Nine Lives (Sam Archer 1)

by Tom Barber

THIRTY TWO

  Inside the Briefing Room at the ARU’s HQ a crowd had gathered. The task force were sitting in chairs paying close attention as Cobb and Mac stood beside a large map of Trafalgar Square that had been pinned to the noticeboard.

  Beside it to the right, Archer saw the copy of the nine suspects was still pinned to the board, a big black X over six of the faces. Agents Crawford and Rivers were standing behind the group, next to Agent Shapira. They were staying out of the way but listening intently.

  ‘Right, for those that missed it, we’ve been working on the ambulance bomber downstairs,’ Cobb said. ‘And we got something. He’s given us a golden piece of intel.’

  He pointed to Number One’s mug-shot.

  ‘He’s assured us that this man is planning an attack in Trafalgar Square at midnight. Which gives us just over one hour to prepare.’

  ‘How reliable is the intelligence, sir?’ Fox asked.

  Cobb pursed his lips. ‘Solid. We cut him a deal’

  There was murmuring in the room, as the men heard this. Mac stepped in.

  ‘Hey! Hey! Shut your mouths!’ he ordered.

  ‘Unfortunately, it was our only choice,’ Cobb continued. ‘Trust me, if there was any other option, I would have taken it in an instant. But he had the upper hand and the stakes are too high.’

  He paused.

  ‘Anyway, let’s look at the positives. For the first time today we actually have a jump on one of these guys. I’ve already spoken to the Chief Superintendent in charge of policing the Square this evening. I updated him on the situation; his men know what the suspect is planning and what he looks like, and they’re also expecting you all down there.’

  ‘Why don’t we just shut down the Square?’ Deakins asked. ‘Would save us a hell of a lot of problems.’

  ‘The suspect has no idea that we know his plans,’ Cobb replied. ‘We have a head start on him. If we cleared the Square, he’ll most likely never appear.’

  ‘And probably attack somewhere else,’ added Mac.

  There was a brief silence as the men absorbed this. Serving the crowd up as bait. It didn’t sit well with any of them.

  ‘Excuse me for stating the obvious, sir, but that seems like a whole lot of risk doesn’t it?’ Fox said. ‘What happens if we don’t find him in time?’

  ‘He’s right,’ said Deakins. ‘We’re using the public as a lure.’

  ‘If anyone has a better idea, I’m all ears,’ said Cobb. ‘I wouldn’t even consider such a plan if I had a viable alternative. And there’s every chance the crowd won’t be as big as usual after the explosion at the Emirates. There might only be a handful of people down there. But nevertheless, it's situations like this which is what you’ve all trained for. I’m putting my faith in you.’

  Silence followed. In the lull, Mac stepped forward and pointed to a space on the map of the Square, towards the south-east corner.

  ‘Team Two, you’re going to split up. Deakins, I want you on surveillance in this building here. Take two members of Second Team, and one of our newcomers,’ he said, gesturing to Rivers and Shapira. ‘You’ll be up on the eighth floor. It’s an office building, I spoke to security and they know you’re coming.’

  Deakins nodded, scribbling down notes as Mac looked at the officer beside him, Mason.

  He pointed to a building on the west side of the Square.

  ‘Mason, you’re going to be here, with the rest of Second Team minus Fox. Same deal, it’s an office complex. Fifth floor. You’ll be facing the crowd, so I want you checking every single person.’

  Mason nodded. Deakins raised his hand.

  ‘Rifles, Sarge?’ he asked.

  Mac shook his head. ‘Can’t do it. Too risky. There might be a shitload of people down there and we don’t want any of them catching a stray bullet. Binoculars and side-arms only. If you see a situation from up there, just call it in to the guys on the ground.’

  He turned his attention to the other men.

  ‘First Team, plus Foxy, we’re going to be amongst the crowd in the Square in plain clothes.’

  Taking his forefinger, he drew an imaginary circle around the centre of the map.

  ‘Scan the people around you, but don’t get sucked in. I need all of you to stay mobile. We’ll be on radio, so work as a team and work fast. As I said, hopefully the crowd will be lighter than usual.’

  Mac stepped to his left and pointed at Number One’s photo.

  ‘Take a good look at the mug-shot lads. We know what he looks like but he might be disguised or layered up from the cold. Search for signs. The crowd are going to be relaxed, smiling, enjoying themselves so see who stands out. They might be sweating, or jumpy; wearing excessive clothing. Look for any bags, or for anyone walking awkwardly like the girl at Heathrow. Muttering or mumbling, you know the routine. You see anything, don’t hesitate for a second. Call it in and move fast. Every second is going to count down there.’

