by Tom Barber
The ten-man team moved into the lobby. Archer saw the other counter-terrorist team standing to the left. He recognised their dark uniform. C019. Much like the ARU, they were the London Metropolitan police’s equivalent of the American SWAT teams. The officers were dressed in much the same clothing as the ARU squad, save for the fact that each of them carried an AR15 Carbine assault rifle instead of the ARU MP5. As they arrived to stand side by side, both teams nodded to each other. Their sergeant stepped forward, a big, barrel chested guy with a sandy moustache. Approaching Mac, the two of them shook hands quickly, and the other man updated him on the situation.
‘We found him on the surveillance cameras,’ the man said, with a gruff voice. ‘He got off on Thirty. But he could have used the stairs, we’re not sure. Some genius didn’t put any cameras in the stairwell.’
‘Yeah, we heard.’ Mac said.
‘My lads can start on Thirty and work our way down. Can your boys work up?’
Mac nodded. Wasting not a second, the burly CO19 sergeant turned back to his men.
‘Listen up!’ he called. A silence had already fallen. The ARU guys were listening intently too. ‘Here's the situation, lads. As we know, a terrorist suspect was seen leaving this building roughly an hour ago,’ he said, checking his watch. ‘The CCTV is telling us that he got off on the Thirtieth floor, carrying a large brown package that he didn’t bring back down with him. Unfortunately, he could have used the stairs, so we’re looking at a radius of probably ten floors each way. We’re going to sweep them all, one by one. Be quick, but be thorough. You see something, no hanging around. Call it in and let EOD take over.’
He jabbed his thumb across the lobby towards the main reception desk. Archer saw two members of the EOD, currently climbing into green blast suits. He recognised them, they were two of the guys from the shopping centre the night before. The burly CO19 leader continued.
‘My team, we'll start on Thirty and work our way down, floor by floor. Sergeant McGuire and the ARU squad are going to work their way up.’
‘Any word from the suspect?’ asked one of the CO19 officers. The man with the moustache shook his head.
‘He’s dead.’
There was a moment’s pause. Everyone frowned, confused. ‘He cut his own throat inside a cell at Limehouse,’ the man explained. ‘He must have had a knife or something that they missed when they frisked him. And that means we’re going to have to do this ourselves, lads. Whatever this thing is, it could very well be a shitload of explosives, possibly on a timer. So all of you, move quickly, be thorough and just find the bloody thing. Let’s move.’
He turned immediately, jogging across the marble floor towards the lifts. His men followed immediately behind. Mac turned to the ARU squad. ‘First team, with me to Thirty One,’ he ordered. ‘Deakins, take Second Squad to Thirty Two.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said the task force in unison, and together, the group of men headed for the lifts.
Across the city, Dominick Farha stared at the grass by his feet, wracking his brains, wondering both what to do and also how the hell he’d ended up back in London. He was in a small clearing, surrounded by pine-trees and leaning against the side of a small helicopter that had brought him here. He was thinking about the task ahead of him. No matter how many times and different ways he looked at it, the same undeniable fact kept on presenting itself.
I need a gun.
After meeting his uncle in the Parisian café and somehow managing to get out of there alive, Dominick had climbed into the back of the car that was waiting outside on the street. It had taken him through the streets of Paris on a journey that had left him completely clueless, no idea where the hell he was. He was tense the whole trip. Half of him suspected it was a trap and there would be an unpleasant final surprise waiting for him whenever or wherever they stopped.
They had arrived in a small field, gated off from the public. He was surprised how quickly Paris ended and the countryside began. They’d suddenly gone from vast, long streets and people celebrating the New Year to silence and the cover of darkness. The driver had pulled up alongside a small white helicopter parked in the field. That was the beauty of the vessel, the guy told Dominick as he drove. You didn’t need any sort of runway to land it. It was useless for long journeys, but they were only going back over the Channel.
