s say you’re right, he used to work for Hansard and now he’s back with this new covert unit. What sort of work would he be doing?’

‘Getting involved in things like London, I guess. Right?’

‘Maybe,’ Graham said again. ‘I’ve got file photos for Mark White, the supposed FBI guy that flew over there and has now gone missing. Looks different to Sandbourne, but not a million miles away.’

‘You think they’re one and the same?’

‘I think it’s a possibility. Which means that he’s operating in Europe, which might explain the odd hours that Michiko is keeping. Maybe she’s helping him, feeding him intel from Forest Hills, that sort of thing.’

Mason felt himself becoming excited by what he was hearing. ‘And if we could link them?’ he asked. ‘What then?’

‘Well, if we can use Michiko to prove that Dr. Alan Sandbourne is Mark White, a fake FBI agent who got himself involved in a gun battle in London, then the whole of the Paradigm Group is going to get blown wide open not long after. It’ll all come crashing down around them.’

‘I like the sound of that,’ Mason said. ‘So what’s the plan?’

‘We keep Michiko monitored, hope she slips up, contacts Sandbourne somehow.’

‘And if she doesn’t slip up?’

‘Well, then it becomes a bit more problematic,’ Graham said, ‘but not insurmountable. We’ll just bring her in for questioning, come up with some bullshit charge or something. She’s only, what? Seventeen? Eighteen? We’ll threaten her with deportation, she’ll shit her pants and give us everything we need.’

‘Why don’t we just go for that right away?’

‘Long term, it would be better if we had hard evidence rather than what some defense lawyer would probably deem to be a coerced confession. We could probably force it through if we had to, but it would be hard work, and not guaranteed. So we’ll keep the net open for now, and hope that she gives us something.’

‘Okay,’ Mason said, ‘but if we don’t get it soon, I’m happy to do it the hard way. That bitch is going to give us the Paradigm Group and the president one way or another.’

The conversation over, Mason put the phone down and reclined back once more, feet back up on the table.

Yes sir
, he thought with a smile,
that little Japanese whore is going to give us everything
.

That bitch?
Michiko thought, angered beyond measure as she put down the headset through which she’d listened to the Vice President’s conversation with FBI Director Graham.
That bitch?

Well,
fuck
Clark Mason.

Fuck him, and fuck Noah Graham too.

Bruce Vinson didn’t know, but ever since their meeting, Michiko had started her own little surveillance operation on Mason, Graham and Jones. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Vinson to do a good job; it was just that she didn’t like being at the mercy of other people. It probably stemmed from being orphaned at such an early age, but when she was personally at risk, she liked to look after herself. And she could hear from this most recent conversation that she was definitely at risk – as was the whole of the Paradigm Group and Force One. Hell, as was the whole Abrams’ administration.