  He turned to Cobb.

  ‘Anything else, sir?’

  Cobb shook his head. ‘Just find him.’

  Mac nodded and turned to the room. ‘I want you outside in five minutes. Plain-clothes, side-arms and radios. Let’s move.’

  The team moved quickly towards the door.

  Sitting on the left, Archer went to follow, but Porter grabbed him.

  ‘Arch,’ he said quietly but urgently.

  The blond officer noticed he seemed uneasy and stepped to one side with him.

  ‘What is it? You OK?’

  Porter was looking around the room, worried.

  ‘Where’s Chalky?’ he asked.

  Archer paused. He turned, searching left and right, and then went to the door, checking the corridor. Porter was right.

  Chalky wasn’t there.

  Seeing as France was an hour ahead the clock had already struck midnight in Paris. The street outside the small cafe was lit up with bright flashes of blues, reds and greens as fireworks boomed into the sky from the city centre. There was a faint sound of cheering, muffled by the walls of the café as the gathered crowds celebrated the arrival of the New Year.

  But Dominick Farha didn’t know what to feel as he sat opposite his uncle at the table, who was currently awaiting a response. He was still alive, which was a cause for celebration, but the proposition that had just been outlined to him was crazy. Close to impossible. But he didn’t have a choice; if he said no, he’d be at the bottom of the Seine before morning, either drowned or shot in the head. His self-preservation was taking over. He had to say yes.

  He picked his next few words carefully.

  ‘So if I do this, you and I are good?’ he asked quietly. ‘We forget New York?’

  Henry smiled.

  ‘You do this, and I’ll forget New York ever happened.’

  Across the table, Henry took the two questions as confirmation. He raised a pudgy hand, jabbing it towards the window of the café.

  ‘There’s a vehicle waiting for you outside. The driver belongs to an associate of mine. He’ll take you to a helipad and from there, the pilot will take you where you need to go. He’ll wait for you to do your task. If you are successful, he’ll bring you straight back here to the airfield. You can board the jet and we’ll leave for Riyadh. I’m willing to wait for you to return. But not for long.’

  He paused.

  Farha felt acid in his gut.

  ‘When you get it done, take an ear. You won’t have time for anything bigger. I want to see proof; and a trophy.’

  Farha nodded, hiding his misery.

  ‘Go,’ said Henry. ‘And don’t fail me. If you do, rest assured I won’t be this nice.’

  Farha nodded again.

  ‘Thank you, Uncle. I appreciate it,’ he lied, rising and moving to the door.

  Beside the entrance, Faris looked up at Henry from a newspaper, catching his eye. Should I stop him? his face said. Henry shook his head.

  The bell dinged above the door and his nephew moved outside. The dru
g lord watched him walk to the car, climb into the passenger seat and shut the door. Then the driver fired the engine and the vehicle pulled away from the kerb, moving off into the night.

  Faris approached, having watched Dominick leave. He was confused.

  ‘You let him go?’ he asked.

  Henry nodded. ‘I sent him on an errand. Don’t fret. We don’t need to worry about him anymore; he’s not coming back.’

  He checked his watch again, just as the Escalade appeared on the street, pulling up outside. The two meatheads had returned right on time. As they stepped out of the car, Henry was relieved to see that they’d stowed the two assault rifles in the vehicle. He’d had a flash of concern that they’d walk into the café carrying them. For any other person that would be a ridiculous consideration, but these two really were that stupid.

  ‘Time to go,’ he told Faris, who nodded. Henry noticed he looked slightly on edge, which was unusual.

  He suppressed a smile.

  You’d be climbing up the walls if you knew what I have in store for you.

  As they walked to the door Henry noticed the look on the barista’s face, behind the counter. Henry hadn’t paid, but knew she wouldn’t dare confront him about it. He’d expected murder tonight; so far he’d been denied, his nephew’s life saved by fate and circumstance, but he was going to get what he wanted, like a fat kid in a sweet store.

  But the woman was sensible.

  She looked down at the counter, avoiding eye contact and hiding her relief as the sinister, strange men left her café.

  Archer found him downstairs in the men’s toilets, alone. As soon as he walked in and caught sight of his friend, he knew that they were in some seriously deep shit.