The driver pulled to a halt and Dominick had climbed out. As he shut the door to the car, it immediately turned around and sped off into the night. He saw a small, wiry man standing by the helicopter. The rear door to the vessel was open. The guy saw Dominick standing there and without a word, turned his back, and starting climbing into the front seat. Henry had mentioned these men were reliable, they worked for an associate. They certainly moved like drug-runners. Neither the pilot nor the man who’d brought him here hung around for a second longer than necessary.
Dominick glanced behind him cautiously and slowly approached the helicopter. He still wasn’t sure if this was a trap. He didn’t want to turn his back and suddenly get jabbed with an autojet syringe. It was a pistol-shaped injection weapon that Henry used to sedate his victims. One minute a man was fine and the next he’d wake up, wondering where the hell he was and when he’d fallen asleep.
And also why they were seventy pounds of concrete dried to his feet.
But it was clear. No one was lying in wait. He’d approached the helicopter and climbed in. The pilot wasn’t wasting any time, the rotors were starting to spin, gathering speed, the engine whining as it warmed up. They’d been in the air in less than five minutes and heading back towards London. The whole journey had taken around ninety minutes. Farha had watched in silence from the back seat as the inky waters of the Channel glinted dully below them in the moonlight. He was on his guard the entire time. He didn’t fancy having a gun pulled on him, and being told to jump out.
But they had made it to London around 1am UK time. Dominick was wondering if his man had succeeded at Trafalgar Square, but he had no way of finding out. He’d ditched his mobile phone a few days ago after arranging his escape with Faris. The helicopter had landed in an empty field under cover of darkness. The pilot had shown great skill. He’d navigated the vessel to land in a small clearing, surrounded by a cluster of long, tall pine trees, the perfect spot for it. There was a helipad centre nearby the guy told Farha, but that wasn’t the kind of place that opened its doors for the men they both worked for. He’d said that this clearing was the perfect place to lay low. Hardly anyone came down here. And besides, if Dominick got a move on, they wouldn’t be there for long.
This whole trip had left a bitter taste in Farha’s mouth. He’d spent a year almost to the minute hatching a plan to get the hell out of this country, but he’d been away for less than an hour then immediately sent back. It was almost laughable. If it had been any other person on the planet telling him to do this, Farha would have spat in his face. But his uncle was the one man who could make him do it, hell, he could make him do whatever he wanted. Dominick was terrified of him, he’d seen the man’s capacity for violence, even amongst his own family. His self-preservation and survival instincts had kicked in. Just say yes and get the hell out of here, he’d thought in the café. After the helicopter had landed, Farha had debated whether to make a move there and then in the darkness, or wait until morning and hatch a plan. The nervous tension of the day had got to him and he realised he was more tired than he thought. He’d nodded off in the back of the vessel and had woken up just before landing. He hadn’t gone anywhere yet though. If this whole thing was going to work, he needed to plan his next few moves carefully.
He checked his watch. It was coming up to midday, UK time. The sun filtered in through the trees which was bad. The good weather meant there would be more people on the street, not indoors as there would be during inclement weather. He needed to lay low, his face was all over the news channels and papers. He was the most wanted man in Europe right now. And Henry’s proposition was a risky one. More than risky. Potentially sui
cidal. It could either be incredibly hard or surprisingly easy. He had to be careful.
And he needed a weapon.
Some sort of gun would be perfect. Anything would do at this point. He cursed. If he had more time and access to weaponry, the job would be a synch. He could do the deed from a distance and be out of the country before anyone realised what had happened. But where can I get one? He couldn’t risk using a phone, or using one of his old contacts. He couldn’t trust anyone. No stupid risks, he reminded himself.
A light bulb suddenly turned on in his head. He had an idea. He turned to the pilot. ‘Does your boss have a safe-house here? Any weapons?’
By the front of the vessel, the pilot shook his head, reading a paper. ‘Don’t even bother. I’m not taking you anywhere else. My job was to get you here. If you don’t get going soon, I’ll go ahead and leave without you. I’m going to leave to refuel in ten minutes anyway. If you’re not back here by sundown, I’m off.’
