by Barber, Tom
‘Hey, kid.’
The boy stopped and looked at him.
‘Want a free hat?’ he asked, offering it to him.
The kid looked at him, unsure, then took the cap. He looked at it, checking it out, turning it side-to-side. It was a dark-blue peaked baseball cap, the Yankees team logo on the front, a silver N and Y on top of each other. He nodded approvingly, then looked up at Archer.
‘You for real?’
Archer nodded. The kid pulled it over his head.
‘Thanks man,’ he said.
‘No problem.’
And with that, the kid walked off, returning his attention to the video game in his hands, the cap on his head. Archer watched him go, then turned and pulled open the door to the Starbucks, ducking inside.
The coffee shop was moderately full, light jazz music flowing from the speakers, the ambience relaxed and quiet. The early morning mayhem of customers grabbing a drink before work had lessened slightly, and although there was a medium-length queue for the counter, the place was pretty chilled compared to the streets outside. People were sitting around the coffee shop, some tapping into netbooks and laptops or reading newspapers, others chatting with friends and enjoying their drinks.
Archer looked across the room and saw a middle-aged man in a smart suit sitting alone near the window. He had sunglasses over his eyes, but he was looking straight at him. He had two large drinks in front of him on the table, and he picked up the one on the right, taking a sip. Archer saw this and ignoring the queue for the counter, moved straight towards the guy. He took a seat across from him, pulling off his sunglasses.
Removing his own sunglasses, Supervisory Special Agent Todd Gerrard of the FBI pushed a cup of tea across the table towards him.
‘Good news,’ Archer said, checking back over his shoulder.
‘What?’ Gerrard asked.
‘I think I’m in.’
FOUR
It had all started four days ago.
Back across the Atlantic in London, Friday morning had begun like any other typical Friday morning for Archer. He’d woken up at 6 am, headed out the door for a 45 minute gym session, returned, showered, then took the Underground to his police station in North London, the Armed Response Unit, for 8:30 am sharp. He’d signed in at the front desk, then headed straight upstairs to their team briefing room to report in with the rest of the team and grab a cup of tea. He saved time every morning by not having to worry about breakfast. He didn’t have any semblance of an appetite in the morning, and the tea was just about all his stomach could cope with until lunch.
The Armed Response Unit operated in two halves. The first half was an analyst team, who gathered intelligence and information from inside these headquarters, and the second was an armed ten-man task force, who used that information out in the field when they were called upon in a crisis. The two teams worked in synergy with each other, and during the last eighteen months, despite being a relatively new squad, the ARU had become the premier response and counter-terrorist team in the city. Archer was the youngest man on the task force, just turned twenty seven, but the events of the past eight months meant his age and relative inexperience was no longer the talking point it had been in the past.
The Unit’s headquarters was a two-floored building. The lower level contained locker rooms and interrogation and holding cells for any suspects that were brought in, whilst the upper level consisted of an operations area to the right, where the intelligence team worked behind high-tech computers and monitors, and a briefing room to the left, which the task force used as their base. That morning, Archer had jogged up the steps and joined the other officers in the briefing room, pouring a cup of tea and grabbing a newspaper someone had brought in. To an outsider it would have seemed like a pretty good job.
But the work wasn’t always this smooth.
Almost nine months ago, a nine-man terrorist cell had waged war on the city on New Year’s Eve, with thousands of people gathered all over London for the New Year celebrations. One of the terrorists had managed to get past security at a Premiership football match and had detonated a devastating quantity of home-made explosives hidden under his clothes, killing over a hundred and fifty people and injuring many more. That had triggered a series of events that unfolded over the next twenty four hours like some kind of nightmare. There had been a number of attempted further bombings, double-crosses, links to a drug cartel in the Middle East and a shooting in Trafalgar Square. The DEA, the American Drugs Enforcement Administration, had also become involved, and the ARU team had suddenly found themselves right in the middle of the action, thousands of people’s lives depending on them. The Prime Minister had ordered the Unit to be formed after the disastrous riots that had swept across the United Kingdom in the summer of 2011, and that night of chaos on New Year’s Eve had been a true baptism of fire for the newly-formed squad.
Prior to those chaotic twenty four hours at the end of last year, 2012 had been pretty quiet. But since then, it was as if the events of that New Year’s Eve had opened some kind of floodgates. Every week now something was going down that needed the Unit’s attention, things the public mostly never knew about, threats and attempted terrorist acts that would devastate the city if they were successful. The Unit had been set up by the Prime Minister to offer a no-nonsense response to any potential threat, foreign or domestic, to the city and the ten-man task force gathered every morning inside the briefing room at their headquarters with no idea what the day or week ahead held in store.
However, a benefit of all this trouble meant the entire ARU detail had been through some hellacious experiences together which had strengthened their cohesion. When the squad had been formed at the beginning of last year, the PM had demanded that the team be one that would last into the future, long after his tenure at 10 Downing Street had ended. As a consequence, the Unit was a blend of hardened experienced officers and some younger counterparts who would take over once the older officers had moved on. A few of them had been comparatively untested the year before, including Archer, but now they were an experienced outfit that any terrorist would be wise to take very seriously. When people in the city were in trouble, they called the police.
