Nine Lives (Sam Archer 1)

TWENTY

  ‘I don’t believe this. Mossad had eyes on this lot as well?’

  As he spoke, Cobb moved behind his desk and sat down in the chair. The task force had just returned, Fox and Porter taking the ambulance bomber through to the holding cells to be processed. Mac had stowed his weapon, then been called to Cobb’s office. He was standing beside the DEA agent, Crawford and another dark-haired man he didn’t recognise. He guessed he was their field agent who was going to attach to the task force. Mac liked the look of him already. He seemed solid and calm.

  There was another person standing to the right of the room. Shapira, the Mossad agent. She had insisted on returning to the Unit’s HQ with the ground team in order to speak with Director Cobb. Mac normally would have told her where to get off but given her assistance in taking down the bomber, he’d reluctantly said yes. He didn’t know much about her agency, save that they were Israeli and specialised in covert operations taking place outside their borders.

  ‘How long have you been on the group?’ Cobb asked her.

  ‘Around eight months,’ she said.

  Crawford turned to her.

  ‘You’re on British soil, in case you didn’t notice. You normally take an interest in foreign terrorist plots?’

  She gave him an icy look. ‘Is that supposed to be ironic, Captain America? Terrorism is terrorism. It doesn’t matter what country it’s in. Dominick Farha is a priority target of ours.’

  ‘And you didn’t feel like sharing your intel?’ Cobb asked.

  ‘We knew of your operation to apprehend the cell, which is why we held back. We thought the British police could handle it and save us the trouble of getting involved.’

  She paused.

  ‘Clearly, we were wrong.’

  Mac snapped his head round towards her, irritated.

  ‘One more comment like that and I’ll put you on the next plane back to Israel myself.’

  Cobb pinched his brow, trying to think through all the confusion and different agendas.

  ‘Well thank you for assisting my team. It’s much appreciated,’ he said cordially. ‘But we can handle the rest of the operation ourselves.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ she said.

  Cobb’s expression hardened.

  ‘I wasn’t asking a question.’

  Shapira jabbed a finger angrily towards Crawford and Rivers.

  ‘So the DEA stay and Mossad doesn't? Should I get on the phone and tell that to my boss?’ she threatened. ‘After what I did for you at the stadium? And especially given what my agency has done for you in the past.’

  Cobb knew where this was going. After the London transport bombings in the summer of 2005, MI5 and Mossad had started working together extensively. In fact, the Israeli group had been the first foreign agency to step forward and offer help in the counter-offensive.

  Shapira was right. To discard her, especially after the help she’d given in the capture of the terrorist could cause a lot of problems.

  And Cobb had more than enough of them tonight.

  He shook his head. ‘Fine. I don’t have time to argue about this. Partner up with Agent Rivers here. You can join him and attach to the field team. And I mean attach; no rogue nonsense. You try anything off the straight and narrow, I’ll join Sergeant McGuire in putting you on the next plane home. And I don’t give a shit what you tell your boss. Are we clear?’

  Mac saw her nod slowly, her eyes narrowed. Cobb rose from behind the desk and walked to the door.

  ‘Gather the boys,’ he told Mac, as he pulled the glass door open and moved into the Operations area.

  Exiting the room, Mac walked over to the Briefing Room and stuck two fingers in his mouth, whistling. There was a rustling and the nine other task force members appeared, moving into Operations.

  Cobb had taken up a position in the centre, standing in the middle of his tech team. He turned and addressed the room.

  ‘Listen up,’ he called.

  A silence had already fallen. The intelligence group leaned away from their computers for the first time in hours.

  ‘The shit just hit the fan people. We've had three attempted bombings in the past two hours. One of them succeeded. Over a hundred and fifty people are already dead. We can't change that. But we can change what happens next,’ he emphasised, raising his voice. ‘It's situations like these which is why this Unit was assembled. Five of the nine suspects are down. Four are left. They’re out there right now somewhere in the city. And we need to find them.’

  He turned to the tech workers on his left.

  ‘Nikki’s team, I want you working closely with GCHQ. These guys must be using phones or email, I want them found and tracked. You’ll be operating with me and Agent Crawford, from the DEA,’ he said, pointing to the American.

  He turned to the task force.

