Nine Lives

by Tom Barber

He knew it was pointless, even as he said it. He could see the smug look in the terrorist’s eyes. The control in the room had shifted and they both knew it. Frost had all his chips on the table and the terrorist was holding the winning hand.

  However, the guy spoke much to Frost’s surprise.

  ‘OK, I’ll give you a teaser. Just a little one.’

  Reaching across the table with his handcuffed hands, he tapped one of the nine mug-shots on the photocopy with his finger. Number One, Frost saw.

  ‘This guy’s going to attack at midnight.’

  ‘Where?’ asked Frost.

  The suspect laughed.

  ‘No way. You’re not getting off that easy. I want to cut a deal. Time off my sentence.’

  Frost shook his head.

  ‘Keep dreaming, kid. That’s never going to happen.’

  ‘Then good luck finding him,’ said the terrorist. ‘Because I guarantee you, he’s out there right now, getting ready. You’ll never see him coming’.

  His smile faded.

  ‘And I’m losing patience. If I was you, I’d agree a deal with your boss whilst I’m still willing to talk. If I go quiet, every person who dies is on you.’

  Frost didn’t move. To leave now would mean following orders from the suspect, but to stay meant wasting valuable time. But he didn’t have a choice. He had to talk to Cobb. Gritting his teeth, he turned and walked to the door. He heard a sound from the table behind him. Glancing sideways he saw the terrorist smiling as he made a ticking noise, moving his finger from side to side, like a metronome.

  Cobb and Crawford were still outside, and they were both losing patience. Cobb checked his watch as Frost joined them, shutting the door. ‘It’s past ten. Less than two hours to midnight. Shit,’ Cobb said, frustrated. ‘And we all agree he’s telling the truth?’

  The two men nodded.

  ‘I can’t ask the PM to cut time off his sentence,’ Cobb said. ‘He murdered two kids, the medics. If he did cut his time and the press got hold of it, they’d have a field day. And what the hell do we tell their families if they ever found out?’

  ‘What if he served the time, but in a different prison?’ Crawford suggested. ‘Isolated, secluded, no threat from any other prisoners. He’d still be locked up. You’d have that.’

  ‘After everything he’s done?’ said Frost.

  ‘Behind bars,’ Crawford continued, turning to him. ‘If he’s telling the truth, we could get a head-start on his friend. The guy wouldn’t know you had the drop on him, Director. Your team could be right there, ready and waiting for him to show up. You take him down, maybe he knows where the final suspect is?’

  Cobb swore, assessing his options. Inside the cell, he saw the prisoner leaning back in his chair, self-satisfied and complacent.

  ‘I need to call the Prime Minister,’ he said. Turning, he pulled his mobile phone from his pocket as he walked to the exit.

  Now how the hell do I start this conversation, he thought.

  In the small café on Rue De Chevilly, Henry had also just received unexpected news. His phone had rung as he began his third cup of coffee and fourth pastry, patiently waiting for Faris and the two lunkheads to deliver his nephew. The moment he heard what the situation was, his appetite vanished instantly. He’d sat motionless for fifteen minutes since the call ended, considering his options and looking for a solution.

  He’d found one.

  The evening would still go ahead as planned, he hadn’t come all this way to leave empty-handed. But there was now extra business to attend to. Something risky and dangerous. A job for someone who would probably never make it back.

  A job for his nephew.

  If it succeeded, the plan of action would buy him some time. He needed to get back to Riyadh as quickly as he could. But he wasn’t leaving until he’d dumped the coke with the Albanians and got his hands on the cash. Satisfied with the fast strategy he’d formulated, he glanced outside. The weather was bad. It was cold. Pedestrians hurrying past outside were wrapped up in thick coats and scarves. Henry hadn’t given the weather a thought before he’d left. He’d come from the sunny heat of Riyadh, completely unprepared, and the shitty climate here had been pissing him off ever since they’d landed. He’d never been to France before and decided on the spot to never come back.

