by Tom Barber
SEVENTEEN
With the threat passed Chalky sat back on his heels, panting as his body tried to suck oxygen back into his lungs to counteract all the adrenaline pumping through his veins. Without the phone attached, the explosives in the bags were safe. They no longer had a detonating charge.
He turned to Mac and Archer across the tier, both of whom had watched him yank the cord and heard the phone.
‘We’re good,’ Chalky called.
Before either could reply, there was the sound of running feet nearby from the Parkfield Street side and three members of EOD, the bomb disposal unit, suddenly appeared. One of them was in a thick green blast suit and was pulling a helmet into place as he moved as fast as he could across the level. He saw Chalky sitting by the device and ran over awkwardly, as quickly as the bulky suit encasing his body would allow.
Arriving, he knelt beside the policeman in front of the bags and with a trained eye, examined the explosives and wires in the bags. There was a pause. However, after inspecting the detonator, he looked up and unclipped his helmet, turning to the other men and giving a thumbs up.
‘We’re good. It’s safe,’ he called.
Turning to Chalky, he offered his hand. The policeman shook it and rose, turning to walk away from the bar, the mobile phone still in his hand.
Across the level Archer was livid, and moved around the tier to meet him.
‘What the hell was that?’ he asked, furious. ‘You trying to get us killed?’
Chalky tossed him the phone, ignoring his friend’s anger.
‘You’re welcome,’ he said.
Just as Archer prepared to take it further, Porter appeared behind them from the stairs.
‘Mac!’ he called, who turned. ‘You need to come and see this!’
Mac nodded, and motioned to Archer and Chalky to follow him down. They moved to the stairs, Archer still glaring at the back of Chalky’s head. He was pissed.
Porter quickly picked up the tension between the three men, then looked over at the relaxed bomb disposal team who were starting to pack away the C4 into a secure case.
‘What did I miss?’
Downstairs, the building’s security monitor room was just like any other. It was a basic set-up, a lone swivel chair and a series of small screens stacked on top of each other, each shot showing a different angle of the shopping mall.
Judging from the angle on two of the screens cameras were also mounted outside the building, one facing Parkfield Street and the other facing Upper Street. One of Pierce’s security guards had been brought back into the building and was sitting in the chair, operating the system. Behind him, the four police officers and Pierce had gathered, crowding around him to get a good view of the monitors.
Porter reached forward and tapped a monitor, turning to Mac.
‘Watch this.’
The guard pushed Play, as the group of men watched closely.
It was a view of the Upper Tier, looking down the level towards Parkfield Street. The bar was at the top left of the screen; people were flooding the tier, most of them strolling up and moving into the pub.
But a lone figure was standing outside, no one around him, having a drink.
And the two black bags were resting by his feet.
Taking a sip from his glass, the guy turned to look down the galleria.
His face was straight-on to the camera.
‘Pause,’ said Porter.
The guard hit the button.
‘See?’
The men looked closer.
Lighting from the bar was illuminating the guy’s face, but the shot was pretty grainy.
‘Can you enhance it?’ Mac asked the guard in the chair. The guy nodded and tapped some buttons. A white square suddenly appeared on the screen, framing the man’s face. It rendered for a few seconds. Then the face reappeared in the box, much closer.
There was a moment’s silence as each man peered closer. Mac unzipped a pocket on his tac vest, and pulled out a sheet of paper. The pictures of the nine terrorists.
He looked at the screen, then at the page, and tapped one of the photographs.
‘Son of a bitch. Bull’s-eye.’
The other men looked at the page. Beside Mac, Archer instantly saw who it was.
Number Eight.
‘Keep running the tape,’ said Porter.
The guard in the chair hit two buttons. The white square around the terrorist’s head vanished, and the shot was back to normal size. He pressed Play and the tape continued to roll.
Number Eight continued to stand where he was, then seemed to cock his head to the side, staring into the bar.
Something inside had caught his attention.
The television screens, Archer thought.
After a spell, the guy put his glass down on a nearby table and checked his watch.
Turning, he started walking away, leaving the two bags behind.
‘Stop,’ said Archer.
The guard hit Pause.
‘What time is that?’
The guard in the chair tapped the bottom right corner of the screen.
‘Just before six. See?’
Archer looked closer. A small digital clock was tucked into the bottom corner of the shot, showing hours, minutes and seconds that constantly ticked over in white letters as it matched the action on screen. It read 5:59:04 pm.
Archer nodded. ‘Just after the explosion.’
Around him, the other men nodded.