  ‘Mac’s team, you’ve already been acquainted with Agent Shapira here. She’ll be joining you on the ground along with Agent Rivers, also joining us from the DEA. Great work so far tonight. Keep it up, lads.’

  The men glanced over at the two new arrivals as Cobb turned back to the room. ‘Questions?’

  Silence.

  ‘Then let’s go to work.’

  Heathrow’s Terminal Five was the latest jewel in the crown for the city’s well-known travel network. Opened in 2008, the building was foot-by-foot the largest free-standing structure in the United Kingdom, processing over thirty five million passengers a year. The Departures and Arrivals halls were stacked on top of each other on two separate floors, conjoining to form a giant hall thirteen thousand feet long and a hundred and thirty feet tall. It made a pleasant change from the usual beaten-up and tired airports people were used to passing through around the world. The interior of the building was immaculately clean and maintained, symbolising London’s position at the cutting edge of world-wide travel and technology.

  Outside the Terminal, a constant stream of vehicles were pulling up the ramp and stopping by a long kerb in front of the glass structure. Drivers stepped out, helping passengers unload their luggage which was then stacked on metal trollies. Taxi fares were paid and trollies were pushed forward as people made their way out of the cold night and towards the entrance to the giant hall.

  As the large hand on the clock ticked to 8pm, one particular taxi came into view up the winding ramp. It moved into an empty bay and came to a halt by the kerb; the rear door opened and Dominick Farha stepped out.

  The driver had climbed out to open the other rear passenger door, helping the obviously pregnant young woman out of the vehicle. She was unaccustomed to the unfamiliar weight weighing her down and stumbled as she got out of the taxi.

  However, the driver steadied her and after Dominick paid the fare, the two of them moved towards the entrance of the Terminal.

  As they walked, Dominick suddenly felt a jolt of concern. He spotted a couple of armed officers stationed near the doors to the entrance, each of them hard-faced and alert. Dominick could see them carefully watching each person as they entered the doors between them.

  Ten feet from the white interior of the building, he felt one of the men staring at him. Staying calm, Dominick kept walking, holding a steady pace. Suddenly, the entrance to the building seemed a lot further away. Each step felt like ten, his heart pounding in his chest like a bass drum.

  However, after a few moments he risked a glance and saw that the policeman was looking beyond them, his attention moved elsewhere.

  Looking straight ahead and hiding his intense relief, Dominick led the young woman into the building.

  Neither of them had been inside Terminal Five before and Farha noticed that the Departures floor felt as if someone had stacked huge concert halls side by side. There was a kind of muted echo that remained suspended in the air as the large building absorbed the sounds from the people inside and diluted them.

  He saw long queues of people standing before desks, ready to check-in and get rid of their cumbersome luggage. Elsewh
ere, other travellers were standing before self-check-in machines, punching in numbers. Armed security had also been stationed in the building, incrementally positioned against the wall to the pair’s right, their backs to the glass as they scanned the crowd, their hands resting on sub-machine guns slung across each of their torsos.

  None of them, however, seemed to be looking at Dominick or his female companion.

  Taking a breath, the leader of the terrorist cell glanced up. There was a black electronic board mounted on a pillar beside them. It was showing a list of pretty much every major city in the world in yellow text, alongside the plane number and departure time for each flight. He wasn’t interested in the flights, though.

  He was interested in the time.

  Satisfied, he turned to his companion, talking quietly. ‘Ready?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Tell me again, when is your departure?’

  ‘9pm,’ she said quickly, her voice shaky.

  She was nervous, which was only going to get worse.

  Time to leave, Dominick thought as he looked down and smiled reassuringly at her.

  ‘I have to go and get something from downstairs,’ he told her. ‘I need you to wait here.’

  She looked up at him like a child, totally trusting.

  ‘OK.’

  ‘There’s a lot of security,’ he added quietly. ‘I might be stopped and questioned.’ He lowered his voice further, almost whispering. ‘If I don’t come back before nine, go on without me. Understand?’

  She nodded.

  ‘OK.’

  It seemed they were the only letters she could muster.

  However, the next moment she proved him wrong.

  ‘I love you, Dominick.’

  He winced at the use of his name. The hall was so quiet, every exchange was echoing, hanging in the air.

  Clenching his jaw, he forced a smile.

  ‘I love you, too,’ he said quietly. ‘Now, wait here. I’ll be right back.’