  He checked his watch. Just past 11pm, French time. The deal would go ahead in the next couple of hours, then he could get on the jet and get back to his world. Sitting there with the cold coffee, the shitty weather outside and a headache, Henry now remembered every reason why he never attended deals personally, or even bothered to go somewhere without a hot climate. But through his irritation, he understood how this place could be a good business-ground for gangs like the Albanians. Looking around the café and on the street, he saw that the French kept to themselves, getting on with their lives and minding their own business, which was ideal for guys like him.

  Outside, movement on the street brought him back to the present. The moment he’d been waiting for. A black Escalade pulled up outside and once it parked, the two meatheads and Faris stepped out. And then, from the other side, Dominick appeared. Even from this distance, Henry could see that the boy looked like he was on the verge of throwing-up. The drug lord smiled.

  He’d never know that a mere phone-call made a few minutes ago had just saved his life.

  The four men entered the café. As one of the giants pushed open the door carelessly, a bell hanging above it gave a ding, other people in the café glanced up then looked away as they saw the threatening, intimidating men enter. The foursome walked in and stopped, ten feet from where Henry was sitting. Ignoring Dominick for the moment who looked as if he was about to wet himself, Henry signalled one of the enforcers to approach. The guy lumbered over and bent down to listen. In his ear, Henry told him of the new situation, and what he was going to do to help it. The huge moron nodded without a word, then straightened.

  ‘Take your friend with you,’ Henry added. The enforcer looked at him for a moment, wondering what he meant. Then his slow brain kicked into gear and he nodded. Turning, he tapped his fellow giant, signalling for him to follow and the two of them strode out of the cafe, their shoulders so wide that both guys had trouble fitting through the tight doorway. From his seat, Henry saw Faris frown, watching them go and he approached Henry’s table. ‘Where the hell are they going?’ he asked.

  Henry ignored him, his eyes were fixed on Dominick. He gestured to a stool that he’d pulled in front of his table, and he saw the younger man’s eyes flick down nervously.

  ‘Take a seat.’

  The Prime Minister and his wife sat in silence in his office as Rogers ended the call on the speakerphone. Director Cobb had been on the other end. He’d just updated the PM on the current situation with the terrorist, the information he claimed to have and his demands. Leaning back in the chair behind his desk, the Prime Minister thought hard. He looked at his wife and Rogers, who were both sitting in chairs the other side. ‘What do you think?’ he asked.

  Both of them looked uneasy. Rogers spoke first.

  ‘I think it’s our only option, sir. He’s our solitary lead, and he damn well knows it.’

  The Prime Minister turned to his wife. Although officially she would play no part in the formal decision-making, he valued his wife’s opinion above all others.

  ‘Jen?’

  She shook her head. ‘After what he did, we should grant him clemency? The whole thing just doesn’t feel right.’

  A brief silence fell.

  ‘OK, let’s take a step back,’ said the Prime Minister quietly. ‘Say I agree. He’ll tell us where this attack will take place and we can move in ahead of time, ready and waiting for the other guy. Or I say no. And pray that he’s lying.’

  Roger and the PM’s wife didn’t respond. They didn’t need to. All three of them knew there was only one option.

  ‘He’d still be behind bars, sir,’ said Rogers. ‘He can’t hurt anyone else from in there.’<
br />
  The Prime Minister made the decision.

  ‘OK. Call Director Cobb back.’ Rogers nodded and pressed Redial on the phone. He jabbed a button for the speakerphone and the ringing from the receiver filled the room. Cobb answered quickly, after only two rings. Rogers had told him they’d call back shortly.

  ‘Sir?’ came Cobb’s voice.

  ‘Tell the man he can serve the time in seclusion,’ said the Prime Minister. ‘He has my word on that. But no time off. He does every minute of his sentence and not a minute less. That’s my only offer. And he can take it or leave it.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Cobb said.

