Nine Lives (Sam Archer 1)

by Tom Barber

  *

  All the holding and interrogation cells in the ARU HQ were located on the lower level. The holding cells were simple rooms. Each one contained the basic facilities of a bed, wash-basin and toilet. The basin and toilet were made of aluminium instead of porcelain which prevented anyone locked inside from smashing them up and wielding a chunk of shattered porcelain as sharp as a razor. Lessons learnt from the past.

  The interrogation cells were equally sparse. Each one was a rectangular shaped room, painted bone-white, with no furnishings save for a solitary table with a chair placed either side. There was no voice-recording equipment resting on the table like in the good old days; the room had been hooked up with several microphones, so every exchange was recorded from the outside instead. It was a useful inclusion, meaning the detective conducting the interrogation could concentrate solely on working the suspect. Indeed, the room looked like any other save for one thing; a long sheet of mirrored glass had replaced the left side wall. It meant people outside the room could look in, but no one could see out.

  On this occasion, a young man was slumped in one of the chairs inside the cell, his tousled dark hair hanging over his face as he stared at the ground. His hands were still cuffed behind him; no-one had bothered to take them off, or alternatively no-one cared to.

  He can’t be older than twenty five, Cobb thought as he watched the young man through the glass in the small dark observation room next door. He was standing side by side with Crawford and Mac, having just made the necessary introductions. Cobb had updated Mac on the situation, informing him that the DEA and ARU would now be working together on the operation, and that an American field agent called Rivers would attach to the task force whenever he arrived.

  Through the glass, the grey-haired detective who’d shown Crawford to Cobb’s office was sitting in the chair across the table from the suspect. His name was Frost. Cobb had pulled him from the CID at what had proved to be an unwittingly perfect time for the man. Frost was the wrong side of fifty and had just gone through a messy divorce, so the offer of a new position in a new department was a welcome change of scene and just the late fresh start that his career needed. All his years of experience and excellent track record were the main reasons why Cobb had asked him to join the detail; he’d been with the CID for almost twenty years. Frost had a knack of extracting information and was a pro at conducting interrogations like these. As he watched the detective working on the suspect, Cobb reminded himself never to play a game of poker with the guy.

  ‘So what was the target?’ Frost asked quietly, more as an ice-breaker than anything else.

  The young man ignored him.

  ‘We know all about you. And your friends. We knew your every move. You were going to attack today, weren’t you?’

  The suspect kept his head down.

  Said nothing.

  Frost leaned forward on the desk, keeping his manner civil.

  ‘You're in some deep trouble and I want to help you. But I can't do anything if you don't start cooperating. Do you understand that?’

  Nothing. No response. The guy’s matted hair hung over his face, like a curtain drawn across a stage. He didn’t even twitch, as if he was made of stone.

  This was going to take a while.

  Outside the room, Cobb, Mac and Crawford continued to watch the scene in front of them, as silent as the suspect. The door from the corridor behind them opened, and Porter and Archer entered with a blonde woman in her late-thirties. Both the officers were still in their tactical gear, but their Glock 17 and MP5 sub-machine guns had been stowed in the gun-cage down the corridor. The woman was smartly dressed in a grey suit and trouser combo over a white shirt, professional yet feminine. Her name was Jill Sawyer, a lawyer attached to the detail.

  ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen,’ she said, as Porter closed the door gently behind them.

  Cobb turned.

  ‘How’s the case, Jill?’ he asked.

  ‘Gift-wrapped. He’s done for,’ she said, nodding through the glass to the suspect in the chair. ‘Two handguns, a twelve-gauge shotgun, a couple of bags of cocaine and enough raw materials for a bomb that could take out a football stadium. Oh, and a dead body in the bathroom. He’s looking at twenty years, and possibly life. Depends if the judge is having a bad day.’

  Archer and Porter were standing beside Mac, watching the interrogation inside the glass as they listened to Sawyer’s summary.

  Mac turned to Porter, speaking quietly.

  ‘Is the other suspect talking?’

  Porter shook his head.

  ‘Looks like he doesn’t speak a word of English. Deakins and Fox are in there with him next door, trying to get something out of him.’

  Mac swore.

  ‘I also spoke to Nikki outside,’ Porter continued. ‘She just received a call from a lady named Kim Collins from Forensics. Apparently she wanted to pass on a message to you.’

  ‘Concerning?’

  ‘The guy on the shower rail. She said his fingerprints came back from the lab. Apparently, he’s a government agent. Or was. He’d been undercover in the cell.’

  Mac took this in, then looked past Porter to Archer, who was watching Frost try to engage the suspect through the glass.

  ‘How’s Chalky?’ he asked.

  Engrossed in the interrogation next door, Archer gave him a quick look and shrugged.

  I don’t know, his face said.