  He gave her a kiss on the cheek, then started walking towards the lifts to his right, a hundred yards away. He felt the young woman’s gaze on his back.

  Stupid bitch, he thought. He’d made it all this way, and she’d blurted his name out almost alongside the airport security guards.

  Walking around the side of the lift, he moved forward and stepped into an empty cart. The whole system was made of transparent glass, so he could still see her standing there across the hall, watching him.

  He tensed; for a moment, she seemed about to wave.

  Don’t do it bitch.

  Don’t draw attention.

  However, she decided against it and smiled wanly at him instead.

  He smiled back as the lift moved down slowly.

  The moment he lost sight of her, the smile vanished.

  A few moments later the lift arrived at the lower floor, Arrivals. The metal doors opened, and Dominick moved out swiftly. He looked around the hall as he walked across the polished floor and to his left, immediately saw what he was looking for.

  A man was sitting in a chair against the wall thirty yards away, reading a newspaper. Faris; an ally of sorts, the man Dominick had contacted about setting up a meeting with his uncle. Dominick didn’t know the guy well; he’d been taken on by Henry just before all the shit hit the fan in New York. If the situation was different, Farha would have been more cautious around him; he’d have had to be considering that he didn’t know the guy and there was a seven-figure bounty against his name from the New York cartel. But he didn’t have a choice. At this point, he was completely dependent on the man sitting by the wall, so he approached him warily.

  Faris sensed he was being watched and he looked up, his eyes locking onto Dominick’s. The seated man was similar in height and build, but he had piercing green eyes that were currently impaling Farha like two spikes.

  As he walked over, Dominick tried to gauge the seated man’s mood and demeanour. He stood before him.

  Without a word, Faris rose. Folding the newspaper and leaving it on the seat behind him, he walked towards the exit. He didn’t ask Dominick to follow him.

  He didn’t need to.

  Moving past the security stationed near the doors, the two men strode outside into the crisp English winter evening.

  A black Mercedes with tinted windows was waiting by the kerb. Faris moved to the near rear door, and opened it and stood to one side, not looking at Dominick, seemingly bored. Farha took the hint, moving forward he climbed inside. The car was empty, save for the driver.

  Faris sat in the seat beside him, pulling the door shut.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he told the driver, the first words he’d spoken since they’d met.

  The driver released the handbrake and the car moved away from the kerb, gathering speed and heading off into the London night.

  TWENTY ONE

  Inside his office at 10 Downing Street, the Prime Minister watched a television screen in silence. Beside him, his wife and Rogers stood equally silent as they observed the latest news updates from the chaotic events of the day.

  Behind them, the curtains to the room were still open. The evening had arrived quickly; only darkness was now visible through the windows, the silver circular disk of the moon glowing in the sky.

  The PM had received a call from Director Cobb a few minutes ago. He’d told him of the capture of Number Eight, which was good news. Apparently the ARU task force had been forced to defuse a bomb left at a shopping centre in Angel and then intercept a second device, which had been packed inside a stolen ambulance left outside the stadium.

  Cobb said they’d appropriated an alarming amount of C4 plastic explosive. As he watched the news report, the Prime Minister licked his lips. The evening’s events had already been horrific. If those two bombs had gone off, the casualties would have been catastrophic.

  He pulled his attention back to the television. The female reporter was just about to deliver an update from outside the Emirates. Behind her, the PM could see countless emergency services still hard at work. They were going to be there all night.

  ‘It has been a chaotic evening here, Fiona,’ the lady said. ‘We have just been informed of a recent shocking development. A second attack has been foiled in the last few minutes by police officers. We're told a man dressed as a paramedic parked a stolen ambulance in the midst of the remaining crowd here, most of them walking wounded and their supporters from the earlier attack. I have been informed the vehicle contained enough explosives to increase the death toll significantly.’

  Rogers glanced at the Prime Minister, the two men exchanging a grim look. 

  ‘Apparently, the suspect was planning to detonate the device from a safe vantage point, by calling a mobile phone attached to the explosives inside the ambulance. It was only the swift intervention of the counter-terrorist officers that prevented a further tragedy of unimaginable consequences. And unbelievably, this is following eye-witness reports of a third package left unattended in a shopping centre in Angel, which officers were forced to defuse. The suspect was detained and has been taken to a police station for questioning.  It is clear that these attacks have been carefully planned and co-ordinated. Let us just pray that there aren’t more to follow this evening. Back to you in the studio.’