  The call ended from Cobb’s end, wasting no time. Inside the PM's office three people sat in silence, each with their own thoughts.

  Across the room, the clock on the wall ticked to 10:30 pm.

  Ninety minutes 'til midnight.

  In a dark house across the city, a man sat alone in a chair in the middle of a drab living room. The curtains were drawn, the room still and silent. A roof light above the man filled the room with an ethereal white glow, the moon bathing the inside of the house with its cold, pale light. Sitting naked, the guy was hunched over, putting the finishing touches to a piece of clothing resting on his lap. Tossing aside a set of pliers to the floor, he lifted the cloth to examine his work.

  It was a vest. Black, thick, similar to a tactical vest that a police officer would wear. It had a number of compartments sewn into the black cloth, each one was packed full with either one of two things.

  Steel nails. Each one as long as a man’s finger.

  And Semtex. Plastic explosive.

  Holding the vest in front of him, the man inspected his work. It looked good. The Semtex was a shade of bright orange, ludicrously colourful for such a dangerous weapon. It shared all the power and destructive capacity of C4, but Semtex was harder to trace and easier to mould. It could be shaped to follow any curvature or fit into a slot, and sniffer dogs never picked up on it. The man nodded. Where he was headed tonight, he figured there may be a few of them there.

  Rising, he lifted the vest over his head and threaded his arms through the gaps so it settled on his bare shoulders. He adjusted it, bouncing gently on his heels to test the weight. It felt good. The vest had a V shape collar, the bulk of the weight carried around his torso and hips, but nevertheless it still looked slightly bulky. He carefully started to push and shape the malleable plastic explosive, getting it to flatten and follow the curve of his torso. He stared straight ahead, his eyes half-open. He was starting to become focused.

  Behind him, another man was staring too.

  He was lying in a pool of congealed blood, thick and coated to the floor. The man’s throat hadn’t just been cut. Someone had sawn through it as if they were cutting a loaf of thick bread. Stripped naked and dumped on the floor, the body looked like a Roman statue in the white light of the moonlight. The way his head had lolled back meant the man wearing the vest was standing where the corpse’s gaze had fallen. The dead eyes stared accusingly at the man across the room.

  He finished adjusting the vest. The last jacket he would ever wear. Satisfied, he moved across the room and grabbed a pair of trousers, pulling them on.

  He was ready to go.

  EIGHTEEN

  It took them just under ten minutes to draft the contract. Jill Sawyer, the bomber’s somewhat reluctant defence lawyer, had arrived and she oversaw the construction of the document. Her trained eye ensured there were no loopholes or room for manipulation, nor any points of contention that would come back to haunt them later. After it was completed, they printed off a copy and together, Frost and Sawyer moved back into the interrogation cell. The suspect looked up as they entered. ‘Well?’

  ‘You win,’ said Frost. ‘The Prime Minister has agreed to a deal.’

  The guy smirked, pushing the gauze stuffed up his nostrils further into his nose. ‘Reduced sentence?’

  ‘No,’ said Sawyer. The terrorist looked at her for the first time, the smile fading slightly.

  ‘So what then? You’d better not be jerking me around.’

  She laid the contract on the table before him. ‘You’ll do the time, but at a different facility. You’ll be isolated, minimal contact with other inmates.’

  ‘That’s it? A different prison?’

  ‘Trust me, it’ll be paradise compared to Belmarsh,’ said Frost. ‘When word gets round inside as to who you are, you’re going to be a marked man wherever you go.’

  He saw the suspect absorb this. Belmarsh Prison was located towards the south-east edge of London. It was known for two things amongst the criminal community. Firstly, as the central detention centre for any terrorists captured and convicted in the UK. There were so many of them in there, it was as if someone had called a town meeting.

  And secondly, Belmarsh was renowned for its inter-walls violence. Unlike some other prisons in the UK, the guards and wardens took a no-bullshit approach to the inmates. They were in charge and they let every con inside the walls know it. Every man doing time in there had to earn every minute. However, despite the notoriety of the prison, Frost saw the terrorist still weighing up his options. C’mon you bastard, take it, he thought. They were running out of time. This was their only option. If this deal was going mean anything, they needed the information now.