  Through the glass, Frost told the suspect that he was going to get some coffee. He rose, and walked to the exit, pulling it open and entering the observation room. He closed the door behind him; it was sound-proof so there was no risk of being overheard.

  ‘I’m going to grab a cup of coffee, sir’ he told Cobb. ‘Give him some time to think.’

  ‘Did you get any kind of read on him?’ Cobb asked.

  ‘No. Not yet.’

  There was a pause. Frost nodded and moved to the door that led to the corridor.

  ‘I know this man,’ a voice suddenly said.

  Although it had been said quietly, everyone in the room heard it and turned.

  Archer was staring intently at the suspect. He was the one who’d spoken.

  ‘What was that?’ Cobb asked.

  The younger man turned to him.

  ‘I know this man, sir. I’ve seen him before.’

  ‘What? Where?’

  ‘I don’t know. But I’ve definitely encountered him in the past. Ever since I saw his photo this morning, I’ve been trying to figure it out. It’s been bothering me all day.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Positive.’

  There was a long pause.

  ‘Go in,’ Cobb said.

  Archer turned to him, unsure.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Go in. Talk to him. Maybe you’ll recall where you know him, or how. Maybe he’ll remember you.’

  Archer saw Frost rolling his eyes by the door, the grey-haired veteran dismissive of the younger man.

  ‘You’re wasting your time,’ he declared. ‘The guy won’t say a word. Not yet. Give him a couple of hours to sweat, then maybe he’ll talk.’

  Ignoring him, Archer turned to Mac for reassurance. His was the only opinion in the room aside from Cobb’s and Porter’s that he really cared about.

  The older man looked at him and nodded.

  ‘You heard the man. Do it, Archer.’

  TEN

  The suspect didn’t look up as Archer entered the room.

  The young officer closed the door quietly then took a seat in the empty chair Frost had vacated. On the desk in front of him, he saw that the photocopy detailing the nine suspects had been laid in an open folder. Archer didn’t need to look at it for reference.

  He already knew this guy was Number Three.

  There was a moment’s silence.

  ‘How are you doing?’ Archer asked. Idiot, he thought to himself instantly. How do you think he’s doing? He paused and mentally cut himself some
momentary slack. He’d never done this before and the atmosphere in the room was tense. He felt uncomfortable too, especially since he knew his bosses were watching him through the glass, Frost obviously dismissing him as just some rookie kid, wet behind the ears and fresh from the farm.

  ‘You want some tea? Coffee?’ he asked.

  For the first time, Number Three flicked his eyes up, looking across the table at Archer through his hair.

  Archer saw a moment of confusion, then a glimmer of recognition in the other man’s eyes.

  ‘I know you,’ the terrorist said, in a raspy voice, his eyes narrowing. ‘Your name’s Sam Archer.’

  ‘How the hell did you know that?’ Archer asked, baffled.

  The guy seemed as if he was about to speak, but stopped himself, and didn’t respond.

  Archer asked him again. ‘How the hell did you know that?’

  Neither man glanced away. They continued to stare each other down, like two boxers across the ring before the bell, or rivals in a poker game.

  Archer looked at him, silent, waiting.

  Then finally, the suspect replied.

  ‘Holloway Under-Sixteens. First team. You played in goal.’

  And in that moment, everything fell into place in Archer’s brain like a jigsaw, as if someone had just shaken the box and all the pieces suddenly fell into position forming a picture in his memory.

  Holy shit.

  We went to school together.

  ‘That’s what it was,’ Archer said. ‘I knew I recognised you. You were a few years behind me. Your name’s Patel.’

  The guy gave a slight nod, but said nothing more. There was a pause, and the nostalgia in the room quickly faded. Two old acquaintances who now had nothing more to say to each other. Nothing in common, save a brief part of their history. Two men sitting only a foot away from each other, but worlds apart in their morals and beliefs.

  ‘So what the hell are you doing here?’ Archer asked. ‘How did you get mixed up in all this?’

  The terrorist lifted his gaze and glared back at him.

  Didn’t respond.

  ‘C’mon, talk to me,’ Archer said. ‘What are you hoping to achieve?’

  Silence.

  ‘People change. We’re not kids at school anymore,’ Patel replied, quietly.

  ‘Yeah. Guys like us became doctors, or teachers. We’re all getting married. Having children. None of us are plotting bombings, becoming terrorists, making home-made explosives.’

  Patel didn’t respond.

  ‘You killed a man too. You butchered him like a pig.’

  Patel shook his head, but still said nothing.

  ‘So you didn’t kill him?’ Archer asked.

  Silence.

  ‘Look, this is your chance to tell the truth. You know what we found in that house. Bomb materials, coke, guns. Add them up and that’s some serious jail time. But if you get convicted for a murder charge that severe, you’ll be going away for life, no question.’

  Archer’s old schoolmate looked up.

