Nine Lives (Sam Archer 1)

by Tom Barber

TWELVE

  Across town, the entrance doors to the ARU burst open as if there was a hurricane blowing through the building and officers from the task force sprinted out into the car park, racing towards the three Unit vehicles parked across the tarmac.

  Archer and Porter were running side-by-side, zipping up their tactical vests while cradling two MP5 sub-machine guns. Ahead of them, Mac was already standing by one of the black Fords.

  ‘Let’s go! Let’s go! Move it!’ he shouted.

  Archer and Porter arrived at the car. The blond officer yanked open the rear door and climbed into the back seat as Porter jumped in behind the wheel.

  ‘Where the hell is Chalky?’ Mac shouted, to no one in particular.

  The two men didn’t need to respond. The Unit sergeant had already spotted him.

  ‘Chalky!’ he bellowed across the parking lot. ‘Pull your finger out!’

  The dark-haired officer was lagging behind, just now passing out of the entrance. Mac’s words shifted him into another gear, however, and he sprinted forward, jumping into the back seat beside Archer.

  The car was already moving as he pulled the door shut, and the wheels squealed as they bit down into the concrete; the vehicle shot forward, moving out of the car park and speeding off down the road towards the stadium.

  The other two cars followed close behind in hot pursuit.

  A single vehicle passed them by the turn to the car park, quietly pulling into the parking lot. It was a small dark-blue BMW, immaculately clean, fresh from some rental company. The car moved to an empty space with VISITOR printed on the tarmac in white letters. The driver applied the handbrake and killed the engine, then stepped out and shut the door behind him.

  He was a strongly built man in his early thirties, stern dark features with a tanned face. Not wasting any time, he walked swiftly across the tarmac to the entrance, pulling open the door.

  Inside, a detective was sitting behind the front desk. By the time he looked up, the newcomer had already pulled ID from his pocket which he flipped open.

  ‘Special Agent Rivers, DEA,’ the dark-haired newcomer said. ‘Director Cobb’s expecting me.’

  Across the Channel, the private jet carrying Henry and his three men was just coming in to land, the plane gliding down towards a deserted airfield outside Paris. There was a jolt as the wheels hit the tarmac and the jet rolled forward, eventually slowing and coming to a halt.

  They’d arrived.

  From his seat, Henry glanced out of the window to his left. In the distance, he could see the golden lights of Paris, the unmistakeable outline of the Eiffel Tower, but flicking his dark eyes down he turned his attention to the airfield immediately outside the window. It was completely empty, save for a black Escalade waiting for them on the edge of the tarmac, parked a sufficient distance from the jet so there was no risk of a collision.

  Grunting, Henry hauled himself out of his seat and moved to the exit. The pilot had pressed a mechanism to open the door and release the stairs, and they unfolded slowly to the runway. From this vantage point, he narrowed his eyes and took another look around the airfield.

  It was deserted and quiet, surrounded by forestry and hedge growth. A good choice for future events planned that evening.

  Once again, Faris had done well.

  He gripped the rail as he lumbered down the stairs, followed by his two enforcers. Behind them, Faris was staying on the jet. Once they were gone, the plane would be re-routed to London to collect Dominick. Henry and the two meatheads moved across the tarmac, arriving at the car and climbing inside. There was a driver behind the wheel, a man who worked for a trusted associate and he’d already fired the engine.

  Without a word the man took off the handbrake, and they headed through the exit gates and onto the road towards Paris.

  As they gathered speed, Henry felt his phone vibrate in his pocket, his private line.

  Taking it from his pocket, he pressed Answer.

  ‘You’re not going to believe this,’ the voice on the other end said. ‘A bomb just went off at a football stadium in London.’

  Henry paused. He felt his mood darken.

  ‘How many dead?’ he asked.

  ‘No more than two hundred.’

  Henry’s free hand clenched with anger, the knuckles on the chubby fingers turning white.

  Just when he thought his nephew couldn’t get any more stupid, he had completely outdone himself.

