Nine Lives

by Tom Barber

  He turned, tossing the empty weapon back to the pilot, who was trembling. He couldn’t believe what he had just seen. ‘Get in the cock-pit,’ Henry ordered. ‘We’re leaving.’

  The pilot nodded, struggling to tear his eyes from the two corpses. The transition of the cartel boss from impassive businessman to savage killer was the most terrifying thing he had ever seen. Turning, the small man scampered up the steps, stumbling on two of them in his haste to do as he was told. Henry turned to Faris, who was leaning against the steps. He seemed unmoved.

  ‘Let’s get out of here,’ Henry said, stepping past him and clambering up the stairs. Faris looked at the two corpses lying on the runway, looking like two giant starfishes beaten with a giant sledge-hammer.

  Karma’s a bitch.

  TWENTY-ONE

  At 11 o'clock the next morning, a man ran for his life down the street in Canary Wharf, south-east London. He was dressed in a brown delivery uniform, the kind a guy who delivered packages and parcels for companies like DHL and UPS wore. However, he was carrying nothing in his hands. His arms flashed back and forward like pistons as he fled, his eyes wide with fear as he raced down the street.

  Sprinting hard, he suddenly turned a sharp left, ducking into Canary Wharf Station, a stop on the London Underground system. Dodging past bystanders and Underground employees, the man hurdled the ticket barrier without slowing an inch. Around him, workers shouted and remonstrated as they watched the man ignore the ticketing slots. He ran on, turning back to check behind him and suddenly collided into a woman walking the other way, smashing into her and knocking them both to the ground.

  Out of breath and winded, the man staggered to his feet ignoring the stricken woman on the floor beside him, who was doubled over in pain from the collision. He scrambled forward, running onto a long escalator that led all the way down to the platforms. He rushed down frantically, taking the steps two at a time.

  By the entrance, two police constables in uniform suddenly sprinted into the station. They too jumped the barriers, although this time to no complaint from the people standing there. They raced past the woman on the floor, who now had concerned people around her, checking to see if she was hurt and helping her back up on her feet.

  The constables arrived at the escalator. Looking down, they saw the fleeing man near the bottom, rushing past people to the right of the metal steps as he took them two at a time. ‘Police! Stop that man!’ one of them shouted as they both started to run down the escalator, chasing after him.

  As he reached the bottom, the guy took off to the left. A train was waiting, the Jubilee line, bound for the city centre. There was an extra security barrier, a series of glass screens that ran along the platform. They were sliding shut. He threw his hand forward to try to and wedge a set open so he could pull himself inside, but he missed it by a hair. He started hitting and kicking the screen in a frenzy. The train moved off and gathered speed, shocked passengers watching from inside at the crazy man on the platform so desperate to get on the train.

  Cursing in frustration, the man saw a train on the other platform was just arriving. He turned to run over the tracks, but was smashed hard in a rugby tackle by one of the policemen.

  He didn’t see the policeman coming and was taken completely off his feet. The other policeman appeared just behind his colleague and they pinned the delivery man to the floor as he tried to fight his way free. Flipping him to his belly they held him down, knees in his back, whilst one of the men pulled a set of a handcuffs, locking them in place firmly. Having finally restrained the suspect, the second officer turned to his colleague, sucking in deep breaths.

  'You sure it's him?' he panted. The other man tilted his head to look at the delivery man's face, his chest heaving as his lungs took in oxygen. The suspect was flat against the tiles, his cheek pressed firmly on the ground. The policeman looked at his profile, and nodded.

  'Yeah. It's him.'

  Across the city in the Armed Response Unit’s headquarters, it had been a long night.

  The fallout from the shooting in Trafalgar Square had been severe. Once Archer had discovered the explosives hidden under the man’s coat, the police had been forced to clear the area just as the fireworks were taking place, which was no small task. Bomb disposal had arrived, the EOD team examining and confirming that the device was armed and ready to be detonated by trigger switch. They had set about dismantling and separating the explosives for what was the fourth bomb they had encountered that evening. This time, the weapon used was Semtex, a vicious plastic explosive. There was enough of it strapped to the dead terrorist to, as a bomb disposal expert had said, turn the entire Square into a crater you could see from the moon.

