by Tom Barber
Turning, he noticed that Archer had paused.
He was staring at something.
Chalky frowned and walked back to join him. Archer’s gaze was fixed on a small kitchen, fifteen yards to the right of the stairwell. It looked standard. A coffee machine. Mugs and cups stacked by the sink. A refrigerator. All of it perfectly normal.
Chalky turned to Archer. ‘Arch, what-’
Archer cut him off. He pointed at something inside the kitchen.
Chalky looked.
His gaze landed on the cord to the fridge. It was unplugged. Someone had stuck a piece of paper with Out of Use written on the front in black pen to the front of the unit. On any other day, that wouldn’t have been any cause for alarm.
But this wasn’t one of those days.
Not saying a word, Archer moved forward slowly, entering the kitchen. He reached out, his hands touching the front of the white rectangular fridge.
‘It’s warm,’ he said.
Without a word, Chalky had also entered the room. He stepped past Archer and leant forward over the counter, peering behind the back of the refrigerator. He was searching for any mechanisms, trips or anything that shouldn’t have been there.
‘Looks clear,’ he said.
They both looked at the handle.
Archer took it carefully in his hand.
He turned to Chalky, who realised he was holding his breath. ‘Ready?’
Chalky nodded.
‘Do it.’
Archer pushed down the handle and gently eased the door open.
They both looked inside.
‘Oh my God,’ Chalky whispered. In the same instant, Archer’s hand flashed to the switch to his radio.
‘Mac! Mac! You need to get up to Thirty-Three right now. We’ve found it!’
As Archer called it in, Chalky stared at the inside of the fridge.
The shelves were packed with Semtex plastic explosive. Each brick was bright orange, almost ludicrously bright. There must have been close to twenty of them, probably more. Conjoining all of the explosives were an assortment of wires, which all led into a small rectangular box. The battery.
The detonator.
But that wasn’t the worst part.
There was a panel on the front of the bomb. An electronic clock-face.
There were a series of constantly-changing red numbers on the digital screen.
2:59
2:58
2:57
The bomb was on a timer.
And they had less than three minutes to go.
TWENTY-THREE
EOD got up there in just over ninety seconds. Mac had arrived with Porter moments after Archer called it in from the floor below. He’d seen the device and grabbed the radio clipped to his vest without a second’s hesitation. The frequency was shared with the CO19 team. He shouted that they had located the device. It was on a timer and they had less than three minutes and yelled for every person to get the hell out of the building. As the bomb squad ran through the lobby towards the lifts, they’d passed members of both CO19 and ARU high-tailing it the other way.
Only Mac, Archer, Porter and Chalky were left. They stood watching the device, helpless, waiting for the two bomb disposal experts to arrive. After what seemed an age, the lift finally dinged, and two men rushed out, each struggling to run in their green blast suits. They hurried into the kitchen and examined the device before them. The clock was ticking down.
1:20
1:19
1:18
They reacted instantaneously. One of them started frantically opening a tool box he had brought with him, whilst the other spun to the four police officers standing behind. ‘Get the hell out of here right now! The building’s coming down!’
They didn’t need to be told twice. Porter was already moving down the corridor. He jammed his hand in the lift doors, catching them just before they shut. He ducked inside as Archer and Chalky followed. By the kitchen, Mac took a last look at the two unimaginably brave men knelt by the refrigerator. All his experience had taught him never to leave a man behind. One of them sensed he was still there and whirled around.
‘Go!’
Mac listened this time and ran to the open lift. Porter was frantically pushing the button for the ground floor. Eventually the doors closed and the lift started moving down.
Back in the kitchen, the two bomb experts were scanning for any trip-wires, collapsible circuits, anything that would prevent them from touching it.
The red numbers on the clock face ticked down mercilessly.
1:10
1:09
1:08.
The lift doors opened in the lobby. The moment the metal doors parted, the four officers rushed out and sprinted towards the front entrance. Ahead of them, two hundred yards outside, police and CO19 officers were frantically trying to push the gathered crowd back from the plaza. There were hundreds and hundreds of people out there.