  Rogers took the remote and muted the television as the Prime Minister watched the shot cut back to the newsreader in the newsroom.

  ‘She’s right,’ Rogers said. ‘It was co-ordinated to the second. I think we’ve severely underestimated these people.’

  The Prime Minister didn’t reply; his wife spoke instead.

  ‘So there are four of them left,’ she said. ‘Do we have anything on them, Pete? Any leads?’

  Rogers shook his head. ‘Not much. The ambulance bomber is our lifeline though. As Director Cobb said, they took him alive. Right now he’s our strongest bet.’

  ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t Director Cobb say the man was using C4 explosive?’ the
PM asked.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘For goodness sake, that’s military stuff. Where the hell did they get this kind of equipment?’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Have you thought about cancelling the celebrations tonight, sir?’ Rogers asked.

  The Prime Minister nodded. ‘I considered it, but I’ve decided not to. I’m not going to let terrorists dictate the way we live. We have good people out there; they’ll track them down.’

  There was a brief silence in the room.

  ‘I’ve had an idea,’ his wife suddenly said.

  The two men looked at her.

  ‘Why not release the photographs of the last four men to the press? It might drum up some leads.’

  ‘Or cause a lot of problems,’ the Prime Minister said. ‘At the moment, the public think that this is probably it. They have no idea that there are four more of these lunatics out there.’

  ‘The operation isn’t a secret anymore, David,’ she continued. ‘We need to use every resource.’

  Silence. The Prime Minister thought about it. He looked at Rogers.

  ‘Pete, what do you think?’

  He shrugged. ‘I think we’re running out of options, sir. These four could be anywhere. And if celebrations are still going ahead, there are going to be thousands of people all over the city in a couple of hours. We can’t waste any more time.’

  There was a pause.

  Then the Prime Minister nodded.

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Let’s do it.’

  Back at the ARU it was a case of waiting and staying ready for the task force. They all knew they had a long night ahead with four of the suspects still on the loose, which meant they could get a call at any moment. As the intelligence team worked away next door with Cobb and Agent Crawford, all the ground team could do was sit and wait.

  Most of them were gathered in the Briefing Room, talking and drinking cups of coffee as they sat around by the noticeboards, making the most of a moment’s rest. Someone had grabbed a marker pen and drawn a big X over five of the suspects’ faces, leaving four to go. Number One, Four, Six and Nine.

  Across the room, Archer was standing alone by the drinks stand, pouring himself a cup of tea. Someone entered to his left; he turned and saw it was Special Agent Rivers, the other DEA operative aside from Crawford. Archer wasn’t sure why the American agency had joined this operation seeing as Cobb hadn’t explained. Archer didn’t know much about their operations and practices, but he had seen the late-night reports and documentaries on their gruesome and very much ongoing war with the drug cartels.

  The American approached the stand, taking a cup and pouring himself some coffee. Archer offered his hand, introducing himself. ‘Archer.’

  The American shook it. ‘Rivers.’

  Archer studied the DEA agent as he drank his tea. He seemed calm and very contained, no unnecessary speech or movement; although he was barely talking, his demeanour shouted ex-military. Deciding to give him space, Archer turned and walked to the window behind him, looking out at the frosty night.

  In the car park he saw a figure sitting alone on a bench. He looked closer.

  It was Chalky.

  From this distance, Archer could see a cigarette burning out between his fingers as he stared straight ahead, lost in thought. Archer sipped his tea, his eyes not moving from his friend. He was concerned.

  ‘I’ve seen that look before,’ came a voice.

  Rivers had walked up beside the blond officer, looking out at Chalky.

  ‘Which branch of the military were you?’ Archer asked, eager to change the subject.

  ‘SEAL Team Six.’

  ‘No shit? You were the guys who took down…’

  He didn’t need to say the name. The whole world knew about Seal Team Six’s assault on Osama Bin Laden in Pakistan the year before. They’d stormed the compound by helicopter where he’d been hiding out in the middle of the night, shooting the world’s most wanted man dead.

  ‘My Dad’s a cop in New York,’ Archer continued. ‘Apparently a load of people went down to Ground Zero. There were thousands of them. They had a party.’