The guard pushed Play again.
The group watched as the terrorist walked down the tier, the camera was positioned on the wall so that he moved straight towards and under it. He passed under the camera and disappeared out of sight.
‘Shit,’ said Mac. ‘Where’d he go?’
‘Hang on, sir,’ said the guard, tapping another screen and pressing a button. ‘Here.’
Right on cue, Number Eight reappeared under the camera, his back to the shot.
It was a view of Upper Street, the camera mounted high on the wall and facing the ground level, so the guy must have used the stairs to exit the galleria. They watched as he crossed the road. It was a dark December evening, which meant most of the other people walking by the shot were just black silhouettes, momentarily lit up by a shop’s lights or a street lamp.
However, the shadowy figure they were watching ended up stopping on the kerb under a lamp-post.
Beside an ambulance.
They watched as he disappeared around the far side of the vehicle. After a moment, a figure appeared in the driver’s seat.
‘What the hell?’ said Pierce. ‘Is he a paramedic?’
The tape continued to play.
The shadow disappeared into the back of the vehicle, and nothing happened for a spell.
But after a while, the terrorist reappeared.
And he’d changed his clothes.
‘Are those medical scrubs?’ Archer asked, thinking out loud.
On the screen, the man pulled a phone from his pocket. A pedestrian walking past stopped beside him; they seemed to have a brief exchange, but then the other guy walked off. The man turned to his attention back to the phone in his hands, then disappeared around the far side of the ambulance.
Suddenly, Mac realised something and looked down at the clock in the corner of the screen.
It was just after 6:11 pm.
Ten minutes ago.
‘Son of a bitch is outside!’ Mac shouted as he grabbed his MP5 and ran for the door.
‘Wait!’ called Porter.
Mac turned, his hand on the door handle. The group watched on the screen as the figure reappeared in the driver’s seat. The headlights suddenly turned on and pulling away from the kerb, he disappeared into the night.
As he left, a black van suddenly screeched into shot, zooming past him. EOD was printed on the side, the bomb disposal team.
‘Shit,’ cursed Mac, re-joining the group. ‘Shit, shit, shit. We lost him. He was just outside.’
>
‘Yeah, but we could never have known that,’ said Archer.
Beside him, Porter was frowning, thinking hard.
‘But where did he go?’ he asked. ‘And why in an ambulance? The hospital maybe?’
Archer suddenly had an idea.
He tapped the monitor, turning to the security guard.
‘Can you rewind and get a read on those plates?’ he asked.
The guy nodded. He pressed a button and the action started reversing, the ambulance reappearing and pulling back into the slot as people on the street walked backwards. The guard paused the shot perfectly, just as the vehicle was pulling out. Seeing as the camera shot was side-on, it was the only moment on the tape that the plates were visible.
Archer reached onto his tac vest, and pulled a mobile phone from a Velcro slot beside his left collarbone. Each man had one; it gave them fast and instant communication to Nikki’s private line inside the ops room. He pushed Redial; the call rang twice, then connected.
‘Hello?’ came Nikki’s voice.
‘Nikki it’s Archer. Can you do me a favour?’
‘Sure, Arch. Go ahead.’
‘I need you to check the Met’s database and see if any ambulances have been reported missing in the past few days,’ he said. He pushed a button, holding the phone up so the room could hear. ‘You’re on speaker-phone.’
There was a moment’s pause. They could hear computer keys being tapped at the other end.
‘Funny you asked,’ Nikki said. ‘A medic from St Mary’s called the Met not twenty minutes ago. She said an ambulance and two of her friends hadn’t shown up for work.’
The men looked at each other.
‘Did she give the plates?’ Archer continued. There was another brief pause.
‘Yep. KV81 4MG.’
Together, all six pairs of eyes checked the screen.
It was a perfect match.
‘Right. Thanks,’ Archer said, ending the call and putting the phone back in its sleeve on his uniform.
‘There’s our missing ambulance,’ said Porter.
To his left, he noticed Archer was staring at the screen intently.
‘What are you thinking?’ Porter asked him.
Archer frowned.
‘I’m thinking about the guys we picked up in the raid earlier. And the difference here. The stuff in the bags outside the bar, that’s not ball-bearings and bleach. This guy wasn’t playing cards and snorting coke when we found him.’
He tapped his finger on the ambulance on the screen.
‘We’re dealing with a whole new level of intelligence here.’
‘And?’ asked Pierce.
Archer looked at him.
‘Let’s be logical. Why didn’t he strap the bomb to his chest? Why detonate remotely?’