  ‘It wasn’t me,’ he said. ‘I didn’t do it.’

  ‘Well who did?’

  ‘He brought him in. Told us to stay where we were downstairs or we’d be joining the rat on the rail.’

  ‘Who’s he? The guy you say did it?’

  The terrorist shook his head, looking straight up at the police officer.

  ‘You don’t have a clue, do you?’ he said. ‘You’ve no idea what’s coming. It’s going to be a long night for you, Archer.’

  A silence fell. Archer stared at the hostile young man sat across the table. He hadn’t seen him in a few years, but the teenager he remembered had been charismatic and friendly.

  He looked at the man opposite him and could hardly believe it was the same guy.

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ Archer asked, quietly.

  Across the table, the terrorist looked back at him, expressionless.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Yeah. Why? I know you. You were a good kid.’

  Number Three shook his head; his eyes dropped to the floor.

  ‘You got a girlfriend, Archer? A brother? Sister?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘You remember the riots?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘On the second night, a group of them ran into my dad on the street. He was on his way home from work. Minding his own business, causing no trouble. They killed him. Beat him to death. Stamped and kicked his skull in.’

  He paused.

  ‘A witness said they were laughing as they did it. They even mugged him when he was unconscious. These were all local guys. Born and bred in the area.’

  Silence.

  ‘Together, do you know how long they got? Six years. For manslaughter. They killed my father and four of them get six years in a joint sentence.’

  Turning his head, he suddenly hawked and spat on the floor, clearing the bile from his throat.

  ‘Now what if that was someone you cared about?’ he asked Archer.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Archer replied quietly. Patel didn’t react. ‘But you think hurting more people is going to help?’

  Looking up, Number Three fixed the policeman’s gaze.

  He had a strange look in his eyes, almost feral.

  ‘Look around you, Archer,’ he said. ‘Open your eyes. This is a war. You’re part of it, whether you like it or not.’

  ‘Bullshit. I don’t buy that. Wars have soldiers. Heroes. You’re a terrorist. A coward.’

  The suspect glared across the table at him.

  ‘But you think you’re one of the good guys, don’t you?’ Archer followed. ‘So does that make me the bad guy?’

  A pause.

  ‘It’s like any war, Archer,’ Patel replied. ‘It depends which side of the table you’re on.’

  Silence.

  ‘Dominick Farha. Where is he?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘No idea?’

  ‘No clue. And I don’t want to know where he is either.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he scares the shit out of me.’

  Patel paused for a long moment.

  ‘I thought we were cool, but that guy, he’s got a screw loose. He’s nuts, bipolar or something. The guy in the bathroom, he did that. That was all him.’

  The thought of the man seemed to produce a strange reaction in Patel. Archer saw the angry glare in his eyes momentarily subside, like a wave pulling back from the shore. He looked up at the blond police officer, his old acquaintance.

  ‘Look, we go back a long way, so I’m going to warn you. Let him go, Archer. Seriously. He’s connected to the kind of people that you’ve only ever seen in nightmares.’

  He paused.

  ‘You keep chasing him, and he’ll kill you and everyone around you. You’ll never see it coming. Not with the guys he’s associated with.’

  Silence. Archer held his gaze.

  ‘Let him go,’ Patel finished.

  A silence fell, but the terrorist’s warning hung in the air. Archer could tell Patel was done talking.

  ‘Thanks for the advice,’ Archer said. ‘But I’ll take my chances.’

  Without a word, Archer rose and moved to the door. But as he grabbed the handle, he suddenly remembered one last question, the most obvious one of all.

  He turned back to the man at the desk.

  ‘Just tell me one more thing.’

  Number Three looked up at him from his chair.

  ‘What was your target?’ Archer asked.

  There was a long pause.

  ‘Paddington.’

  Archer blinked.

  ‘Tonight?’

  The guy nodded. ‘6pm. Rush hour.’

  Archer glanced at his watch.

  That would have been fifteen minutes from now.

  Shaking his head, he twisted the door handle and walked out of the cell.

  Seventeen miles away, Dominick Farha was perched anxiously on the edge
of the bed in his hotel room. The sun hadn’t yet dipped over the horizon but he’d pulled the curtains shut regardless. The television on the cabinet in front of him was still showing footage of the house raid from earlier in the day. There hadn’t been any further updates to the story, but to Farha, each minute that had passed since he’d first seen the report had felt as long as an hour.

  Three of the team had been compromised. Had to be expected, he realised, especially considering who the three recruits were. They weren’t high value, just dumb cannon fodder, which was exactly why none of them had been given priority targets. They were set to hit King’s Cross, Paddington and Euston stations at 6 pm, just a quarter of an hour from now. Collateral damage, at best, serving as a distraction so the other members of the cell could pursue the more important targets amidst all the chaos and panic. It was a shame that they’d never even made it to the stations, but then again, the rest of the cell could surely make up for the losses if they kept their shit together and did their jobs properly.