  Rivers didn’t react, or respond.

  ‘So were you there, that night?’ Archer asked, interested.

  Rivers nodded. ‘I was there.’

  The young policeman went to ask further questions, but he saw the expression on the American’s face and held his tongue.

  The other man seemed about to speak, but Agent Crawford suddenly appeared by the door motioning for his fellow agent to join him.

  Rivers threw his coffee in the bin, the cup still three-quarters full, and turned to the door.

  ‘What was it like?’ Archer asked, before he left. ‘The operation. Being there.’

  Rivers paused.

  ‘Disappointing,’ he said.

  Turning, he walked away.

  Across London, the driver of the black Mercedes was doing a good job. The needle on the speedometer had been tucked just under eighty the entire journey and they were making good time.

  In the back, there was no need for the passengers to talk in Arabic. The driver worked for Henry and knew what would happen if he opened his mouth to anyone about what he heard.

  ‘It’s been a while,’ Dominick ventured.

  Faris looked at him with disdain.

  ‘Meeting inside the Terminal was one of the dumbest things you’ve ever suggested. Are you trying to get captured? There were cops everywhere.’

  ‘I had to drop someone off,’ Dominick replied, defensively.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Just some bitch. No one important’

  Silence. Faris shook his head and shot his cuff, checking the time.

  ‘We’ll be in the air within the hour. Your uncle’s waiting for you in Paris.’

  Dominick paled; he felt acid in his stomach.

  ‘He came all this way?’

  ‘Don’t be flattered. He had business to attend to. You were just an added bonus.’

  Faris suddenly opened the compartment separating their seat. Reaching inside, he pulled out a black pistol and drew back the top-slide, checking the chamber. Dominick saw the gleam of a bullet in the pipe, the weapon loaded.

  Satisfied, Faris slotted it back into a holster on his hip. He’d had to leave the gun in the car before entering the Terminal, but pulling it out in front of Dominick had sent a message.

  Now you’re here, you stay.

  ‘So what does he want?’ Dominick asked, trying to hide his nervousness as Faris leaned back in his seat.

  The green-eyed cartel lieutenant turned and smiled.

  ‘What do you think?’

  TWENTY TWO

  Outside the Armed Response Unit’s headquarters, Crawford led Rivers through the main exit and into the parking lot. He looked around to make sure they weren’t being overheard. There was a young dark-haired officer across the car park sitting on the bench, but he was out of earshot and wasn’t paying them any attention.

  ‘Farha’s getting on the jet,’ he told Rivers. ‘He’ll be in Paris before eleven o’clock, French time.’

  He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. Taking one out, he pulled a lighter and sparked it.

  Rivers frowned. ‘I thought you were trying to quit?’

  Crawford looked at him. ‘Pick your battles, right?’

  Rivers answered his original statement. ‘OK, this is good. So let’s get in there and tell Cobb.’

  Crawford shook his head, sucking the smoke deep into his lungs.

  ‘I can’t. Not yet.’

  ‘What? Why the hell not?’

  ‘Faber got killed because I got careless. I never should have put him that close to the compound. Now he’s at the bottom of the ocean and all because I got too eager.’

  ‘Yeah, but this just feels wrong. We can’t withhold information from these people.’

  ‘Look, I don’t like it either. But Farha’s not going anywhere. He’ll be g
etting on the jet any moment. Flynn and Brody are waiting for him at the airfield. If we tell the Brits what we know they’ll never let Farha get to Paris. Henry’ll get spooked, the jet will stay in the UK and the whole deal will be blown.’

  He took another long pull on the smoke and looked at Rivers. They had developed a good working relationship over the past few months, but Crawford still called the shots. He was the one in charge of the operation.

  ‘Listen, Ben. You joined this detail eleven months ago. But I’ve been working to take down this asshole for nearly two years. Tonight is the night I can do it. We get footage of the trade, that’s all the closure we could ever need. This is a career-defining case for all of us; that includes you. Faber also got killed for it. So I want to go for the jugular, document this deal and then move in and take his ass down. Remember, we’ve got enough on this scumbag to not just put him away, but convict members of two other major cartels who operate with him, including the Albanians. That’s millions and millions of dollars. Once we move in, the Brits can have Farha. He’s basically in custody where he is already. Best case scenario, Henry kills him. Worst case, he leaves him alive and the Brits lock him up and throw away the key.’