The group thought for a moment.
‘So he could walk away,’ Mac said.
Porter nodded. ‘And so he could do it again.’
Silence.
‘Do you reckon there could be more C4 inside the vehicle?’ Porter asked the room.
‘Let’s suppose for a moment that there is,’ Archer said. ‘If you were a bomber with an ambulance full of explosives, where would you go?’
‘Somewhere with a crowd,’ Pierce said, without hesitation.
Frustrated, Mac swore, confused and angry.
‘Shit. OK, so where?’ he asked.
And right then, the penny dropped.
All six of them realised at the same time.
Pierce went to confirm out loud where the guy was headed.
But before he could speak, the four ARU officers were already running for the door.
EIGHTEEN
Just over three miles away, Number Eight hit the steering wheel of the ambulance in frustration. Traffic to the Emirates was jammed tight both ways and he was getting impatient.
Looking down, he saw a button by the radio console that he’d switched off to avoid communication.
He pressed it, curious. All of a sudden, the siren on the roof started blaring and wailing, startling him.
However, he watched as the other vehicles in front of him suddenly parted like the Red Sea for Moses.
Behind the wheel, the terrorist took his chance and accelerated through the new gap made for him.
He smiled.
He could ride like this all the way to the stadium car park.
In a car twenty yards behind, a woman cursed as she saw the ambulance speed off.
She was the one who’d been taking the surveillance shots outside the raided house earlier in the day, the photographs of the armed police officers and the suspects. Ahead, the traffic light was staying red.
She took the opportunity to pull a phone from her pocket, pushing Redial.
‘It’s me,’ she said as someone answered. ‘Good news. I found one of them. I’m going to make an approach’.
‘Well done. And good luck.’
‘I’ll be in touch,’ she said, ending the call as the light changed to green.
Taking off the handbrake, she went as fast as she could in pursuit of the ambulance. She didn’t need to see the vehicle anymore. She knew where it was headed.
She just prayed she’d make it in time.
Back at the stadium, the other ARU officers were finally starting to get a hold on the situation. Most of the critically wounded had been taken to hospital or were on their way there. The crowd had thinned and was relatively calmer, but hundreds of emergency workers, the less seriously injured and police were still streaming all over the place, and they weren’t going anywhere for a while.
In the middle of the crowd, Fox spotted Deakins helping an injured woman into an ambulance. Tucking his sub-machine gun behind his arm, he jogged over, providing an extra pair of hands.
At that moment, the earpiece tucked inside his ear suddenly went off. It was Mac’s voice. He sounded frantic.
‘Deaks? Fox? Answer! Someone from Second Team answer!’
Closing the doors to the ambulance, Fox looked at Deakins, confused. The headsets covered a distance of seven miles, which is why each man had a mobile phone attached to his vest. They must have been within range, already on their way back from the shopping centre.
Fox pushed the pressel switch on his uniform, frowning.
‘We’re here, Mac,’ he said.
‘We think Number Eight is on his way to you!’ Mac said. ‘He’s in a stolen ambulance, possibly containing explosives.’
Deakins and Fox looked at each other.
Oh shit.
Around the car park, the other officers heard this exchange through their earpiece and all froze where they stood. Mac’s voice continued.
‘All of you, look out for an ambulance with plates starting KV81. He could already be there. And get everyone the hell out of that car park as fast as you can.’
Deakins looked around. He pressed the switch.
‘Mac, there’re ambulances everywhere here.’
‘Then get going! As I said, the plates begin KV81, I repeat KV81! We’ll be there any minute.’
And the radio went dead.
As Mac’s transmission ended, the stolen vehicle turned into the car park for the stadium.
Number Eight had turned the siren off to avoid drawing any unnecessary attention to the vehicle and he felt a shiver of excitement as he entered the parking lot for the first time. He was worried it might have emptied slightly, but he could see scores of people still here. Close to two hundred, at least.
Moving forward slowly, he crept to a stop. He was still outside the crowd, twenty yards from the main mass of people, but it didn’t matter. The blast would kill every single one of them, with change. He turned the engine off and stepped out, locking the door. Turning, the man started walking away from the crowd.
Behind him in the opposite direction, a male paramedic in his mid-twenties had spotted the new vehicle arrive, and with an injured man leaning on him for support he approached and tried the
door. It was locked.
He saw the driver striding away, now fifty yards across the tarmac.
‘Hey!’ he called after him. ‘Hey, you!’
The guy didn’t respond.
