ONE
The hotel room was as dark as a cave.
Curtains drawn, the lights turned off, everything was as still and silent as a tomb. In the darkness, three red numbers and two red letters glowed like the end of a lit cigarette.
7:00 am.
The man in the bed hadn’t set an alarm; he didn’t need to. He’d already been awake for hours. Today was the biggest day of his life, the culmination of a year of planning and preparation. It had been close; the whole thing had almost fallen apart at the last minute. But he’d recovered and dealt with the problem; figured out a Plan B.
And if everything proceeded as planned, over a thousand people waking up this morning would be dead by the end of the day. Probably more.
Hopefully more.
But if it doesn’t work? The man felt his stomach tighten, like an anaconda squeezing the life out of its prey. He didn’t want to consider that outcome even for a moment. Lying motionless under the sheets, staring at the ceiling, he did his best to banish the doubts starting to whisper at the back of his mind.
There’s nothing to worry about. Everything is in place. He’ll be happy and proud. You’ll get a hero’s welcome when you return.
And the past will be forgotten.
Pushing aside the top sheet and rolling from the bed, the man moved to the curtains and opened them a fraction, peering outside.
It was a dark and cold 31st December morning in London. Three hundred yards away, the giant airfield of Heathrow Airport lay protected by a tall mesh fence, topped with swirling cylinders of razor-wire. On the airfield itself, planes were scattered intermittently around the tarmac, as small as toys from this distance, coloured amber from the lamp-posts that stood over them.
The man watched a plane glide along a runway and move smoothly into the sky. As the vessel left the tarmac, the wheels under the Boeing 757 retracted, pulled back inside and closed off in a compartment as the wings took over and did their job. The airplane moved with a grace that belied its immense weight and passenger load as it soared into the London sky.
Lost in thought, the man in the hotel room watched it go.
Sitting back on the bed, he picked up a holdall from the floor beside him and lifted it, resting the bag on his bare thighs. Opening the zip, he checked inside and saw everything was still there. He knew it would be, but he couldn’t help double-checking; the act felt reassuring, which had been an elusive commodity these past few days.
Reaching inside, he pulled something out of the bag and turned the object, examining it. It was a faded yellow brick, about the length of a television remote but as thick as a good book. A letter and a number were printed on the side, in bold black lettering; beside it was typed a further description, in smaller font.
C4. Composition C. Plastic Explosive.
In his hand, the weapon was harmless enough. But if used properly, this one brick of plastic explosive could easily kill a hell of a lot of people. With the fourteen others in the bag, the resulting charge could demolish a skyscraper, wiping out everyone inside.
Holding the brick in his hand, the man looked up through the gap in the curtains as another plane swept off the runway and drifted into the sky.
Beside him, the red figures on the electronic clock ticked forward.
7:01 am.
Fifty eight minutes later it was still before 8 in the morning, but Director Tim Cobb, head of the Armed Response Unit, had a feeling that today was going to be the worst day of his life.
At thirty-nine years old, Cobb had pretty much seen it all. He’d joined the government fresh out of Cambridge seventeen years ago; a family friend had known he was about to graduate, and after pulling some strings had set Cobb up with a desk job at MI5. Since then, it had been more or less a linear path up the ranks and towards the top as he’d gained more and more responsibility. Along the way, Cobb had discovered that he possessed a knack for orchestration and leadership that set him apart from his peers; he was never destined to be the guy on the ground, but would be the figure in the ivory tower. If it was World War Two all over again, he’d be a General, marshalling troops and directing operations, not the Private in the fox-hole firing his weapon. Some men had a gift and Cobb’s was to lead. Two months shy of his fortieth birthday, he had to admit that his life was pretty damn good. He had a doting wife and two fast-growing boys; he was healthy, experienced and at the peak of his career. He had everything a man could ask for.
Not to mention his own counter-terrorist unit.
Its creation had come about just a few months earlier. In the last few years, the London Metropolitan Police Service had been under considerable pressure; with stabbings and shootings becoming an almost daily occurrence in the city, the police had found themselves at a severe disadvantage when trying to maintain law and order on the streets.
However, the riots in the summer of 2011 had been the final straw. The whole world had watched for days as criminals and thugs ran amok, vandalising, stealing and burning cities all over the United Kingdom, causing chaos and widespread panic.
After the mobs had finally been quelled, the Prime Minister decided he’d had enough; something needed to be done. He was aware that there were specialist response teams already in place serving as armed back-up for the Met Police, namely Armed Response Vehicles and the C019 task force, but the PM had wanted a new squad to reinforce them. He’d looked at the American SWAT-team model and ordered the immediate formation of a new detail.
The Armed Response Unit.