When the police were in trouble, they called the ARU.
Inside the briefing room Archer had just sat down in an empty chair alongside some of the other men when a dark-haired young woman appeared at the door. Her name was Nikki, the only person in the building who was referred to by her first name. She was head of the intelligence team that worked next door. Archer had known her for a long time. They’d started out at the Hammersmith and Fulham Police Station across the city, and were old friends, both the same age. It had even been romantic once, something no one else in the Unit knew about aside from the two of them, but that had fizzled out as so often happened with a relationship in a working environment.
‘Arch?’ she said.
He looked up.
‘Cobb wants to speak to you.’
Archer paused, then nodded and rose, folding the newspaper in half and leaving it on the empty seat. He glanced at his best friend Chalky, who was sitting beside him, already eyeing the free newspaper.
‘I’m reading that,’ Archer told him.
Chalky nodded, but the blond man heard a rustle behind him as his friend immediately swiped it up. He shook his head and walked out of the room, heading towards Cobb’s office.
Cobb was Director of the Armed Response Unit, the man responsible for taking charge and ownership for the entire detail. He was a good man and an even better leader. The run-in with the terrorist cell during the winter had strengthened the bond between everyone involved in the squad, and especially in their collective gratitude for Cobb’s leadership. Everyone who worked here had respected Cobb before, but now they viewed him as a necessity, the perfect man for his role. Cool, collected and dependable, he was one of those people who was born to take charge as if it was in his DNA, a quality you couldn’t teach. Archer had never worked
with Cobb in the field, but he knew if it ever came to that, he’d follow him through fire in a heartbeat if he had to.
Cobb’s office was located across the level, overlooking the operations room and his tech team. The walls to the room were made of transparent glass, so Archer saw his boss sitting at his desk, waiting for him, dark-brown features over a black suit and white shirt with navy-blue tie. Cobb saw the younger man coming, and beckoned him inside. Archer pushed the door open, stepping into the office and letting it close behind him.
‘Morning sir.’
‘Good morning.’
Archer noticed immediately from the expression on the Cobb’s face that something was bothering him.
‘Something wrong?’ he asked.
Cobb paused, then motioned to a chair the other side of his desk.
‘Take a seat.’
Archer sat.
He saw Cobb take a deep breath. Whatever was coming next didn’t look like it was going to be good.
‘I’m afraid I have some bad news. I just got a call from an FBI detective in New York twenty minutes ago,’ he said, slowly. ‘He told me the NYPD found a body last night in a parking lot in Queens.’
Pause.
‘It was your father.’
Archer looked at him, still, silent. He didn’t react, didn’t blink, didn’t move.
A long silence followed as he absorbed the news.
‘I’m sorry Arch,’ Cobb added.
Archer swallowed and felt light-headed. Surreal. As if this was all a dream, and soon he’d blink and wake up. Across the table, Cobb sat still, a compassionate look on his dark-featured face, waiting for the life-altering news to sink in a little deeper. He had lost his own father five years ago, and understood how hearing the news for the first time felt.
‘How did he die?’ Archer asked, his mouth dry.
Cobb looked across the desk at him. He seemed about to speak, but held back.
‘How did he die?’ Archer asked again, reading Cobb’s hesitance. ‘C’mon, sir, I can handle it.’
Cobb nodded. So be it.
‘He was shot from behind. Point blank. A single shotgun round to the head. He died instantly, so he wouldn’t have known anything about it.’
Archer didn’t respond. He felt dazed. But against his will, his mind started conjuring images from what Cobb had just told him. Awful images.
A shotgun round to the head, from behind.
Not an accident.
Not a freak occurrence.
A cold, calculated execution.
Someone murdered him.
Cobb continued, talking quietly.
‘I want you to take the week off,’ he said. ‘Compassionate leave.’
He pushed a printed piece of paper across the table.
‘I booked you on a flight to New York from Heathrow. It leaves later on this afternoon. The Bureau have organised the funeral and it’s taking place tomorrow so you don’t have to worry about setting anything up. I just want you to be there. To…say goodbye.’
Archer looked up at him, his mind reeling, a thousand thoughts rushing around his head, all jarring for attention. He didn’t respond. Cobb nodded and continued.
‘I also booked you into a hotel. The Marriott Marquis. Times Square. It’s a good spot. I’ve been there before myself. Stay there until you come back.’
‘Sir, I can’t accept that.’
‘I’m not asking you to. It’s an order. Besides, it’s on the Unit’s funds. Marked down as necessary expenses. The Prime Minister told me to handle our budget at my own discretion and that’s exactly what I’m doing.’
Archer paused and tracked back mentally in their conversation. He blinked and frowned. He was confused, and about more than just his father’s murder.
‘You said the Bureau, sir?’
Cobb nodded.
‘That doesn’t make sense,’ Archer continued. ‘My father’s a- I mean he was- a sergeant in the NYPD. The FBI wouldn’t organise a funeral for him. Why would they? The cops and the feds hate each other.’
