by Tom Barber
Archer shook his head. ‘Bullshit. I don’t buy that. Wars have soldiers. Heroes. You’re a terrorist. A coward.’
The suspect glared across the table at him. His anger had returned.
‘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,’ the suspect said. ‘It depends which side of the table you’re on.’
Silence.
Neither guy moved. Still watching the arrested terrorist, Archer thought hard about what he’d just been told. The man’s motivations. If someone did that to his father, he didn’t know how he would react. He’d be unimaginably angry, and upset, demanding someone pay for what they did. But terrorism? That would never be a thought or even worth a moment’s consideration. Not for any rational person. He looked at the suspect across the table. Someone had manipulated this kid. Badly. Ironically, the guy thought his anger was strengthening him, but in reality it was making him as malleable as plastic explosive. And Archer guessed who’d been shaping the putty.
‘Dominick Farha. Where is he?’
The mention of the man’s name elicited a small response. The suspect darted a look at him and shifted in his seat slightly.
‘Where is he?’ Archer repeated, firmly. He wasn’t hanging around. He didn’t have the time the suspect had at his disposal.
‘I don’t know,’ Number Three said, shaking his head.
‘No idea?’
‘No clue. And I don’t want to know where he is either.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he scares the shit out of me,’ the suspect said. He 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 the suspect. 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, Archer, so I’m going to warn you. Let him go. Seriously. He’s connected to the kind of people that you’ve only ever seen in nightmares.’
Archer didn’t react.
‘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.
‘Who are they?’
The guy didn’t respond. The police officer read the signals, saw the invisible barrier in the guy’s body language come up again. He was done talking. A silence fell, but the terrorist’s warning hung in the air.
‘Well, thanks for the advice,’ Archer said. ‘But I’ll take my chances.’
And just like that, the conversation died. It was over. Archer didn’t mind, he’d had enough anyway. He rose without a word, moving 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 terrorist. ‘Just tell me one more thing. Seeing as we go way back and all.’
Number Three looked up at him from his chair. Silent.
‘What was your target?’
There was a long pause. The terrorist looked at him expressionless. Archer guessed the guy wasn’t going to answer. But suddenly, he did.
‘Paddington.’
Archer blinked. ‘Tonight?’
The guy nodded. ‘Six o’clock. 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, wondering just how the hell the boy he’d known had turned into the man in that room.
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 more updates to the story as of yet, but to Farha, each minute that had passed since 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 were morons, which is exactly why none of them had been given priority targets. They were set to hit King’s Cross, Paddington and Euston stations, all at 6 pm. 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 their targets, but then again, the rest of the cell could surely make up for the losses if they 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. He realised the cops would have found the rat in the bathroom. Dominick and Henry 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. And especially when the knife started approaching his groin.
Chuckling, he rose and moved to the window. Hooking his finger behind the curtain, he peeked outside through the gap. He felt his brief good mood fade. The unexpected raid had left him feeling agitated and paranoid again. One small mistake, and this whole year of set-up and preparation would be flushed down the drain.
It 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 bode 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, the look of a girl totally in love. Taking her hand, he drew her into the room, but 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. 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 stands were split almost exactly down the middle, half white
, half red, half Tottenham, half Arsenal. The fans cheered and roared 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 December chill, 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 football.
At that moment, the man in the coat started to mutter. 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.
SIX
Inside his office at 10 Downing Street, the Prime Minister was also standing still, staring straight ahead. He was in front of his desk, leaning back against the polished wood, deep in thought. This whole thing was a nightmare situation. The circumstances leading up to the current police operation were consuming his every thought. Although three of the suspects had been located during the day, there were still six of them out there. One thing was for sure.
It was going to be a long night.
He glanced at the clock hanging from the wall to his right. It was an expensive Swiss model, Roman numerals mounted on an ivory white backing, all surrounded by highly-polished gold plated metal. Olgiati was written proudly on the face in small, sweeping calligraphy, the clockmaker’s name. He’d done an immaculate job. The slender black dials were pointing at 5:47pm. Just over six hours till midnight and the New Year. The Prime Minister shook his head. What a way to close this one out.
It had been a rough twelve months for him and his cabinet. Elections were due to start in April, with opposition leaders already campaigning around the country for the right to take over the helm. The proud man leaning against the desk sighed, he was desperate to continue, to make a difference. In his head, he thought he might have a chance of being re-elected for another four years. But in his heart, he knew it was unlikely to happen. And if anything went wrong tonight, it would be the final nail in the coffin of his tenure.
He closed his eyes, trying to think. The room was silent, save for one constant, quiet relentless noise. The Swiss clock on the wall. It ticked away mercilessly like a metronome.
Or a bomb.
The PM had seen the breaking news reporting a raid in North London earlier in the day, just around lunchtime. He’d spoken to Director Cobb, who’d confirmed that two of the nine suspects had been arrested and one of them killed. Thankfully however, none of the police officers were hurt. That was the most important thing, and the good news.
