by Tom Barber
Fox raised his hand. ‘How reliable is the intelligence, sir?’
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 sadly, he made the most of it.’ He paused. ‘Anyway, let’s look at the positives. For the first time today, we actually have a head start 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 any minute.’
‘But can’t we just shut down the Square, sir?’ Deakins asked. ‘Would save us a hell of a lot of problems.’
‘The suspect has no idea 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.
Fox was the first to speak.
‘Excuse me for stating the obvious, sir, but that seems like a whole lot of risk, doesn’t it? 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 will have thinned 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, gentlemen. I’m putting my faith in you. I know you won’t let me, the crowd or the nation down.’
Silence followed. It was so quiet, a pin could have dropped in the room and everyone would have heard it. 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. ‘Mace, 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. We don’t want any of them catching a stray bullet if it comes to it. Binoculars and side-arms only. If you see a situation up there, just call it in to the guys on the ground.’
He turned his attention back 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. The crowd will hopefully be lighter than usual. Use that to your advantage, and give yourself room to run.’
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. Look for signs. The crowd are going to be relaxed, smiling, enjoying themselves. See who stands out. They might be sweating, or jumpy. Wearing excessive, bumpy 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, gentlemen.’
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. 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.
He’d missed the briefing.
Seeing as France was an hour ahead in time, 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 at the table across his uncle, the man awaiting a response. He was still alive, which was cause for celebration. But the proposition that had just been outlined 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, the rolls of fat on his neck and jowls pushed up against the collar of his shirt and spilling over.
‘You do this, and I’ll forget New York ever happened.’
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 an arm. 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 fat man watched him walk to the car, climb into the passenger seat and shut the door. 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 was briefly concerned that they’d walk into the café carrying them. For any other person that would be a ridiculous consideration, but the
two of them 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 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 to his left, 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 small 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 Dad 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. His father had packed his bags when the boy was sixteen and flown back to New York. He had never returned since. 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.
But this time however, he was too late.
There were 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. He threw the empty vessel into the rubbish bin beside him. It disappeared in an instant, hidden amongst the tissues and rags. He turned back to his friend, cornering him. ‘Are you a complete moron? We’re about to go out into a crowd of thousands of people looking for a suicide bomber and you’re getting rat-arsed?’ he asked, incredulous.
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.
The incident had been eating away at him like a cancer ever since.
‘Look Chalk, I don't know why it happened,’ he said, trying his best to console him. ‘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, Chalk. Not right now. Not only are you my best friend, 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 to look. 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 drunken 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, keeling over and twisting his head to slurp from the tap. ‘Splash some on your face too,’ Porter added, watching. 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. ‘OK, 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 sober 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.’
NINETEEN
Ten minutes to midnight on New Year’s Eve, Trafalgar Square was just about the busiest place in the entire United Kingdom. Like Times Square in New York, it served as a centre of celebration as partygoers bid farewell to the old year and welcomed in the new, all under the bangs and lights of a mesmerising fireworks display. When the clock struck midnight one thing was for sure. This was the place to be in the city if you wanted to have a good time.
Unfortunately for the Armed Response Unit, that seemed to be the case tonight. Cobb had told them back at HQ that the Prime Minister was adamant that no celebrations be cancelled, despite the bombing at the Emirates Stadium. Archer had celebrated here with an old girlfriend two years previously, and you couldn’t have jammed another person into the place it was so packed.
Cobb was partially right. It seemed as though some people had decided to stay at home this year, the crowd thinner than usual which was a slight blessing. The officers needed to be able to move around, to react and chase down a suspect at a moment’s notice, and the fewer numbers meant they had room to manoeuvre. But there were still a lot of civilians gathered in the Square. Hundreds of them, at least.
Archer was positioned outside the main crowd, near a barrier to the south. He was standing just to the right of Nelson’s column which loomed high above the partygoers, the best view in the Square. A hundred yards in front of him two large water fountains splashed away, the crowd jammed tight around them. Someone had hooked them up with an LED lighting system and they glowed blue and red as water burst from the main funnel and showered into the porcelain bath surrounding it. Up ahead, a stage had been set up on the north side of the Square, just in front of the National Gallery. Some flavour-of-the-month pop band were performing on stage as a crew behind them rushed around, double-checking the vast array of fireworks that would shoot into the sky at the turn of the hour.
Archer had wrapped up warm. He was wearing a dark green coat lined with cream-coloured sheep’s wool which concealed the Glock 17 pistol slotted into a holster on his right hip. The earpiece to his radio was tucked inside his ear so he could communicate with the other guys scattered across the Square. He held the pressel switch in his hand, both of them jammed in the pockets of his coat, with a mic clipped to the inner lapel of his jacket.
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He glanced around him. It was a frosty December night, which meant the crowd were all covered and layered up with thick clothing to combat the chill. It meant any one of them could have been concealing something. Archer scanned every single person he could see for anything unusual. He’d read stories from the past of women and children being held down at gunpoint and having explosives attached to them, or women threatened by violence against their kids if they didn’t comply. He’d heard from guys in the army that in Afghanistan, the Taliban would send women and children out to serve as spotters, knowing that the opposing side wouldn’t fire on them. The enemy didn’t play by the same rules. Tonight, the police had to expect the unexpected.
If it was hot weather, anyone wrapped up in thick clothing would have stood out in a heartbeat. But right now, everyone in front of Archer was potentially a suspect due to the thickness of their clothes. He felt his breath catch. Serving the crowd up as bait was a huge risk by Cobb. The team couldn’t afford to fail.
Moving to his right, he scanned the crowd, searching for anyone who fit Number One’s description. Most of the people watching the stage were wearing hats, which was making it even harder. A true needle in a haystack. Archer cursed under his breath and shook his head.
Where the hell are you?
In his ear, he heard a voice crackle. Mac. ‘Deakins, sound off.’
Archer glanced through the crowd, but he couldn’t see Mac or the other officers. He shifted his gaze to a building flanking the Square to his right. Somewhere on the eighth floor was Deakins with a surveillance team by the windows. Archer waited for his response, which came soon after.
‘Nothing, Mac. There’re a shitload of people down there. We’re searching hard as we can.’
There was a pause.
‘And Chalky, get your finger out of your ear,’ Deakins followed. ‘You might as well have Policeman printed across your chest.’
Archer shook his head, rolling his eyes as he heard this. Chalky had kept silent during the ride over, downing water and avoiding talking to Mac. Archer prayed he was sobering up fast, wherever he was in the Square.