The paramedic watched in frustration as the guy seemed to pick up the pace, walking even faster away from him.
‘Hey! I need some help over here!’
The guy didn’t turn around or even acknowledge that he’d heard him.
Helping the wounded man to sit on the kerb, the paramedic looked around for assistance. He saw an armed policeman with his back turned, ten yards away, and approached him.
‘Officer?’
‘Not now, mate,’ the guy said, without turning.
Undeterred, the young man tried again.
‘Sorry to bother you. But there’s a driver over there who just walked away from his ambulance. He must have heard me shouting. He locked it up and just left, but I need to get into that ambulance.’
For some reason, that got the policeman’s immediate attention.
He snapped his head around to look at the medic.
‘I’ve got a wounded man. I need to get him out of here’ the medic continued.
The policeman ignored him.
‘Which man?’ he asked.
He turned and pointed.
Deakins saw a figure in green scrubs jogging away from the crowd towards the far side of the car park.
Oh shit.
Number Eight was already a good hundred yards from the ambulance.
He turned, looking over his shoulder, and saw an armed policeman start to sprint after him.
The terrorist started running too, racing ahead as he pulled the phone from his pocket and starting to dial the number as he fled. From this distance, the blast would kill him, but he was OK with that.
So be it, he thought, as he ducked behind a lorry. I’ll take them all with me.
Behind the long vehicle, he allowed himself a moment of victory. There was no way the running cop could make it in time.
Smiling, his finger moved over to press Call.
‘Hey,’ a female voice suddenly said quietly from behind him.
Like all boxing trainers say, it’s not the power punch, it’s the punch you don’t see that gets you.
And as the terrorist swung around instinctively, he met an elbow as it scythed through the air and smashed into his face, breaking his nose in an instant. The impact of the blow was completely unexpected and it hit him like a knock-out hook, putting him out cold before he could even hit the tarmac.
The guy ended up sprawled in a heap on the floor. His assailant, the woman from the car, saw the mobile phone resting in his hand and dropped to one knee to pick it up. Looking at the display on the phone, she saw that he’d already entered a sequence of numbers.
A split second later, an armed officer appeared from around the corner, an MP5 sub-machine gun tucked into his shoulder. She saw his uniform; he was a member of the team that had raided the house. ARU. Armed Response Unit her memory told her. The end of his weapon was aimed directly at her head, the front-sight moving up and down as he panted from the race to get here.
Before he had to ask, she slowly lowered the phone to the tarmac, maintaining constant eye contact with him. She saw him glance at the unconscious terrorist, blood leaking from the guy’s nose, out cold on the ground, sprawled like he’d just drained a whole bottle of whiskey.
‘Who the hell are you?’ he asked, his weapon still aimed at her chin.
She moved her hand slowly to the jacket of her suit.
‘May I?’
He nodded, panting, his finger tense on the trigger.
Slowly, she reached inside her jacket and pulled out an ID, flipping it open so he could see.
‘Special Agent Shapira. I’m with Mossad,’ she said.
Just as she pulled her badge, the black Ford carrying the four other ARU officers screeched into the car park to their right. Inside the car, the men could see their team-mates pushing the crowd back up ahead.
They also saw Deakins fifty yards away, standing beside a woman none of them recognised.
And between them a prone figure dressed in green medical scrubs.
Number Eight.
Porter pulled to a halt and all four of them jumped out. Deakins was now kneeling by the man on the ground, rummaging in the pocket of his scrubs. A mobile phone lay beside him, the rear cover off, the battery removed. As they ran over, Archer saw the guy was out cold; someone had blasted him in the nose and laid him out.
Deakins pulled out a set of car keys, tossing them to Chalky, and together the four newly-arrived officers ran towards the stolen ambulance, instantly recognising the plates.
Mac, Archer and Porter stopped fifteen yards away and Chalky moved forward alone, the keys in his hand.
‘Careful, Chalk,’ warned Mac.
To his left, the other ARU officers had pushed the remaining crowd back, all scared, confused and traumatised from the events earlier. Chalky slid the key into the lock of the vehicle carefully and twisted, it clicked and the mechanism shifted open.
He grabbed the handle and pulled open the door, followed by the other.
‘Holy shit.’
There were close to thirty bricks of C4 sitting inside, all wired up to a mobile phone, same as in the shopping mall.
But also beside the stack of explosives were two bodies, a young woman and a guy, both dead, lying in a pool of dried blood. The two missing medics, Archer thought as he moved forward.