  As he watched the repeated footage on the screen showing the exterior of the house and all the police gathered on the street, he felt his mood lift for a moment. He realised the cops would have found the rat in the bathroom. Dominick and his uncle shared a lot of differences, but one thing they both had in common was their shared hatred of government officials, especially informants. Dominick had taken out all of his frustrations and anger from the past year on the guy, a man he’d trusted. His mouth duct-taped, his hands cuffed, the guy had bucked and thrashed like an unbroken stallion as Farha went to work on him. Especially when the knife started approaching his groin.

  Chuckling, he rose and moved to the window. Hooking his finger behind the curtain, he peered outside through the gap. He felt his brief good mood fade. The unexpected raid had left him feeling agitated and paranoid again.

  The wait was agonising. He couldn’t afford to leave the room and take any stupid risks like going out in public, yet here he felt like a sitting duck. His mind started playing out scenarios; he’d seen on the report that two of the suspects had been taken into custody for questioning.

  Right now, there could be a task force in the lobby, making their way up to him, tipped off by one of the clowns from the house.

  The first he’d know about it would be when they blasted open the door and either shot or arrested him.

  Taking a deep breath, he forced his heart-rate to slow, willing himself to calm down and relax.

  No one knew he was here. He was within mere hours of escape, of salvation, of protection.

  Besides, I can’t leave yet, he remembered.

  I’m expecting a guest.

  The moment the thought crossed his mind, there was a knock on the door, right on cue. Dominick didn’t panic. He already knew who it was. He checked his watch; 5:45 pm. Right on time, which boded well for future events planned for that evening.

  He moved to the door, but checked himself and peered through the spy-hole first. No stupid risks.

  He saw who was outside, and relaxed, twisting the handle and pulling it open.

  A woman was standing there. She was young, maybe nineteen or twenty, with long dark hair and big, innocent brown eyes the colour of mahogany. They lit up when she saw Dominick and she smiled widely, delighted to see him.

  Smiling back and taking her hand, he drew her into the room; before shutting the door, he stuck his head out into the corridor, checking left and right, just to make sure she hadn’t been followed.

  No stupid risks.

  It was empty. No one was there.

  He allowed himself a brief smile, then closed the door quickly.

  He and the girl had business to attend to.

  At the moment that Dominick Farha shut the hotel room door, a whistle blew in a stadium across the city and the Premier League derby game between Arsenal and Tottenham Hotspur was underway.

  It was the 5:45pm kick-off, right on schedule, the match taking place on Arsenal’s home patch, the Emirates Stadium. Despite the chilly December air, the atmosphere inside the ground was electric; there were 60,361 seats in the stands and not a single one was empty. The supporters packed into the ground were split, a small portion the white of Tottenham and the rest the red of Arsenal. However, the Spurs fans more than made up for their lack of numbers with the volume of noise they generated, cheering and roaring against the Arsenal fans like two Celtic tribes standing opposite each other before battle as the ball started moving around on the pitch. The rivalry between the two teams was as old as the game itself.

  But there was one man who wasn’t paying attention to the game.

  He was staring straight ahead, his eyes fixed and unmoving, as if he was in a trance.

  He was in the middle of the Clock End, the South Stand, behind the Tottenham goal, and stood out as the only fan in sight not wearing an Arsenal shirt or scarf.

  Despite the winter air, beads of sweat trickled down his brow as if he was in a sauna, like raindrops sliding down a window pane.

  His hands jammed in his pockets, the guy stood so still he didn’t even blink.

  It was as if he was made of stone.

  On the field, Arsenal began to build an attack from the back. They were a team renowned for the intricacy and technical mastery of their passing and attacking play, and this sequence was no different. With great skill, the players cut and weaved, tapping passes then dashing forward to elude the Tottenham defence. Slowly, they were making their way down the pitch.

  Towards the man in the coat.

  The Arsenal fans around him had started raising the volume of their cheering and chanting, as the attack started to show promise.

  60,360 sets of eyes watching one ball.

  At that moment, the man in the coat started to mutter something.

  Something memorised.

  A creed.

  A prayer.

  He pulled one of his hands free from his pocket.

  He was holding a switch.

  It was connected to a black wire that ran into his coat.

  On the pitch, one of the midfield players hit a perfect through-ball. Arsenal’s striker ran onto the pass. All alone, he bore down on the Tottenham goal-mouth with only the keeper to beat. Feinting a shot, he dodged past him. The open goal was to his left. All he needed to do was tuck it into the net.

  He kicked the ball, as the crowd gasped, holding their breath like the split-second before a crescendo.

  The man in the coat did the same.

  He closed his eyes.

  He pressed the button.