Archer glanced back as he ran, checking to make sure there was no one left behind. He didn’t see four stairs that led to a lower level in front of him and he stumbled, landing on his ankle awkwardly. There was a loud crack. He fell to the floor, shouting in pain, as his three team-mates ran through the exit and out into the sunny plaza.
Chalky, hearing the shout, turned and realised Archer was still inside, staggering to his feet from the floor and trying to get out of the building. Without hesitation, he ran back for him. He sprinted across the lobby and hooked his friend’s arm around his shoulder.
‘C’mon Arch, we’ve gotta go!’
Archer’s face was screwed up in pain. Helping his friend, Chalky took his weight as the two of them moved to the doors as fast as possible. They made it outside and moved as quickly as they could across the plaza, Archer grimacing in pain.
Thirty-three floors up, the clock ticked to 0:30.
Thirty seconds to go.
The two men worked in a frenzy. All their training and experience came down to this. If the bomb exploded, the two of them would become vapour in an instant.
The lead guy was called Jameson. He was a Staff Sergeant, and one of the best you could find at his job. The device in front of him was his hundred and ninety-fourth. He’d done two tours of Afghanistan with 11 EOD Regiment, the Explosive Ordnance Disposal, men and women responsible for defusing IEDs and bombs left by the Taliban and the rebels. Before that, he’d done five months in Iraq in 2003. There, he’d knelt before everything aside from a nuclear weapon.
But this batch of Semtex was the most powerful device he’d ever seen.
He couldn’t move it, he didn’t have time to anyway and it would most definitely go off if disturbed by motion. He couldn’t cut into the Semtex and extract the explosive materials into an acid bath. He didn’t have time. The bomber had fitted an anti-defusing device behind the panel, tucked away from view. It was an electronic fuse, an even charge running through it. If Jameson tried to cut one of the wires, it would sense the difference in current and react, triggering the explosives. That meant every wire was tripped. And the bomb in front of him wasn’t like those from the movies, where the wires were all different colours. Every wire on this device was red. Distinguishing them was a nightmare.
‘Shit!’ his partner screamed, seeing the time.
Jameson was thinking, thinking. Suddenly, he jerked round to the other man.
‘Liquid nitrogen!’
The guy reacted instantly, and pulled a spray gun from a pocket on his thigh. Jameson grabbed it and started spraying the battery and anti-defusing device. It wouldn’t stop the device from detonating, all it would do was delay it. When the countdown ended, a charge would kick through the battery into the blasting cap. Jameson could freeze the battery, buying them seconds. Once it warmed to room temperature, the charge would go through. The device would blow. He would have to cut the wire leading into the battery within the following few seconds. If the battery wasn’t frozen, the bomb would explode.
The red numbers on the digital clo
ck ticked down.
:5
:4
:3
‘C’mon!’ screamed Jameson, squeezing the gun as hard as he could, willing the battery to freeze.
‘C’MON!’
Outside in the plaza, people were fleeing. The ARU officers took cover behind parked police cars, looking up.
Time was up.
It didn’t blow.
The battery had frozen. But the charge was in there.
They had seconds.
Jameson grabbed a set of pliers and found the wire.
‘Hurry, Joe, hurry!’ his partner said.
And with one swift movement, Jameson clicked it in half.
And just like that, they were safe.
The cut wire had severed the current.
The bomb was defused.
Both men sagged with relief. They rocked back to sit against the wall, their chests heaving for oxygen. They were both covered with sweat, panting. Jameson turned to his partner. He shook his head.
‘I need to get a new job.’
Outside, the crowd was confused.
‘What happened?’ shouted Mac to a third bomb disposal member, standing by the EOD truck. The guy was listening to the radio, covering one ear with his free palm. He suddenly smiled and called out.
‘We’re good. We’re good!’ he repeated. ‘It’s defused! They did it!’