  As everyone kept reminding him, Archer was still a young guy, four years shy of thirty. But despite his youth and relative inexperience, he had already seen the way alcohol could affect someone’s life. He’d witnessed it first hand with his parents. His father had never been violent because of it; he wasn’t that kind of person. But it had got to the point where their marriage couldn’t continue because of his drinking. His father had packed his bags when Sam was sixteen and flown back to New York.

  He’d never come back.

  As a consequence and like many kids who grew up in similar circumstances, Sam Archer the man was wary of alcohol. He was always the guy keeping Chalky in check when they were in a bar or pub.

  This time however, he was too late.

  There was a row of four washbasins on the left of the bathroom opposite four cubicles. Chalky was by the second closest to the wall. He looked exhausted and unsteady, still in his navy blue combat overalls and boots.

  Archer saw a bottle of whisky resting against the porcelain basin.

  Despite his friend’s arrival, Chalky made no attempt to conceal it.

  And almost half of it was gone.

  ‘What the hell is that,’ Archer asked, quietly.

  Chalky didn’t respond; instead, he reached for the bottle.

  Archer moved forward swiftly and swiped it before his friend could grab it.

  ‘What the hell is wrong with you?’ Archer asked in disbelief, struggling to keep his voice down. ‘Are you kidding me?’

  He saw Chalky staring at the floor, avoiding eye contact, his eyes blurry, well on his way. Upturning the bottle, Archer poured the remaining contents down the plughole then threw the empty vessel into the rubbish bin beside him; it disappeared in an instant, hidden amongst the tissues and paper towels.

  He turned back to his friend, cornering him.

  ‘Are you a complete idiot? We’re about to go out into a crowd of thousands of people looking for a suicide bomber and you’re getting drunk?’

  He searched his friend’s face for an answer but Chalky still wouldn’t make eye contact.

  However, even with his head bowed, Archer could see there were tears there.

  Sighing, he backed off, shaking his head.

  ‘Jesus Christ, Chalk’ he said. ‘What the hell are you doing?’

  ‘I shouldn’t be here, Arch,’ he replied.

  He paused.

  ‘I can’t do this. I’m finished.’

  Archer grabbed his friend by the shoulders, looking into his eyes. They were bloodshot and bleary from whisky and exhaustion. He should have died at least twice, even three times today. But Archer knew what the problem was.

  The shotgun.

  ‘Look Chalk, I don't know why it happened,’ he said. ‘Fate, luck, chance, whatever. Maybe you’re meant to do something in the future, something important. I don’t know. But if you truly want to quit, hand in your notice when this is over.’

  He paused, lowering his voice.

  ‘But you can't act like this. Not right now; you’re better than this. There’re people out there depending on you right now. Shit, I'm one of them. We all need you at your best. Not like this.’

  There was a movement by the door.

  Archer twisted around and saw it was Porter; he’d quietly entered the room. He was already dressed in jeans and a zipped up coat, ready to go, the holster and pistol clipped to his belt. He saw Chalky’s condition and put two-and-two together.

  ‘You alright, Chalk?’ he asked, moving forward.

  Archer released his friend and turned to the other officer as he approached.

  ‘If Mac or Cobb see this, he’s done for.’

  Porter nodded, moving past him to Chalky.

  ‘C’mon, drink some water, mate,’ he said, helping him to the tap. ‘It’ll help.’

  Chalky obliged without a word, bending down and twisting his head to slurp from the tap.

  ‘Splash some on your face too,’ Porter added, watching him, keeping his hand on his back as support.

  As Chalky obeyed, Porter turned back to Archer.

  ‘What do we do? We’re leaving in two minutes. What on earth do we tell Mac?’

  Archer thought for a long moment. Weighed the options.

  ‘He has to come. Mac won’t see him once we’re in the crowd. Let’s just keep him quiet in the car and he can sober up on the street. We’ll brief him when we get down there, away from the others. You know what he’s like; he’ll dry up fast.’

  Porter nodded in agreement.

  ‘OK. You two better go and get changed. I’ll cover for you with Mac, but hurry.'

  Together, they turned to look at the dark-haired officer, who’d turned off the tap and was standing back upright, trying to blink his slightly glazed, blood-shot eyes into focus.

  Archer grabbed his shoulders and his attention.

  ‘Listen. You think long and hard before you make any decisions tonight. Understand?’

  Chalky looked at him with surprising sudden clarity.

  ‘He’s a suicide bomber, Arch. If I think, I’m dead.’