  Rivers frowned.

  He could see Crawford’s points, but his conscience was uneasy.

  ‘Right now, I trust five people,’ Crawford said, drawing on the Marlboro. ‘You, me and our three other guys. This asshole runs one of the biggest drug cartels in the Middle East. He’s linked with terrorism. He killed one of my men. And the evidence we have doesn’t just implicate him, it takes down associates of his. This is a huge deal, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Think about it.’

  Rivers stared straight ahead.

  Then he nodded slowly.

  ‘OK. I agree. But you need to tell Cobb. We’re in his house. If he finds out you’re holding stuff from him, that could end any future co-operation we get from the Brits. He didn’t have to include us in this; you know that. He could have put you on the next plane back to Paris after you arrived. He needs to be told.’

  Crawford thought for a moment.

  ‘OK. I’ll talk to him.’

  ‘About what?’ came a voice.

  They turned. Shapira had appeared from the entrance silently. She was standing ten feet behind them, her arms folded, her attractive eyes narrowed.

  ‘Nothing. Just double-checking some facts,’ said Crawford.

  He nodded to Rivers, flicking away the cigarette, Crawford turned and together the two men moved back inside.

  Shapira stayed where she was, her head turning as she watched them pass.

  At the front desk to the Heathrow Marriott Hotel, the concierge tapped away at a computer as she finished checking in an elderly couple booked in for one night. Dressed in a smart red work suit and white shirt, she had a golden name-plate clipped to the pocket of her red jacket, Sally typed in neat lettering beside the hotel logo.

  ‘Where are you off to in the morning?’ she asked politely as she typed on the computer on the desk before her.

  The lady looked at her husband and smiled.

  ‘San Francisco.’

  ‘How nice,’ Sally said. ‘I wish I was going with you.’

  She passed over their room key, directing them towards the lifts. The man took the key, thanked her and picking up their luggage, the two of them shuffled off.

  Watching them go, Sally picked up a small bottle of water sitting just under the desk before her and unscrewed the cap, sneaking a cold sip. Across the foyer, a television was mounted on the wall. It had only recently been installed; she didn’t know whose idea it had been to put it there, but it was a gift from heaven for the employees who drew the short straw and worked nights. One thing was for sure, it made the shifts go a hell of a lot quicker.

  Taking advantage of the momentary lull in guests, Sally watched the screen.

  It was the news, still covering the attack on the stadium. A camera crew had got near the stand that took the blast. Seeing the footage of the damage shocked Sally; she’d caught glimpses of the reports all day and remembered that there’d been some kind of raid that had happened earlier in the afternoon too; maybe it was all connected. For once, Sally actually felt glad that she was holed up behind this desk for the evening. She didn’t fancy being in a crowd around the city tonight. Not with all these attacks going on.

  Just then, a family of four appeared through the entrance, dragging their luggage behind them as they approached the front desk. Sally put her bottle of water away, and prepared to check them in with her practiced smile. But just as they arrived in front of her, the television screen across the foyer suddenly changed. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw four names and faces appear. A headline ran beneath them.

  Breaking: Four terrorist suspects remain at large. Considered extremely dangerous.

  The family arrived at the desk, waiting for Sally to focus on them.

  The man asked her a question, but she didn’t hear what he said.

  She was staring at one of the photographs.

  ‘Oh my God,’ she whispered.

  At the ARU HQ, Archer was still standing by the window in the Briefing Room, the other guys sitting fifteen feet to his right and talking amongst themselves.

  He appeared to be watching Chalky down in the car park, but his mind was elsewhere. Rivers’ response to his question earlier had confused him. Disappointing, he’d said. When word had spread of the success of the Bin Laden operation last May, the SEAL guys had been hailed as heroes, not just in the US but around the world, but Rivers seemed almost despondent when he spoke of it. Archer was baffled.

  As he stood alone and pondered, he noticed another figure across the car park. Shapira. She was holding a phone to her ear, talking, seemingly ignoring the cold. Archer knew a couple of the guys weren’t happy about being saddled with two extra operatives that none of them knew, but he didn’t mind. She’d prevented a potential catastrophe by knocking out the bomber before he could detonate the ambulance at the Emirates. Archer had no problem with her at all.