Everyone in the plaza sagged with relief, like hundreds of balloons deflating all at once. There was a small round of applause. Behind one of the ARU vehicles, Archer had taken cover next to Porter and Chalky. The three of them had their backs to the car, but Archer was grimacing in agony, his ankle feeling like it was broken. ‘Good job,’ Porter said happily. ‘We did it, Arch.’
‘Great,’ the younger man muttered, his teeth clenched against the pain.
To the north, the taxi driver had just arrived at his passenger’s requested destination. He was about to pull into the place, but Farha asked him to keep going down the road. The guy obliged, they came to a stop beside some office buildings, in the heart of the city. Farha paid the fare then got out, shutting the door. The cab drove off and he was left alone.
He turned and started walking slowly back down the way they'd just come. The street was relatively busy, but wasn’t hectic. As he strolled, he came across a newsstand. Terror strikes city said one of the tabloid headlines. London rocked by terrorism said another. Without reacting, he continued to the end of the street. He stopped by the corner. Leaning against the wall, he casually peered round at the address he’d been given. It was an impressive building. He looked closer, but couldn’t see what he was after. He briefly considered making a move, but decided against it.
He’d wait. Scope it out.
Wait for his target, who’d appear soon enough.
Then he’d move in, and be out of here before anyone knew what had happened.
‘So let’s get this straight,’ said Deakins, leaning against one of the Unit vehicles. ‘We’ve spent the last twenty-four hours going to war with a nine man terrorist cell. Ten, if you include the girl at the airport. And the only injury we sustain is when Archer trips and breaks his own ankle.’
There was laughter, a welcome release from the tension of the last twenty four hours. The team had gathered around in a jagged circle. Archer was being helped by Chalky and Porter into the front seat of one of the cars. He laughed with the other officers, but the jolting jarred pain into his foot, so the laughter changed to wincing.
‘I’m never going to hear the end of this, am I,’ he mumbled through gritted teeth, shaking his head. The men chuckled, as Porter moved around the car to the driver’s seat. He climbed in, as both men pulled their doors shut.
‘C’mon Arch, I’ll take you back to the Unit,’ he said, inside the car. ‘We’ll get you patched up.’
Archer nodded as he grimaced in pain. ‘Thanks.’
Porter fired the engine, and the vehicle moved off back towards the Unit’s HQ. The men watched them go, still grinning. The remaining officers were standing in a circle in the plaza, enjoying a moment’s relaxation. Smiling, Mac looked around his men and suddenly realised something.
‘Hey, where’s Fox?’
‘Oh, I forgot to tell you, Sarge,’ said Deakins, remembering something. ‘He left with the woman. Agent Shapira.’
‘Why? Where’d they go?’
‘She said she’d received an urgent call from her agency. There was some kind of situation at Stamford Bridge.’
‘The football ground? There’s a game there today, isn’t there?’
‘No, it was cancelled, out of respect,’ said one of the officers, Mason.
Deakins shook his head. ‘No, he’s right, the game’s still on. United-Chelsea. Kick-off's in twenty minutes,’ he added, checking his watch.
Mac frowned, thinking.
‘Why the hell wasn’t it cancelled?’ he asked.
‘The Prime Minister demanded that it take place, Sarge. I think he’s there, with his family. They’re doing a big remembrance ceremony before the game,’ Chalky said.
‘Shapira didn’t have a car, so Fox offered to take her, Sarge,’ Deakins told Mac. ‘You know he’s a big United fan. He probably just wanted to be outside the ground before the game.’
Mac frowned, his brow furrowed. ‘But what the hell do Mossad want down there?’
He paused, thinking. He didn’t like it.
‘And what situation is there that we don’t know about?’
Just as the officers were discussing this in the plaza, back at the ARU’S headquarters Nikki had stolen her first moment of quiet in what seemed like forever. She was sitting behind her desk in the ops room. Cobb and Crawford had been standing beside her moments before. The computer system on Nikki’s desk was hooked up the police radio, so they heard all the drama in One Canada Square unfold. The building secure, the bomb disarmed and everyone safe, the two men had retreated to catch their breath and take stock of the situation. Glancing over her shoulder, Nikki saw Cobb sat at his desk. Crawford had said he was going outside for a cigarette.