Farha felt the anger of his terrible temper start to boil. But he couldn’t react. This guy was the only way he was getting out of the country again.
He thought for a moment, searching for another solution. ‘You got a toolkit?’ he asked.
The guy nodded, not looking up from the paper. ‘Under the front seat.’
Farha moved to the pilot’s door, opening it, and checked under the pilot’s seat. Sure enough, there was a red toolkit there, about the size of a large shoebox. Pulling it out, Farha put it on the pilot’s seat and opened the box. It was mostly full of stuff he couldn’t use. A map, two flares, some small screwdrivers. But he did find something that could work. He pulled it out, examining it in his hands. It was a jack-knife. He pushed the switch, and the blade slid out. He tested the edge with the tip of his finger. It was sharp as a razorblade.
Suddenly, he felt a little bit better. He needed a gun.
But a knife would do.
High up in One Canada Square, Archer glanced out of a window from the Thirty-First floor. The winter sun was shining down across the city and the view was spectacular. From here, he could see all the landmarks. The London Eye. Big Ben. Westminster. Even Wembley in the distance. Tourists would have paid handsome money for a view like this. But he snapped his attention back to the present. He wasn’t here to sight-see.
He was standing in a long conference room, ten chairs positioned each side of a lacquered, polished table. Porter was kneeling across the room, searching under the table and checking the drawers.
‘Nothing,’ he said, shaking his head and climbing back to his feet.
Archer nodded and looked around his end. No luck. The package wasn’t here.
Together, they left the room and moved swiftly out into the corridor. The Thirty-First floor was a maze of hallways and different rooms. There were endless tables, drawers, cabinets, countless potential hiding places. Archer looked around and cursed. The damn thing could be anywhere. Mac appeared from a kitchen twenty yards away, Chalky alongside him. They both looked equally frustrated. ‘Anything?’ Mac asked.
Archer shook his head. ‘Not a thing.’
Mac nodded, then pushed the pressel to his radio, as the three officers beside him continued to sweep the floor. ‘Second Team, report, over.’
Deakins’ voice came up in each man’s earpiece. ‘Nothing up here, Mac’.
Fox’s voice followed. ‘Roger that. Nothing here.’
Mac swore. He pushed the switch.
‘Keep looking.’
‘Roger that.’
Mac turned to Archer, his face strained and wrought with concern. He knew the suspect had got off on Thirty, which was nearly the exact middle of the building. Demolition logic meant if the package contained explosives, and he’d placed them well, they could detonate and the whole building would go down in seconds. The charge would rupture the building’s support systems and the top half would collapse, crushing the lower portion like a crumpled accordion.
‘Go with Chalk up to Thirty-Three,’ he ordered. ‘Port and I'll finish here. This is all taking too long.’
Archer nodded. Together, he and Chalky ran to the stairwell, pulling the door open. The two of them sprinted up towards Thirty-Three, both increasingly uneasy.
They had a feeling that whatever the package was, they were running out of time.
Almost directly above them on Thirty-Two, Deakins and Fox were clearing the floor together. They had just entered an executive office. It belonged to someone who was clearly high up the trading food chain. The office contained nice furniture, ornaments and a television that probably cost more than either of them made in a year. A polished desk and chair were pushed against the far wall, taking pride of place.
Deakins whistled. ‘Whatever this guy does, I-‘
Fox suddenly cut him off. ‘Shhhh!’
He jabbed a finger to his lips. Deakins immediately paused.
‘Listen,’ Fox added quietly, his brow furrowed.
Both of them stood motionless, looking at each other as they concentrated their hearing.
Fox was right.
There was a soft sound gently breaking the quiet.
It was so faint, you could barely hear it.
But there was no mistaking what it was.
Ticking.
It was coming from the desk. Fox crept towards it. The table had three drawers on the left hand side, hidden from view from the door. Softly, Fox knelt beside it and put his ear against the wood.