  Behind the young officer, Mac walked into the room, drawing a paper cup from the stand and pouring himself a coffee.

  ‘How you doing?’ he asked, joining the younger man by the window.

  ‘Better than him,’ Archer replied, jerking his head towards Chalky.

  Mac looked down into the car park at Chalky.

  A silence followed.

  ‘Can I ask you something?’ Archer asked quietly.

  Mac nodded.

  ‘Have you ever had any close calls? Like, really close calls? The kind of thing that he went through today with the shotgun.’

  Mac laughed, which caught the younger man off guard.

  ‘Arch, if I told you about each one, we’d be standing here all night.’

  He paused for a moment, thinking back.

  ‘When I was in the army, we were sent out on a patrol through Helmand’ he recounted. ‘I was driving the Humvee. As we went through the town, a kid ran out into the road chasing a football. I braked. And realised it was a set-up. Some dicker with a handgun ran up across the street and fired it at my window. I was leaning forward, so it skimmed the back of my neck. Literally. I felt it touch the hairs. The poor bastard next to me wasn't so lucky. Smithy, his name was. Well it hit Smithy smack in the temple, just under his helmet.’

  Archer stayed silent.

  ‘And there's plenty more where that came from. Since I was sixteen, I've been either a soldier or a copper. Never been good at anything else. All that stuff, it’s part of the work. I figured that out a long time ago. The sooner you accept that, the sooner you can do your job properly.’

  Archer looked out through the glass at Chalky.

  ‘I’m worried about him.’

  ‘Of course you are,’ the older man replied. ‘He’s your mate. He almost died today. He should have died today. And he knows it. First time that happens, it shakes you up. He'll get over it.’


  ‘It’s not just that,’ Archer said, lowering his voice. ‘I’m worried about his decision making. I’m afraid he’s going to get someone killed.’

  Mac sipped his coffee.

  ‘How old are you, Arch?’ he asked.

  That damn question again.

  The younger man looked into the distance through the window.

  ‘Twenty six.’

  ‘You’re young,’ said Mac. ‘Youngest guy in the Unit.’

  ‘I put my time in. I earned my spot’

  ‘You don’t need to tell me that. I was the one who selected you. Put you in my First Team with Chalky and Port. If I had a single doubt about you, I never would have picked you for my squad, believe me.’

  He paused.

  ‘But tell me, before today, have you ever been shot at?’

  Silence.

  ‘No,’ Archer said quietly.

  ‘Stabbed?’

  Archer shook his head.

  ‘Ever been near explosives in the field?’

  Archer didn’t need to respond; they both knew the answer.

  Mac sipped his coffee and tapped his temple.

  ‘That shit, it all messes with you up here,’ he said. ‘You come within an inch of death, let me tell you, your priorities shift in an instant. The world becomes a different place. Some lads can’t handle it.’

  He nodded at Chalky.

  ‘And some get reckless. They take stupid risks. I saw lads in Iraq try to go out on patrol without a helmet, or just walk through IED land like they were out in the park. They got lucky once and figure that they can keep doing it.’

  ‘I thought you’d have lynched him for what he did in the shopping centre,’ Archer said. ‘I was waiting for you to do it. He ignored your orders.’

  Mac looked at him. ‘You heard that phone ring, right?’

  Archer nodded, slowly.

  ‘You know what that would have done wired to the C4?’

  Archer didn’t respond.

  ‘Because if it had been, you and I wouldn't be standing here right now, having this conversation, Arch. They'd be mopping us up with a bucket and sponge.’

  He paused.

  ‘He acted like an idiot. I’m not denying that. He put himself at risk, as well as you, me and everyone on the street. He ignored my orders. But he saved my life. And yours. He took a huge risk and somehow, it paid off. So we move on and focus on the next one, and hope that everything falls our way again.’

  Mac turned to him.

  ‘All the training in the world can’t prepare you for situations like that. You just make a decision and hope to God it’s the right one.’

  He drank from his coffee cup, thinking.

  ‘My career’s almost over. I know that; I’ll be done soon. But you’re a young guy, Arch. You’ve got all this ahead of you. I don’t know where you’re going to go, or what you’re going to encounter. But take it from me, at some point, you’re going to come face to face with death yourself. Could be tonight, tomorrow or ten years from now.’