  ‘This is all official?’ said the suspect, deliberating.

  Sawyer nodded, pulling a pen from her jacket pocket, passing it to him. ‘It is. I’m serving as a witness.’

  Beside her, Frost was getting impatient. He pressed him.

  ‘It’s a one-time offer. Take it or leave it.’

  Number Eight looked at him, enjoying the power. For one long horrible moment, Frost thought he was going to say no. But after a long pause, he leaned forward, taking the pen from Sawyer’s hand, and signed the contract. Frost hid his relief. The moment the nib of the pen left the page, Sawyer took it back from him and the grey-haired detective beside her started pushing. ‘Right, start talking. Where’s he going to be?’

  The bomber leaned back.

  ‘Trafalgar Square.’

  ‘Whereabouts?’ continued Frost, searching for further detail. ‘It’s a big place.’

  ‘I don’t know where exactly,’ he replied. ‘But he’ll be there. Trust me.’

  Outside the room, Cobb heard this and turned to Crawford.

  ‘Time to go to work.’

  Fifty yards from the runway in the shadows of the Parisian airfield, the two DEA agents hadn’t moved. They were still tucked away in the darkness on surveillance, silent and invisible. In the air, they could hear distant cheering. High up in the sky, premature fireworks had already started going off in the distance. However, neither man was celebrating yet. They had plenty of work left to do this night.

  Earlier, they’d watched as the pilot moved from the cockpit of the jet down the steps to stand on the tarmac. He’d sparked a cigarette and smoked away, cradling something in his arms. The man on the left, Agent Brody, had looked closer with his binoculars. It was an HK CAWS automatic shotgun, a savage German weapon. Ask any law enforcement officer or soldier, and they’d tell you that the drawback to any conventional shotgun was rate of fire. It was a trade-off for the power of each shell. A shooter would pull the trigger, but then would have to rack the pump to reload, unlike a sub-machine gun or pistol which did that automatically.

  However, the HK CAWS was different. It housed a ten shell magazine that clipped into its base. If a guy pulled the trigger, the chemical reaction and force of the blast would push the mechanism back as it fired, slotting another round into the chamber automatically. In an experienced set of hands, someone could fire over two hundred shells a minute with it. Ridiculous firepower, with gruesome results. Someone pointed that thing at you there was no point in fighting. Just get on your knees and beg. And its presence in the pilot’s hands confirmed something to the two agents.

  The cargo they were interested in was definitely still inside the
jet.

  Suddenly, there was a rustling in the undergrowth behind them.

  Floyd and Brody snapped their heads around with a jolt, startled. They looked into the darkness, on edge. Waiting.

  But it was nothing. A false alarm. Just an animal, out hunting for late-night prey. Nevertheless, neither man moved for a moment. They stared into the pitch black. Finally satisfied it was safe, the pair turned their attention back to the jet.

  But then there was another sound behind them.

  A crunch.

  A foot stepping on a stick or branch.

  They twisted round again.

  And two men were standing there.

  They were Henry’s enforcers, the two giants.

  They’d crept up out of nowhere with amazing stealth, given their size and the two DEA agents were momentarily frozen with shock. Floyd glanced down, his eyes wide with fear. Each enforcer held something in his hands.

  A silenced AR 15 Carbine assault rifle.

  Each one had a magazine clipped to its base. Thirty rounds, set to fully automatic.

  The two men stood over the two agents, who lay there helpless.

  ‘Boo,’ one of them said.

  The giants raised the weapons.

  And each guy emptied his magazine.

  Inside the briefing room at the ARU’s headquarters, 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. Cobb started his briefing.

  ‘Right, for those that missed it, we’ve been working on the ambulance bomber downstairs,’ he 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,’ he said, checking his watch.