Nearby, members of the public and emergency workers who were close enough to see into the ambulance gasped in shock.
Mac turned to Porter, who was standing beside him.
‘Tell EOD to get down here, Port,’ he said.
He glanced at Chalky, who had walked back to join them.
‘This time they can do it.’
NINETEEN
Across the city, Dominick Farha checked his watch from inside the bathroom of his hotel room.
It was time to go.
Looking in the mirror one last time, he adjusted his tie and smoothed back his dark hair. Satisfied, he opened the door moving back into the room and found the young woman standing there, waiting for him.
He looked down and examined her appearance.
She was wearing a voluminous green dress he’d bought her from some high-street store. The design was such that it completely concealed the second white dress hidden underneath which contained close to thirty five pounds of explosives, all packed over her stomach.
To an onlooker, she looked just like a young woman expecting her first child.
To him, she looked like his ticket out of here.
Satisfied, he gave her an approving nod and smile then looked around the room, checking for anything he didn’t want to leave behind. There was nothing important, just a set of pliers and some clippings of wire. He felt a shiver of excitement.
This is it.
He turned to her. ‘Ready?’
‘Ready,’ she replied. She was trying to hide it, but he could see that she was scared.
Moving to the door, Farha opened it and let the girl out of the room first. He switched off the light, and pulled the door shut behind him as he followed.
Outside in the corridor, he turned to her.
‘Wait here for a moment,’ he said. She nodded as he approached the room next door. He knocked twice. After a pause, a young man opened it. Dominick turned to the girl, holding up his hand. Two minutes, his fingers said. She nodded nervously and he stepped into the other hotel room, closing the door.
This room also had the curtains drawn and lights dimmed. The young man had been sitting on the bed watching the television. Farha suddenly realised the guy had shaved his head since he’d last seen him.
The other man noticed him looking.
‘Don’t want to get recognised,’ he said in his American accent.
Dominick nodded. ‘Good thinking. I just wanted to
tell you we’re leaving.’
‘You sure he’s going to welcome you back?’ the other man said. ‘You made a big mistake, Dom.’
‘After today? He has to. I’ll be a hero. He’ll throw me a party,’ Dominick replied. He said it confidently enough, but neither of them was sure he meant it. ‘I just wanted to double-check everything with you before I go.’
The younger man nodded.
‘American Airlines Flight 427’ he recited. ‘Non-stop from New York JFK. Lands Runway Six at 9:20 pm.’
Farha smiled. ‘Good. I double-checked. It runs like clockwork. Just make sure you don't miss.’
The younger man grinned; reaching down, he tapped something resting behind the bed. A dark rectangular case.
‘I won’t.’
There was a brief pause; then the two men hugged each other. Dominick was surprised to feel sad that he was saying goodbye to the young man. He liked him; they went back a long way. When all the shit had hit the fan, he’d made a phone-call asking for the kid’s help, expecting a rebuttal. However, he’d sweetened the deal, and consequently the guy had instantly said yes. Unlike some of the others, Dominick knew that this man would get his shit done tonight. He was reliable and loyal.
He hoped he’d make it out afterwards too.
‘Good luck,’ Farha told him, as they stood back. ‘I’ll see you across the water. Remember, the moment after you fire, get the hell out of here. Literally, the second after. The cops will be coming. Get outside and don’t stop running.’
The young man nodded. ‘Same to you. And watch your back, Dom. You know they’re all still after you.’
Nodding, Farha turned.
Walking to the door, he pulled it open and departed.
Together again, Dominick and his female companion rode the lift down to the ground floor. After a few moments, it arrived with a ding.
Stepping out, the pair moved past other guests as they made their way into the lobby. As they walked across the marble floor and into the reception area, Dominick glanced to his right and saw a television mounted on the wall. The news. It was still covering the disaster at the stadium.
But there was a new headline, and it stopped him in his tracks.
Breaking News: Two further attacks at shopping centre and stadium foiled by police. Suspected bomber arrested.
Dominick froze, and cursed under his breath, long and hard.
He stood still, thinking as he stared at the screen.
How the hell did he fail? And twice?
He was one of my best guys!
He felt the woman beside him slide her hand into his which brought him back to the moment. Finally ripping his attention from the television, he gathered his composure and led his companion towards the exit.
Moving outside, he hailed a cab. As the taxi pulled up, he opened the door and helped the young woman inside, climbing in after her.
‘Where to, mate?’ asked the driver, loudly.
Dominick forced a smile.
‘Heathrow. Terminal Five,’ he replied.