  Back at the Unit’s Headquarters, Nikki had checked the Met’s emergency logs and had found a report from Hammersmith and Fulham Station. It was concerning a police constable named Eldridge, who’d been absent for two days, having gone missing whilst on duty on Thursday. Two police detectives had reportedly found his body just before midnight, stripped naked. The terrorist had cut his throat and stolen his uniform. Needless to say, Chalky was man-of-the-hour with the team. Any concerns Archer and Porter had regarding his condition prior to the shooting were immediately forgotten. He was a hero. There was even a rumour circulating that the very grateful Prime Minister wanted to thank him personally. It had certainly been an eventful day’s work for the police officer.

  It turned out he’d been chasing down the first suspect just behind Fox, Mac and Porter, but in that split-second, he’d spotted something odd about a police constable nearby that had made him slow down. The officer was standing by himself, away from any other policemen which in itself was odd, muttering something. His eyes were half-open, not alert and scanning the crowd as they should have been. Chalky could also see he was holding something but not exactly what.

  But he caught a glimpse of something else.

  A wire, running into the man’s coat. Looking at the man’s face under the helmet he’d realised in an instant who he was.

  And the rest was history.

  At around 3am, the task force had finally returned to the Unit and stowed their kit. They’d been ordered to stay on call all night, so most of them found chairs in the briefing room and dozed off whilst they had the chance. But two men who’d had zero sleep were Director Cobb and Special Agent Crawford. Neither of them had got so much as a wink. Crawford had pulled Cobb aside just after they’d figured out the situation at the Square. Apparently, the two DEA agents at the airfield weren’t responding to his calls. And Dominick Farha had been reported as separating from Henry’s crew, having been sent on an errand somewhere, according to his sixth DEA agent. Crawford mentioned that he had another man in place, but he was unable to pursue Farha at this current time. Neither man could believe it. Right before their eyes, both of their cases were falling apart. Crawford didn’t know if he’d gotten the deal with Henry on camera. Cobb was wondering how they’d let the leader of the terrorist cell slip away when they’d had him in the palm of their hand.

  Needless to say, their working relationship was under severe strain. Crawford knew it was a miracle that Cobb hadn’t kicked him and Rivers out of the building.

  But things were about to get a whole lot worse.

  In the ops room, Nikki hung up a telephone call and quickly removed her headset. She walked swiftly over to Cobb’s office. The Director was standing by the coffee machine, pouring a mug and rubbing his eyes wearily. Nikki knocked on the door and moved inside in the same instant. Cobb turned as she entered, his eyes red and rimmed with fatigue and stress.

  ‘Sir,’ she said. ‘I just spoke to Limehouse Police Station. They have Number Four in custody.’

  Cobb looked at her. He blinked.

  ‘Great. That’s good news,’ he said.

  ‘Not quite, sir. There’s a problem.’

  She paused. Cobb stood still, it felt as if he was having a bad dream.

  ‘What kind of problem?’

 
; ‘A big one,’ she said.

  Across the level in the briefing room, Archer stirred awake. He blinked, yawning, gathering his wits. He was slumped in a chair beside the noticeboards, his back stiff from the angle he’d been sleeping in. He sat upright and stretched, yawning again. He saw Chalky sitting in the chair beside him. Archer noticed that in a complete contrast to yesterday, today his friend looked surprisingly fresh and rested.

  ‘What are you so happy about?’ Archer asked, rubbing his face.

  ‘Got a good night’s sleep. Crashed out in one of the holding cells,’ Chalky responded, with a wink. Archer rolled his eyes as his friend passed him a cup of tea.

  ‘Thanks. What time is it?’ he asked, yawning again.

  ’11:30,’ said Fox, who was sat nearby. He was reading a newspaper. Archer glanced at the Sports headline on the back of the broadsheet.

  Chelsea-Manchester United fixture to go ahead, despite disaster at the Emirates.