  ‘Which stadium?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘The Emirates. Arsenal’s joint. Looks like it was a suicide attack.’

  Despite his rage, Henry breathed a small sigh of relief. Not everything was lost. But his idiot nephew had just complicated things tenfold.

  ‘We’ve got problems,’ said the voice, echoing the concerns in Henry’s mind. Their operation would have been relatively straightforward and simple before. Now it was going to get considerably harder, and all thanks to the inanity of his nephew. If it even takes place, Henry thought. The complications that had just been layered to their plans were a potential nightmare.

  ‘Wait and see how it plays out,’ he told the person on the other end. ‘And get back to me.’

  The call cut out and Henry returned the phone to his pocket, feeling his mood blacken as dark as the night outside the car.

  He sat in silence as the car moved down the road towards Paris.

  Once again, Dominick had screwed up.

  And that meant someone was going to die tonight.

  On the lower level of the Armed Response Unit’s headquarters, Frost was sitting in the interrogation room again, trying to sweat some more information out of Number Three. He’d been next door with Cobb and the American DEA agent when news broke on the explosion at the stadium. As the task force had rushed out of the door to get over there as quickly as possible, Cobb had sent Frost straight back inside to the suspect. He wanted answers and he was going to get them.

  Frost watched the suspect closely. The guy’s stance in the chair had changed since they’d last been in this position. He’d sat back, no longer looking at the ground, but his eyes were still half-open, staring at the desktop through the matted hair that hung lankly over his forehead. Frost had been shocked when the young officer from the task force had got the terrorist to open up; in truth, it had unsettled him. Cobb had brought him in specifically for the brunt of the interrogation tasks; that was his job. He was expected to deliver, and didn’t want to become surplus to requirements around here. It was time to earn his pay-check.

  ‘This whole situation just escalated,’ Frost said. ‘One of your friends just blew himself up at the Emirates during the game. He’s killed over a hundred people, probably more. Which means this just went from a criminal conspiracy to an actual terrorist attack. And that makes you the proud property of Her Majesty’s Government.’

  He let his words sink in. The young man in front of him didn’t seem to react, but Frost saw him shuffle into his seat slightly.

  Push him.

  Don’t give him room to breathe.

  ‘Right now, you’re a done deal. Twenty years, minimum. That takes you past your fortieth birthday. And that’s assuming the judge is in a good mood- you could even get life if he’s not. And don’t go looking for sympathy anywhere. People in this country may have their differences, but the one thing we all hate is terrorism. It’s been that way for hundreds of years. Why do you think people burn a Guy Fawkes effigy every year?’

  The suspect shifted in his seat again.

  Frost could see he was sweating, and kept up the heat.

  ‘Don’t be fooled. This isn’t like the movies where you serve two years of your sentence and get off for good behaviour, or whatever they call it in Hollywood. You’re going to serve every minute of those twenty. I’ll make sure you do. But if you start talking, I can help you. I’m one of the only people left who can. And luckily for you, I’m one of the few people left who’s actually going to bother.’

  There wa
s a pause. He observed the terrorist closely.

  He had him.

  Frost didn’t speak further.

  Just waited for the inevitable.

  ‘I don’t know anything,’ Number Three finally muttered.

  Frost took the opening, pressing him. ‘You need to give me something, kid. Anything. What do you know about Dominick Farha?’

  The suspect flicked a glance up at Frost and started to shiver slightly, as sweat streamed down his brow.

  ‘Not much. We met through a friend. That guy. Number Eight,’ he said, nodding to the page on the desk.

  He couldn’t point. His hands were still cuffed behind his back.

  Frost looked down at Number Eight’s photograph. ‘How long ago was this?’

  ‘About six months.’

  The guy paused. Frost saw him fighting back tears; he was starting to fold. This kid was in way too far over his head, and by the looks of things the reality of the situation was just starting to sink in. The tough guy who’d been sitting in his chair an hour ago was gone.

  ‘Dominick was good to me,’ he continued, his voice trembling. ‘No one cared about my dad. He listened, set me straight. Told me who the real enemy was.’