His eyes widened.
He looked back at Deakins and nodded. It’s coming from here, the look said.
They stayed silent, as if any noise might trigger whatever was hidden within the drawer. Fox took the handle in his hand. Deakins had moved to stand beside him. Fox took a deep breath and then eased the drawer open, as Deakins winced.
The ticking suddenly got louder as it filled the room.
They both looked down.
But it was just an alarm clock. It was resting on some papers inside the drawer, ticking away like a practical joke. Sagging with spent tension, Fox reached in and grabbed it. He tossed it Deakins, who cursed. Taking aim, he threw it in a rubbish bin beside them.
Fox stood, and turned to his team-mate.
‘Forget this, let’s go to Thirty-Four.’
Dominick was on his way out of the clearing. He’d walked through the trees and into a park. It was quiet, almost empty. He saw a group of kids far away to his left kicking a football around. Behind him, he heard the helicopter take off which meant he needed to get moving. He passed an old brick wall to his immediate left, part of some house that had been demolished long ago. Someone had stacked a series of empty bottles and jars on a smaller brick level just ahead of it, forming a make-shift shooting gallery. He figured some kids had probably been taking pops at the glass with a .22.
God, I wish I had a gun, he thought.
The knife in his pocket had its advantages. It was silent, and wouldn’t jam. It just meant distance would be a problem. But luckily, Farha was dressed in a suit. At the moment, he looked like a guy who had woken up in an unfamiliar place after partying too hard the night before. Maybe a guy who’d got lucky and was on his way home, an extra kick to his step. As he walked, Dominick started smoothing down the suit jacket and adjusting his tie. With a bit of smartening and fixing up, he’d pass for a businessman. He suddenly remembered he had the thick sunglasses in his pocket. He took them out and gave them a quick polish, sliding them up over his nose. For the first time that day, he smiled. It would be hard for anyone to recognise him now. He could walk straight up to his destination.
He exited the clearing, and turned onto a residential street. The place was quiet, no one around, just the odd car moving slowly down the road. As he was wondering how long it was going to take him to walk, he remembered he had some spare English banknotes stuffed in his wallet. He saw a black taxi turn to move up the road ahead. He raised his hand, sunglasses over his eyes, the knife hidden inside the inner pocket of the suit jacket. The taxi move
d forwards and slid to a halt on the kerb beside him. The driver had the window wound down, and he looked over at him.
‘Long night?’ he asked with a smile, noticing Farha’s suit and shades. On the pavement, the most wanted man in the country nodded, smiling.
‘You can say that again.’
Thirty-Three was just as quiet as the other floors, but the lay-out up here was slightly different. The centrepiece of the floor was one large square room that served as the nucleus for the rest of the level. There were scores of desks and chairs in cubicles, walled off from each other to separate each worker and provide privacy, a typical office environment. Looking around, Archer swallowed. The place was giving him the yips.
It was eerie as hell. Pens without their lids had been discarded on desks, resting on documents. Computer screens around the room hummed, cursors blinking expectantly. The evacuation had been so sudden, many of the screens hadn’t yet had time to flip to a screen-saver. Half-drunk cups of coffee and mid-morning snacks were scattered on various desks. I thought today was a holiday, thought Archer as he scanned the room. He guessed it was true, the stocks never slept. Chalky suddenly appeared from a conference room thirty yards across the floor, looking agitated.
‘Anything?’ Archer asked him.
Chalky shook his head, kicking a swivel chair in frustration. ‘Nothing. Not a damn thing. We could be in here all month and not find it, Arch.’
The blond man pressed the switch on his vest, as he walked back towards the lifts. ‘Mac, this is Archer. I’m with Chalky on Thirty-Three. I wouldn’t bother coming up here. It looks clear.’
Mac’s voice responded. ‘Roger that. Get up to Thirty-Five.’
Chalky heard this through his own earpiece and was already moving towards the stairwell, pushing open the door.