  ‘I thought the Prime Minister cancelled the game?’ Archer asked, sipping the cup of tea and leaning back in his chair. Fox shook his head.

  ‘No. He gave a speech earlier demanding that the match continue in tribute to those killed. They’re doing a ceremony before the game, and holding a minute’s silence.’

  Archer nodded. ‘What time’s kick off?’

  ‘1:30’ he replied. ‘All we need now is for Farha and the last terrorist to turn themselves in before lunch. Then I can watch the game.’

  ‘Forget the game, I could sleep for a week,’ mumbled Deakins’ voice from nearby. He was lying back in his chair, his arms folded, his eyes closed. Archer didn’t reply. He was looking at Shapira across the room as she leaned against the wall, overhearing their conversation. She was smiling.

  ‘You a football fan?’ he asked her.

  She looked down at him.

  ‘I am today.’

  At that moment, Cobb entered the room, Mac striding in behind him, both of them moving quickly and obviously meaning business. Most of the room was already up and awake and anyone who’d dozed off was given a quick prod or kick. Mac shut the door as Cobb got right down to it, wasting no time.

  ‘Morning, lads,’ he said. ‘First of all, fantastic work last night. The whole operation was the perfect example of what we stand for as a Unit. You found the target and you took him down.’ He turned to Chalky. ‘I spoke to Downing Street earlier. The Prime Minister wants to meet you after this is over and give you a commendation. Well done. You saved a lot of lives last night.’

  There was a small cheer. Someone wolf-whistled. But the room quietened immediately. They could see from the look on his face that Cobb wasn’t finished.

  ‘I have some more news,’ he continued. ‘Two constables arrested Number Four about half an hour ago. They picked him up at Canary Wharf. He’s over at Limehouse police station right now getting prepped for an interrogation. The officers who made the arrest saw the suspect coming out of a building. He was disguised as a delivery man, but they’d seen the news and recognised him. Good work on their part. The guard on the front desk said the man entered the building with a large brown package under his arm.’

  ‘What was it?’ Deakins asked.

  Cobb paused.

  ‘We don’t know. He left without it.’

  Silence.

  ‘Which building, sir?’ asked Porter, standing to the left by the noticeboards. Cobb looked at him.

  ‘One Canada Square,’ he said quietly.

  Oh shit, thought Archer.

  Oh shit shit shit.

  ‘Jesus Christ. That’s the second biggest building in the UK,’ said Deakins.

  Cobb nodded. ‘Yes, it is. And unfortunately for us, the business community doesn’t care that it’s a public holiday. We estimate there are just over eight thousand people inside, scattered on each floor, and most of the shops on the lower levels are open too. The evacuation has already begun. CO19 and Bomb Disposal have been deployed over there. But I just spoke to the Prime Minister and he asked that you get down there too. Especially after the work you all did yesterday.’

  There was a pause. The room was silent as each man considered the sheer scale of the task ahead.

  ‘How many floors in the building, sir?’ asked Fox.

  ‘Fifty,’ said Mac. ‘Each one is twenty-eight thousand square feet.

  ‘Do they know what floor he got off?’ Archer asked.

  ‘Security is checking the CCTV as we speak. There aren’t any cameras in the stairwell, so he might have stepped out of the lift and moved to a different level.’

  The room murmured.

  ‘We could search all week and not find this thing. It’s like finding a needle in a haystack,’ said Deakins.

  ‘More like a needle in an entire hayfield,’ added Chalky.

  Cobb nodded. ‘I know lads. I’m sorry. If there was any way I could get someone else to handle it, I would. But the PM himself wants you down there. Now it could be nothing. Just a hoax. But judging by yesterday’s events, I think we all know what it potentially could be.’

  ‘Yeah, if it’s a bomb, the building could blow at any minute,’ said Fox. ‘With us inside.’

  Silence.

  The room was still.

  Cobb looked at his men.

  ‘You need to get down there, lads,’ he said, quietly. ‘And make every second count.’