Cobb frowned, then read Archer’s face.
‘When was the last time you spoke with him?’ he asked.
‘Not for a long time.’
‘So you didn’t know?’
‘Know what, sir?’
‘He was a Federal agent. A Special Agent-in-Charge. Been with them for the last two years. Your father wasn’t a cop, Archer. He was working for the FBI.’
Archer and Cobb sat in silence for a few more minutes, Archer absorbing everything he’d just been told. Then he scooped up the flight ticket, thanked Cobb and returned to the briefing room, still stunned. The other officers could see immediately something was wrong, and once quiet word spread about what had happened, they all sat there with him in the room, providing company. All ten of them sat there silently. No one left. No one knew what to say. But that didn’t matter. Some of them had been in the younger man’s situation before. They knew that just providing company was enough at that moment. It was all they could do.
Archer had sat in his chair without moving for half an hour, just staring straight ahead. Then his head had started to clear and he’d said his short goodbyes, heading downstairs for his unexpected week off. He made a pit-stop at his apartment in Angel, grabbing his passport, packing a bag and grabbing a black suit and shoes from the closet for the funeral. He locked the door to his apartment, stepped out onto the street, hailed a cab and went straight to the airport.
Cobb had booked him on a British Airways flight, which meant he was leaving from Heathrow Terminal Five. As he paid the taxi fare and walked into the huge glass building, he realised that the last time he’d been here, he’d been face to face with a suicide bomber on New Year’s Eve. She’d been a young girl, no older than twenty, but with bricks of C4 plastic explosive packed into her clothes, concealed as a baby bump. Archer had been the first man at the scene to locate and confront her before she was shot and killed just in time by another officer.
He walked across the Departures Hall and checked in at the British Airways desk. His flight was leaving at 2 pm, around three hours from now, direct from Heathrow to JFK. Cobb had booked him a seat in Club Class, which he hadn’t needed to do, but Archer appreciated the gesture. He had no luggage to check, just a carry-on and his suit, and he moved through the security checkpoints without a problem and headed straight for the Gate as soon as it came up on the screens.
The next three hours felt like the shortest of his life. He’d taken a seat facing the airfield and had been staring out of the window one moment, lost in thought, staring at all the planes on the tarmac. When he finally looked away and checked the time, he realised they had already opened boarding for the plane.
Three hours, gone in what seemed like a second.
London Heathrow to New York JFK was about a seven hour flight, and all seven seemed to pass by almost as fast. This was the first time Archer had ever flown Club Class in his life, and he could instantly see why people paid the extra money.
The seats had been arranged in pairs, one seat facing the rear of the plane, one facing the front, and they were separated by a screen that you could pull up for some privacy. Archer didn’t need to use the screen, seeing as there was no one sitting beside him, but he pulled it up anyway. He had a seat by the window, no one close to him, and the chair was wide and comfortable. It seemed he could press a button to make the seat slide back and turn into a bed if he wanted to. But during those seven hours he didn’t drink a drop of fluid, nor eat a mouthful of food, nor watch a second of any movie. He just sat still, silent, staring at the sky outside the window, watching the wispy white clouds as they drifted past, high above the Atlantic Ocean far below.
This whole thing just felt like some big dream. He’d woken up this morning expecting just another day at the office. Planning what he was going to do over the weekend. Instead, he’d discovered someone had murdered his father and he was now on his way to New York for a week-long compassionate leave, put up in
one of the nicest hotels in Manhattan. Maybe he was still asleep. Maybe he’d suddenly wake up.
He closed his eyes, then opened them again.
No luck.
He was still on the plane.
This was all real.
He shook his head and glanced away from the window, pulling down the screen next to him and looking at the people occupying the other seats in the cabin. Most of them looked like businessmen and women, probably for whom this trip was a mundane routine or a necessary part of their corporate lifestyle. He saw several tapping into laptops and netbooks and writing and reading documents they’d need for meetings that would take place later at some point or which had already happened. There were also several seats which were empty, but none of the flight attendants had made an effort to upgrade anyone. He figured that only happened in random occurrences or in an ideal world in the movies. He pictured everyone farther down the cabin jammed together in Economy, arm-to-arm with strangers, uncomfortable and counting the minutes till the plane landed. One thing was for sure, the extra money for a Club Class ticket was well worth it.
Towards the end of the flight, the blue water of the ocean far below changed into the greenery of the American East Coast, and half an hour later they landed smoothly at New York’s John F Kennedy International Airport. Once the plane had rolled to a stop and parked and the light for the seatbelt in the cabin dinged off, Archer had grabbed his bag and suit from the overhead lockers then disembarked, quickly navigating his way through immigration and through baggage claim to the exit. His father was an American, so his son had dual citizenship. It meant he could live anywhere in the United States and the United Kingdom whenever he pleased with no immigration problems, but at that moment it also meant that he could avoid the growing line of people gathering at the non-American immigration line. Walking towards one of the desks for American citizens, he breathed a sigh of relief as he saw the long line of non-Americans increasing by the minute. He’d been in that queue in other countries, and they were going to be standing there for a while.