  He paused.

  ‘Just don’t blink first.’

  Archer stayed silent, taking this in.

  But as he did so there was a sudden movement at the doorway and Porter suddenly appeared, moving in from the Operations area.

  ‘Mac, we’ve got a location on Farha!’

  There was a split-second pause.

  Then every guy in the room made for the door.

  At that moment, the black Mercedes that was carrying Dominick Farha pulled into a dark airfield, somewhere in the south-west area of the city.

  Looking out of the window, Dominick saw a sleek, familiar private jet parked on the end of the runway, facing the tarmac stretch, ready to go.

  The car moved over the grass and came to a halt on the runway beside the plane. Faris nodded, and the pair of them stepped out.

  As soon as they shut the doors, the car did a 180 and left, moving back onto the road and off into the night. The field was completely empty, save for the two men and the shadow of the pilot in the cockpit of the small plane.

  It was time to get into the air.

  The steps to the jet were unfolded; the two men walked up them briskly and boarded the aircraft. Inside the plane, Dominick was surprised. There were stacks and stacks of cocaine bricks piled neatly at the back, tightly bound and keyed, around four or five million dollars’ worth. He stared at them as Faris withdrew the steps and pulled the door to the jet shut, locking it.

  ‘Like I said, he had business to attend to,’ said Faris, as he moved into the cabin, noticing Dominick looking at the cocaine. ‘You were just the cherry on top.’

  Dominick swallowed and turned, taking a seat in the cabin directly opposite Faris.

  The engine to the jet started to whine, as they prepared for take-off. Dominick checked his watch.

  8:20 pm.

  Three hundred and sixty five days of waiting.

  A whole calendar year.

  Finally, he was getting out of here.

  Inside the Departures hall of Terminal Five, the young dark-haired woman with the pregnant belly was patiently waiting, her eyes searching for any sign of Dominick. She couldn’t see him anywhere.

  For the briefest of moments, that nagging doubt whispered at the back of her mind again.

  Maybe he won’t come back.

  But in the same instant, she scolded herself, wracked with guilt at entertaining such a thought.

  Of course he’ll come back. He’s just been delayed.

  Looking up, she checked the time on the electronic board.

  8:20 pm.

  Forty minutes to go.

  As she continued to search for any sign of Dominick, she caught sight of a pregnant woman with her family sitting to her right by the wall. She was leaning back in her seat to take some of the weight off her back.

  Their eyes met. The woman smiled in understanding.

  We’re in this together, the smile said.

  The younger girl’s stomach gripped.

  She didn’t smile back.

  TWENTY THREE

  At the ARU’s headquarters, Cobb returned to the Operations area having just been downstairs watching his team set up an interrogation. Number Eight had been processed and placed in one of the rooms and Frost had just joined him, ready to go to work.

  As Cobb re-entered the analyst team’s area, he saw the task force wasn’t in the Briefing Room. Just as he was going to ask where the hell they were, Nikki sensed his arrival and turned from her desk in front of him.

  ‘Sir, great news; we got a lead on Farha’s location.’

  ‘What?’ Cobb’s eyes widened. ‘Where?’

  ‘A Marriott hotel, outside Heathrow. The concierge was watching the news and saw the photographs released by Downing Street. She said Farha had been a guest at the hotel; he’s been there for a couple of days under a false name apparently. Our team are on their way. Agents Rivers and Shapira went with them.’

  ‘Son of a bitch,’ Cobb said. ‘A hotel by the airport. No wonder we couldn’t find him.’

  ‘You think he’s trying an escape? Or a hijack?’

  Cobb shook his head.

  ‘No. No chance. He wouldn’t get through the security checkpoints.’

  He thought for a moment.

  ‘A hotel like that, it’s busy as hell. Zero routine, structure, different faces and names every day. It’s a good place to hide out. I’m guessing he thought he’d be invisible there.’

  ‘Almost,’ Nikki added.

  Behind them, Crawford appeared from the corridor, having just come up the stairs. Cobb sensed they were being approached and turned.

  He noticed the American looking into the empty Briefing Room, a somewhat rueful look on his face.

  ‘Something wrong?’ Cobb asked.

  ‘I need to talk to you, Tim,’ the DEA agent replied.