  After his arrest on the platform inside the Underground station, Number Four had been taken back upstairs and hauled over to Limehouse Police Station, located nearby by the docks. Officers there had processed the suspect through to holding, and he’d been dumped in an interrogation room, alone. Word had spread from a security guard at Canary Wharf that he’d left a package somewhere inside One Canada Square. They were now preparing to ask him what and where it was.

  A CID detective stood outside the interrogation cell, watching the arrested terrorist closely. His name was Davis. He’d been a Detective Inspector for twelve years. He was also the father of a teenage son who’d been at the Emirates stadium the night before. The boy had been in the opposite stand to the explosion and had thus escaped unscathed, but Davis felt his knuckles whiten with fury as he stared through the window at the suspect. The guy was slumped in his chair, navel-gazing. He was still dressed in the delivery uniform, his hands now cuffed in front of him, resting on his lap. Davis watched him for a moment. Time for a little payback.

  But before he entered the room, the detective turned and moved through a side door and into the reception area. A younger detective was behind the desk, manning the post. ‘Did you make the call?’ Davis asked. The man nodded.

  ‘Yes, sir. They’ve started evacuating the building. EOD and counter-terrorist teams are on their way over there.’

  ‘Good.’ He paused. ‘Now let’s go and see what our friend next door’s been up to this morning.’ He turned and walked back into the station. He approached the door to the interrogation cell, taking a look inside as he reached for the keys to the door in his pocket.

  But the terrorist wasn’t in the chair.

  He was lying on the floor, blood pumping from his severed jugular. It was spilling out of him like a ruptured pipe leak. David saw a small work-knife spilled to the floor, fallen from his hand. The suspect was spasming and shivering on the floor as his blood pooled around him..

  ‘Oh shit!’ Davis fumbled into his pocket for the keys, staring at the terrorist bleeding to death inside the cell. The detective next door had heard Davis shout and he ran in from the front desk, catching sight of the wounded man through the glass. Davis eventually managed to get the key in the lock and twisting it open, the two men ran inside towards the terrorist.

  He was jerking and gasping like a fish on dry land, lying in a vast pool of blood as his heart pumped it out relentlessly. Without a thought or hesitation, Davis pulled off his suit jacket and clamped it to the man’s neck, trying to staunch the bleeding. But it wasn’t working. The blood just kept coming. Davis and the other detective were covered in it
as they knelt beside the man.

  Davis snapped his attention down to the small knife lying in the blood. The blade was only an inch long, but that’s all the guy had needed.

  ‘Where the hell did that thing come from!’ Davis screamed.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Given the quiet Sunday morning streets, the three ARU police cars made it down to the Wharf in just under fifteen minutes. They pulled to a halt in the Canada Square plaza, the huge building looming above them like a giant monolith. Climbing out of the vehicles, each man slammed his door and shielded his eyes from the sunlight as he gazed up. The building seemed to go on forever. Archer stood side-by-side with Porter and Chalky, the three of them looking up in silence, seeing first-hand the enormity of their task.

  When Cobb had told them it was this particular structure, Archer had felt his stomach turn. Standing over seven hundred and seventy feet tall, the building housed fifty floors and thousands upon thousands of people who moved in and out of the doors daily. It served as the central hub for London’s hectic trading and financial district. In photographs, the place had always seemed big, its iconic pyramid roof now a familiar part of the London skyline. Up close, it was enormous. Deakins was right. They could be searching inside for a week and not find anything.

  Mac barked an order, and the men brought their attention back to the plaza in front of them. Up ahead, scores of civilians were streaming out of the large entrance to the building. Various vehicles had been jaggedly parked in the square, most of them street police, their lights flashing. To the right, Archer saw a black van with EOD printed on the side, a man standing beside it talking into a radio. Bomb disposal were already here, which was good. Past the black van, he saw a cluster of other Ford 4x4s. It looked like another counter-terrorist team had arrived too. As one, the ten task force officers made their way past the evacuees flooding the plaza as they made their way towards the entrance and the lobby. Shapira and Rivers remained standing by the ARU cars, both staring up at the building. They’d both played a major and crucial part in events yesterday, but this was a job for the task force alone.