  ‘So the next logical step was strapping a bomb to your chest,’ Frost said. ‘Let me guess, that was his idea?’

  The suspect didn’t respond.

  ‘So would he be joining you in this venture?’ Frost asked.

  The guy nodded slowly. ‘That’s what he said.’

  ‘OK, so where is he?’

  Silence.

  ‘You know officers raided his apartment earlier. He wasn’t there. It looks like he might have left the country.’

  He looked across the table at the suspect, who was fighting his emotions. The hard-faced, hostile young man brought into the cell a few hours ago had vanished, replaced by a scared, confused kid. He didn’t know anything they could use.

  Frost could see that clearly now.

  Taking a deep breath, the grey-haired detective rose, stretching his arms over his head. He closed the folder on the desk in front of him.

  ‘You know, I think you're telling the truth. You don't know anything useful. From my point of view, it seems as though you were so angry and hell-bent on revenge for what happened to your dad that you never stopped and thought clearly for a moment. And Farha played you like a piano. And now you’re in here, and he’s out there, probably on a beach sipping a cocktail somewhere. But then again, I think you’re starting to figure that out yourself.’

  He paused.

  ‘And by the way, what do you think your dad would make of all this?’

  Silence.

  Frost closed his folder and picked it up. Walking to the door, he stopped by the wall and turned.

  ‘Happy New Year, kid. I hope it was worth it.’

  Twisting the handle, he walked out.

  His head bowed, the would-be terrorist clenched his jaw as tears streamed silently down his face. All the anger and blinding rage that had soaked his body for the past sixteen months had washed away in an instant, replaced instead by fear and perspective. Suddenly, he could see everything clearly. All his defences crumbled, like a sand-castle in the tide.

  And he wept.

  Upstairs, Rivers had been shown in by the guy on the front desk. The man had been notified by Cobb that he was expecting the American, so the desk detective had led him upstairs then left him alone. The American had been forced to leave his sidearm at the front desk though. No weapons of any kind were allowed on the first floor.

  The DEA agent had taken up a spot to the side of the ops room, well out of the way. He’d caught on the car radio on the way over here that there’d been an explosion at a soccer ground across the city.

  The scene in front of him confirmed it.

  Analysts were rushing everywhere, talking into phones and typing away on computers as they tried to pull up surveillance from outside the venue. Crawford had mentioned that the detail had a ground team, but they didn’t seem to be around. Rivers guessed they were in the black cars that he’d passed on the way into the parking lot.

  Just as the fellow DEA agent’s name entered his head, Rivers saw him appear from the stairs to his right. He was with a tall beleaguered-looking man who Rivers took to be Cobb, the leader of the Unit.

  Crawford saw his man and approached swiftly. Behind him, a phone rang in Cobb’s pocket, and he took it out, answering the call and striding to his office, closing the door. Crawford extended his hand and Rivers shook it. It was only twenty four hours since they’d last seen each other, but a familiar face in strange surroundings was always welcome.

  ‘Bad timing, huh?’ Rivers said.

  Crawford nodded. ‘You can say that again. A terrorist just blew up a soccer ground.’

  ‘I heard. Casualties?’

  ‘Not known for sure so far. But over a hundred at least.’

  ‘Shit. Any further threats?’

  Crawford looked at him as if he was a fool. Then he realised Rivers had come straight here from De Gaulle. He’s got no idea what’s going on. All he’d been concerned with today was closing out their operation on Henry, staying in contact with Agents Flynn and Brody to catch the drug buy at the airfield.

  Crawford nodded slowly, then led the fellow DEA agent into the empty Briefing Room.

  ‘I’ll update you on the situation. Take a seat.’

  He walked over to the noticeboards on the right side of the room as Rivers sat in one of the empty chairs. The photographs of the nine men were still pinned to the wall.

  The newcomer took a seat, looking at the mug-shots stuck to the board.

  ‘Get comfortable,’ said Crawford. ‘This is going to take a while.’