The bad news was that the house hadn’t been on any list, or even on anyone’s radar. If it hadn’t been for sheer blind luck and an inquisitive, public-spirited old lady, they never would have known the three suspects were there. Every other raid conducted across the city by the other counter-terrorist and police teams had been unsuccessful. Every single one. Which meant six other members of the cell were still out there. And no one seemed to have any idea where any of them were.
There was a knock at the door. He opened his eyes.
‘Come in.’
The door opened, and a woman in her mid-thirties stepped inside. She was cradling a stack of folders in the crook of her arm, a warm smile on her face as she saw her husband. For a brief moment, the Prime Minister felt his mood lift. It was his wife, Jennifer. She closed the door behind her and moved towards him.
‘Pete gave me these to pass on to you,’ she said, placing the stack of folders on the desk beside the PM. ‘Reports from today.’
He didn’t respond, she noticed him looking over at the clock hanging from the wall.
‘Is everything alright?’ she asked.
He nodded and forced a smile, but it was half-hearted and unconvincing. She moved across in front of him, up close, reaching up to adjust his tie and collar.
‘Look at the state of you,’ she chided. Pausing, she read her husband’s mind. ‘They won’t succeed, sweetheart. Our best men are out there right now, searching for them. And I hate to say it, but something like this was bound to happen at some point. It’s the way things are now. You know who we are. Our standing in the world. We’ll always have enemies, David.’
He sighed, shaking his head. ‘Do we even know who this enemy is, Jen?’ he asked her. ‘Pete told me earlier that six of these men were born and bred right here, in the UK. How is that possible? Are we doing something wrong? What happened along the way that they would even consider doing something like this?’
‘You can’t sit here and ponder their motives. You’ll drive yourself insane.’
He nodded, he knew she was right. But he couldn’t shake his malaise. It almost felt as if all the errors and mistakes he’d made in the last three years were culminating tonight, like some gargantuan trial or test he had to pass. He bowed his head and sighed.
‘The people who've held this office before me, they led this country through its darkest times,’ he said quietly. ‘Endless conflicts. Two World Wars. The Falklands. The Gulf. Afghanistan. They knew who the opposition was. The soldiers knew where to stand their ground and fight the enemy. Mostly. But how do we fight these men? Where? Out there, on our streets? And what do I tell the country? That we're at war with ourselves?’
He shook his head.
‘And worst of all, how on earth do we stop an enemy who wants to die?’
The last sentence stayed in the air. But rather than withdrawing, Jenny fixed his gaze, her soft demeanour hardening.
‘By granting his wish,’ she said, quietly.
Silence.
But suddenly, there was a hurried knock at the door. Bambambam. In almost the same instant, it was pushed open.
It was Rogers. He looked pale, an expression on his normally amiable face that the PM hadn’t seen before. His wife saw it too. ‘Goodness, Pete, you look dreadful. Whatever is the matter?’ she asked.
The Prime Minister stayed silent. Rogers didn’t need to say a word.
He knew something terrible had happened.
Inside Room 418 of the Heathrow Marriott Hotel, Dominick Farha was standing by the window again, pushing back the curtain an inch with his fore-finger and scanning outside. The huge airfield across the road was twice as busy as it had been at dawn. Farha watched the endless stream of planes taking off and landing, whilst others parked or taxied in a well-worn routine. If New York was the city that never slept then it seemed Heathrow would be the airport staying up al
l night beside it.
On the bed behind him, his new companion was hard at work. The young woman had a white dress laid across her lap, made of thick cotton, the kind worn by a chemist or doctor as a coat. Beside her, the holdall containing the vast quantity of bricks of C4 explosive rested against a pillow. She lifted a brick from the bag and slid it into a compartment sewn into the gown. It was a perfect fit, snug and secure. Beside it, five other bricks had already been tucked into the glove-like pockets. She raised the dress in front of her, testing the weight, lifting the garment up and down. She smiled.
‘It worked,’ she told him. ‘It holds.’
‘Good. Keep going.’
He saw her smile up at him.
‘Thanks. You look beautiful,’ he added, as an afterthought.
That lit her face up, and she returned to her work with renewed passion, desperate to please him. Dominick watched her.
He couldn’t even remember her name.
He’d met her a few months ago in a book shop in the city. He’d been trying to find a manual on home-made explosives. He’d found one, under Science, written by a guy named Stoffel. And in the same aisle, the girl had been standing beside him. He sensed she was checking him out, and he’d decided on a whim to start a conversation with her. The conversation had continued to coffee, and before he knew it, they were meeting up repeatedly during the next few weeks. Dominick was bored and impatiently waiting to put together the final parts of his plan, so he’d decided to play along, more as a way of killing time than anything else. But the girl had fallen for him hard. It made him feel claustrophobic, like a rock with a limpet attached.
But then he’d had an idea.
He got her drunk one night, then after they slept together, he brought up the real reason why he was in the UK. He’d watched her response closely, if she reacted badly, he had a pillow ready to suffocate her. But she’d been interested. He’d adlibbed his way through the next part, and was amazed how well it worked. He outlined a plan, and she agreed to it the next day, without a query. He realised she was so infatuated, she’d do anything he wanted. All he had to do was tell her he loved her every now and then, and she was like putty in his hands.