The squad comprised an analyst and intelligence team and a task force, all of whom worked under the watchful eye of a Director of Operations. The PM wanted finesse and firepower, a professional team ready to be called into action at a moment’s notice and to act decisively, ruthlessly and without hesitation. When word had spread about the formation of the detail towards the end of last year, Cobb had put his name in the hat to lead the outfit. He needn’t have bothered; he was already at the top of the list.
After he’d been selected, Cobb was given the pick of the litter from MI5, MI6 and the Met to fill the rest of the spots on the new Unit. He’d gladly obliged, and had made some controversial choices. He’d assembled a five-man intelligence team that ran as smoothly and efficiently as a Formula One racing team in the pit; in their previous roles in the Met, most of these people had been spending their time pushing paper at stations around the city, becoming increasingly bored and frustrated, their talents not being fully utilised. But Cobb had an instinctive eye for potential; he’d plucked the five individuals from various stations with the PM’s authorisation and given them a new home in his detail. So far, each one had more than justified his faith in them. He’d chosen well.
He’d also ruffled more than a few feathers by picking two guys in their mid-twenties for spots on the ten-man task force. Doesn’t matter how many years you’ve been a cop if you can’t run up a flight of stairs he’d said, as many older and more experienced officers were passed over in the selection process. Every man on the team was lean, fit and strong as well as intelligent, and they all possessed that indefinable extra quality that made them stand out. Cobb had the highest of standards for his Unit and he demanded that every person he chose meet them too.
The ARU had been together for close to a year but post-riots, it had been surprisingly smooth-sailing so far, almost as an irony. Apart from the odd weapon retrieval or tipped-off drug raid, the year had been generally uneventful.
From the seat behind his desk in his office at the Unit’s North London headquarters, Cobb cursed inwardly.
I jinxed it, he thought.
The previous night, five days after Christmas with the kids in bed and his wife under his arm as they watched television, Cobb had sipped on a glass of Scottish single-malt and realised that all things considered, his life was the best it had ever been. He’d felt almost complacent as he went to bed.
Then his phone had rung at seven-thirty this morning.
Nothing had been revealed in the call,
but that wasn't necessary. The man on the phone had said only four words. Conference call. Eight o’clock. But Cobb knew from the tone of the guy’s voice that something was seriously wrong. He’d been out of his front door in ten minutes, fired up the engine to his car and headed into the city as quickly as he could. His recent increase in salary meant he’d been able to move his family to an upmarket home on the outskirts of Surrey. From his front door to the Unit’s headquarters in North London normally took him thirty two minutes depending on traffic, but this morning he’d made it in twenty seven.
Sitting at his desk, he checked his watch. 7:59am. The Unit’s HQ was the envy of other departments, but then again Cobb knew that was the way with every new government location. The building would stay high up on the pedestal until a new place cropped up, knocking it a rung down the ladder. It was a solid building, consisting of two floors. The lower level housed the holding and interrogation cells as well as the locker and kit rooms for the task force, where they changed their clothes and stowed their weapons. Upstairs, the floor was split into two sides. To the right was where the tech team operated, a clustered nucleus of computer screens and large monitors, all under the observant eye of Cobb from his office. The left side led to a rectangular Briefing Room, which the field team used as their base of operations and also as a place to wait when they were on call.
Despite the trepidation he was currently feeling, Cobb felt a brief moment of calm. He knew he was surrounded by professional and quality operatives, people proud of their job and determined to do it well. As a unit, the intelligence team was thorough and forensic, and the task force was efficient and dependable.
Cobb’s smiled faded.
He had a gut feeling that today, they were going to need to be.
Without any cue, a large television screen in front of his desk suddenly came to life. One of the advantages of modern technology meant the days of conference meetings with everyone in the room were now an option, not a necessity. The monitor was attached to the wall across his office, the screen split into two sides. To the left was a man with short, buzz-cut grey hair and tired bloodshot eyes.
John Simmons. Although he knew his name, Cobb wasn’t overly familiar with the guy, but he knew he was one of the bosses at GCHQ, the government’s communications headquarters. Based across the country in Cheltenham, GCHQ monitored every phone-call and email made to or from the nation, scanning for any unlawful or terrorist activity. To Simmons’ right in a separate shot were two other men. One of them was Pete Rogers, the Prime Minister’s Chief of Staff. He was a good man, short and solid who bore a strong resemblance to Michael J Fox. Cobb had known him for over ten years, and they had been friends for just as long.
And beside Pete was the Prime Minister himself. Before the formation of the ARU, Cobb had only met him once when he was still at MI5, but his new position meant they now interacted on an almost weekly basis. Cobb liked him; he was a good man with good intentions, but like most heads of government, he was paying for the mistakes of the guy who’d held the post before him. He was three and a half years into his tenure, with elections coming up, and Cobb knew it was unlikely he’d be around for the next four.