His presence here was making her curious. The DEA’s arrival and involvement in the Unit’s case had only been explained in passing to her. Cobb and the American had been working side-by-side the whole time, which was unusual for Cobb. Nikki knew he hated to be lumbered with unnecessary operational weight so she was surprised by his apparent willingness to work with Special Agents Crawford and Rivers. Over the last twenty-four hours, she’d heard snapshots from conversations between them, especially on the times she’d entered Cobb’s office. She hadn’t heard explicit details, but she’d picked up that Crawford was trying to take down some Middle Eastern drug cartel. That was pretty much it. But she had also heard one name over and over again. It seemed to be involved in every conversation she caught.
Henry.
It seemed a curious name for someone involved in a cartel. It sounded so quaint, and English. Unthreatening. With some time to kill and her curiosity piqued, she clicked onto the Unit’s database and typed in the name Henry. ARU shared a lot of files with MI5, MI6 and GCHQ, not to mention the Met’s database and crime log, so thousands of results came up.
She narrowed the search, typing Henry Drug.
This time, hundreds of results. She tried one more time. She typed Henry Cartel.
This time, just one file came up.
She clicked it open.
There was a moderate amount of information inside. They had a surveillance photograph of a large man, taken from what looked like the inside of a bar. He was overweight, wearing a beige suit that was bulging at the seams from his excess body fat. He had small dark eyes, a bald head. He was looking in the photographer’s direction, which was unnerving, and had a cold, hard, emotionless face. Nikki examined him for a moment, then clicked off his photograph, reading on.
There was quite a bit of information about him. Not so much for his apparent involvement in drugs, but for his potential terrorist intentions. T
he log said that he’d been orphaned when a British scud missile had hit his house during the Gulf war. Cobb had mentioned yesterday that the attacks in London were designed for Dominick Farha to win back favour with some cartel. She could now see why he’d chosen the UK as a target.
Amongst the detailed commentaries, there was another file. It came from someone called McArthur. She clicked it open.
It contained a series of surveillance shots, and a report from 2006. She examined it. It appeared that McArthur had been an undercover detective with MI5. He’d been positioned in a bar in the Upper West Side neighbourhood of New York City. His team were working to bring down a Real IRA cell recruiting and buying weapons. They’d been tipped off that in the bar that night the leader of the cell and a prominent East Coast gun runner would meet.
However, the meeting had never taken place. But there had been another surprise. The operative, McArthur, couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw who walked through the door. He emphasised in the report the freak coincidence. He knew of Henry, who was a priority foreign target for the agency. The man was renowned for being extremely hard to both track down and get close to. And here he was, inside this bar in New York.
Clicking on a photo, Nikki saw the initial surveillance shot of Henry. McArthur had taken it from his seat in the bar. She continued reading the report. The agent said that someone had entered the bar, and met with Henry. Suspected daughter, McArthur had written on the report. Treats her like such. Not a lover.
Nikki saw that there were more photos in the file. She clicked them open. The person had their back turned in all of them.
But suddenly, in one shot, they had turned, her face looking down the bar past McArthur.
He’d taken a photograph.
Nikki gasped.
She couldn’t believe what she was seeing.
Who it was.
The woman was Agent Shapira.
She was sitting with Henry in the bar.
TWENTY-FOUR
The man known as Henry had a reputation for being impossible to scare or intimidate. He cared about nothing, nor anybody, but himself. He murdered government agents and members of his own crew for fun. He’d even killed his own brother-in-law after he'd once drunkenly mocked him for his weight. As the head of a cartel, it was impossible to gain leverage on him. Over the years, many had tried. Rivals, upstarts, young guys from the surrounding areas who, in a state of delusion, thought he could be stopped or dethroned. But each story ended the same way. They all ended up either shot in the face or at the bottom of the sea, seventy pounds of concrete moulded to their feet, screaming as they plummeted into the abyss.