Rogers opened the exchange, which brought Cobb’s attention back to the room.
‘Morning, Tim,’ he said, his voice slightly tinny over the television.
Cobb nodded.
‘Good morning, gentlemen.’
‘This is Deputy Director Simmons, joining us from GCHQ,’ said Rogers.
Cobb flicked his eyes to Simmons, on the left portion of the screen.
‘Good morning.’
Simmons didn’t return the courtesy, jumping straight into his report instead. Probably can’t wait to share the burden, Cobb thought.
‘I'll get straight to the point, Director,’ he said, clearing his throat. ‘For the past eight months, I‘ve led an operation to take down a major terrorist cell operating here in the UK. Around twelve weeks ago, I was successful in getting one of my men into the group, undercover. Working with him, we gathered a slew of information and evidence, enough to lock up each member of the cell for five to ten years at least.’
He paused.
'However, I ordered my team to hold back.'
‘Why?’ Cobb asked. He didn’t like where this was going already.
'Because there was a potential case here to put each member of the cell away for twenty years,' Simmons replied, speaking quickly. ‘I don’t need to tell you that chances like that don’t come around often.’
The ARU Director nodded, taking a sip from a mug of coffee on his desk that he’d poured earlier. It needed sugar.
‘Go on.’
‘The most recent reports from my man were concerning to say the least. He told me that the cell was planning a series of attacks. Across London. This weekend.'
'So let's move in right now and take them,' Cobb said, putting down his coffee. 'Why wait?'
On the right side of the screen, he saw Rogers bow his head.
‘That was my intention,’ Simmons continued. 'Everything was in place. We knew their day-to-day routines, habits, locations. I’d been in contact with Chief Superintendent Kessler, and he had his C019 task force on call, ready and waiting. We were all set to move in and detain the whole cell this morning’.
A but hung in the hair. Cobb glanced across the screen to Rogers and the PM. They were both silent, looking grave. Cobb sighed.
‘Let me guess. They’ve disappeared.’
Simmons rubbed his blotchy face and nodded, looking tired and beleaguered.
‘I lost contact with my man in the group forty-eight hours ago. I thought he’d have resurfaced by now, but he hasn’t. And twenty four hours ago, the entire cell just vanished. They dumped all of our surveillance. They’ve gone silent; completely off radar. None of them are using phones or computers, so relocating them is proving to be a bitch.’
Cobb didn’t reply. He was thinking about the situation.
New Year’s Eve.
Nine terrorists on the loose across the city.
And no idea where any of them were.
He pinched his brow. ‘Jesus Christ. You’ve really dropped us in it this time, John. Seriously.’
Simmons didn’t respond. Inside Cobb’s office, a second television was mounted beside the first monitor and its blank, dark screen suddenly switched to a slide.
Nine faces appeared, each one either a mug-shot or a front-on surveillance capture. They were all dishevelled, untidy men, save for the man on the far right. Each photograph had a number above it in capitals too, from One to Nine.
‘My team’s doing everything humanly possible to try to find them,’ continued Simmons, as Cobb scanned the photographs. ‘But I need your help, Director. We’re up against the clock. This lot could strike at any moment. Together, we need to find them and either take them in, or take them out.’
'Could they have travelled abroad, John?' the Prime Minister asked, speaking for the first time. Dressed in an immaculate suit and softly-spoken, he was the epitome of calm, especially compared to Simmons on the screen beside him.
Simmons shook his head. ‘Border authorities have been thoroughly briefed, sir. If any of them tried to use their passport or a fake, they’d get flagged in the system instantly. That is, if they even made it inside the airport in the first place. Security teams are in place at the three majors, and at the ports. But so far, nothing. Which means they’re all still here’
‘Of course they’re still here,’ Cobb snapped, irritated. ‘It’s New Year’s Eve for Christ’s sake. There're going to be thousands of people all over the city today and tonight. They’ve got a laundry list of potential targets. Why the hell would they leave?'
He suddenly stopped, realising he hadn’t asked a crucial question.
‘What kind of attack were they planning, John?’
Simmons paused.
Cobb saw him lick his lips.
‘Suicide bombing.’
??
?Jesus Christ. This just gets better and better.’
'Home-made explosives, packed into a vest with nails and ball-bearings,’ Simmons continued. ‘Each charge could potentially kill a hundred people depending on the surroundings.'
The Prime Minister leaned forward, his face becoming larger on the screen.
'Before you lost touch with your man, did he mention any specific or intended targets, John?'
'Even if he had, they'll probably have changed them, sir,’ Cobb interjected. ‘Clearly they know that we're onto them.'
'I'm afraid not, sir,' Simmons said, answering the PM. 'My agent said that information was being kept until the last minute by one of the men.’
‘Which one?’ asked Rogers.
‘Number Nine on the slide.’
Cobb flicked his gaze to the man’s photo. He was the only guy who wasn’t unkempt and definitely stood out as the leader. The man was handsome, especially compared to the shabby appearances of the men in the other photos beside him. He had dark-features, Middle Eastern maybe, but cold, dark eyes.
Cobb stared at his photo as Simmons spoke.
‘His name is Dominick Farha. We don’t have much on his background. Our files suggest that he’s related to the leader of some drug cartel in the Middle East, but that’s irrelevant right now. What’s important is that he’s the one who commands the cell. He’ll be deciding the targets. We need to find this guy first; he takes full priority.’
There was a pause. Simmons stared straight into the camera.
‘Director Cobb, I spoke with the Prime Minister before we began this call. We want you and your team to track down Number Nine, the leader; Dominick Farha. And we need you to do it as soon as possible.’
Cobb glanced at the Prime Minister for his approval, who saw the movement and nodded.
‘You have my complete backing, Director. Use whatever force you deem necessary. That’s authorised. But for God’s sake, do it before it’s too late.’
Cobb nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’
The next moment, the screen went black. The call had been ended.
Which meant it was time to go to work.
At that moment four thousand miles away, another man was having the worst day of his life.
Or, more accurately, the last day.
He’d just woken up in a strange place. He opened his eyes, blinking, confused.
Where the hell am I?
He was lying on the floor, staring up at a white ceiling. Through a roof-light, he could see clouds in the clear blue sky above him. I must have nodded off, he thought. As he gathered his senses, he realised there was a bizarre feeling coming from underneath him. The ground felt as if it was moving, rocking side to side, almost like a baby’s crib, which was making him feel nauseous.
Wiping sleep from his eyes, the man went to stand up.
He couldn’t.
Looking down, the man saw that his feet had been looped through the holes of a concrete cinder block.
And the gaps in the rectangle had been filled with cement.
It was packed tight against his ankles and lower calves. He tried to wiggle his toes, but they were jammed solid, the cement pressed around his feet, locking seventy pounds of unmovable weight to the end of his legs.
Panicking, he reached over to try and loosen his feet, but suddenly realised he was being watched and turned.
A vastly overweight man in a beige suit was standing to one side of him, grinning from ear to ear. Short and obese, he had a sun-burnt bald head and small dark eyes like a shark. Behind him were two other men. They were enormous, each of them six-foot-five and easily over two hundred and fifty pounds.
The man on the floor looked over at them for a brief moment, then remembered where he’d been before he fell asleep.
And who these men were.
Fear immediately washed over him, drenching his body.
‘Having a nightmare?’ asked the fat man, grinning as he saw the moment of recognition on his captive’s face. The smile pushed the fat on his face around the collar of his shirt so it bunched and spilled over the starched fabric with nowhere else to go.
He suddenly turned to the two big men and nodded.
They moved forward, grabbing the terrified man under each armpit and hauled him to his feet, lifting him effortlessly into the air in the same motion. It was a brutal display of strength. They walked through a door, carrying the man with the concrete on his ankles outside, who suddenly realised what the rocking was.
They were on a yacht.
Around them, there was nothing but clear blue water as far as the eye could see. No other boats or ships, no sign of a coastline. High above, the Middle Eastern sun pounded the water below, giving off a blinding glare as it caught the ripples from the surface of the sea.
Either side of him, the two giants didn’t stop, carrying the captive to the edge of the yacht’s white deck.
Towards the water.
Suddenly realising what was coming, the doomed man started thrashing desperately, trying to force his way free from the vice-like grip. It was hopeless. The cement block had dried solid, plus he had over five hundred pounds of muscle gripping him tight.
As he started pleading, begging and screaming, he heard the fat man laughing behind him.
‘So long, you piece of shit,’ he said. ‘Don’t forget to hold your breath.’
The man begged, one last desperate plea for mercy, like a child.
Then the two enforcers threw him into the sea.
The moment he hit the water, the weight around his feet pulled the man down like a bungee cord in recoil. He entered with a splash and suddenly vanished under the surface, cutting him off mid-scream.
And then it was silent. Peaceful. The only sounds in the air were the water lapping against the side of the yacht and the call of a seagull somewhere in the distance.
Across the deck, the overweight man in the beige suit smiled to himself as he pictured the victim screaming silently below, plummeting toward the ocean bed and his watery grave.
As his two enforcers turned to look at him, he shot his cuff, checking the time on a golden Rolex.
‘Back to the bay,’ he ordered one of the men. ‘I’ve got a plane to catch.’