by Tom Barber
*
At that moment across the Channel, another plane was just about to land.
In the cool night air, two sets of wheels lowered from the undercarriage of the private jet. The pilot eased back on the throttle and the plane touched down lightly on the runway. It slowed and eventually came to a halt, turning and taxiing a short distance towards a waiting car.
From his seat inside, Dominick took a deep breath.
He’d made it.
Looking out of the window he saw a black Escalade waiting by the runway. Two large men were standing beside it. He didn’t recognise either of them; it seemed Henry had changed his entire crew since they’d lost contact, but then again, the man went through his security detail like a wolf chewed through a carcass. God only knew how many of them he’d killed over the years. They were too big to drown, so Henry often just machine-gunned them when they were least expecting it.
Beyond the two men in the distance, Dominick could see the bright lights of Paris. French time was an hour ahead so it was fast approaching midnight. His eyes settled on the unmistakeable shape of the Eiffel Tower, golden and no doubt dressed up with fireworks in preparation for the display that would bring in the New Year.
Back in the cabin, Faris was already on his feet, swinging on his suit jacket which he’d laid to one side during the flight to avoid any creases. The pilot had pressed the mechanism in the cockpit to open the exit door and the stairs to the jet unfurled slowly towards the tarmac.
Faris went to move down the aisle then turned and looked at Farha, his hand near the pistol on his hip.
He didn’t say anything.
His face said it all.
Butterflies fluttering around in his stomach, Farha rose from his seat and moved to the door, stepping past Faris. He walked down the stairs quickly, Faris close behind him, and set foot on foreign soil for the first time in a year. It should have been a joyous occasion for him, finally out of the UK, but instead he felt sick with nerves and fear. He was trapped; from now on whatever happened to him was up to those around him. And he hadn’t even spoken to Henry yet; he had no idea what his reception was likely to be.
As he tried to stay calm, Faris stepped past him and walked towards the black Escalade. The two enforcers had seemed big from the plane, but up close they were enormous. Farha saw each man had a pistol tucked in a holster, poorly hidden under their jackets. The guns seemed as small as toys hanging under their ridiculously broad shoulders. He felt bile rise in his throat. A year ago, he’d commanded guys like this without a second thought.
Now, he felt completely helpless as he stood before them.
‘So what’s the deal?’ Faris asked the two men. ‘Where is he?’
‘He’s at a café in the city,’ one of them said.
‘He’s waiting for you,’ the other added, grinning wolfishly as he looked at Dominick. ‘He said the Albanians aren’t going to be here for another hour or so.’
Faris nodded. Without another word, the two giants turned and moved back to the car. One of them climbed into the driver’s seat, the other in the passenger seat beside him.
Faris turned to Dominick. ‘What the hell are you waiting for? Get in. I’m cold.’
He obeyed; walking over and opening the door, he climbed into the back. Faris got in beside him and once they’d both shut their doors, the big guy behind the wheel fired the engine and the car moved off towards the lights of Paris.
Inside the car, Farha glanced at his watch. 9:21 pm, London time, which made it 10:21 pm here.
An hour and forty minutes till the New Year.
With every fibre of his being, he prayed that he’d be alive to see it.
Four hundred yards across the airfield in the shadows, two men watched the car depart.
They were bedded down deep in cover under some mesh netting, camouflage paint smeared across their faces as they lay prostrate, grim and silent. They’d chosen a good location with thick bushes and hedge-growth beside them, right on the edge of the airfield. To any onlooker, they were invisible. No one could ever know they were there.
One of them had his eye to the lens of a Nikon camera; he clicked the shutter, snapping photographs of the departing car and the licence plates.
Beside him, the other man pulled a phone from his pocket.
‘Be careful,’ the man with the camera whispered. ‘The pilot.’
His companion nodded. The pilot was still in the cockpit, facing in their direction three hundred yards down the runway. If the man in the shadows didn’t cover the light on the phone, the man would see it.
Concealing it carefully with a black cloth, the man pressed Redial under the fabric and lifted it to his ear. The call rang three times and then connected.
‘Brody. How are we doing?’ Special Agent Crawford asked.
‘Sir, we’re in place. Farha just landed,’ Brody whispered. ‘It looks like they’ve taken him to see the main man but I think they’ll all be coming back. Seems like the deal isn’t going down yet. The plane is still here.’
‘It’s OK,’ came Crawford’s voice. ‘Special Agent Cruz is in place. Farha isn’t going anywhere without us knowing about it.’
‘When are you due back, sir?’ Brody whispered.
‘Rivers and I have to stay here for a while longer. But stay on them. The moment the deal is done, call me. I’ve spoken to the Saudi Police and DEA back-up. They’ll be ready and waiting for when the jet lands back in Riyadh.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Brody whispered.
The call ended. Agent Brody returned the phone to his pocket and together, the two men lay in total silence in the darkness.
Waiting for the cartel drug lord and his nephew to return.
TWENTY EIGHT
On the ground floor of the Unit’s headquarters, Cobb was momentarily alone. He was standing in the observation room to one of the interrogation cells; through the glass, Frost and Number Eight were sitting across from each other, like two players in a chess game. Crawford had been here until a minute ago too, but he’d stepped outside for a cigarette. They'd both just been updated by Nikki about what had happened at the airport and hotel. Porter had told Nikki that Shapira had shot one of the terrorists just before he fired a rocket launcher at a commercial jet coming in from New York.
A rocket launcher.
Cobb rubbed his eyes wearily. Today had been like one long bad dream. It was as if fate had saved all the bad luck and trouble from the year and packed it all into one day, stalking them like a nemesis.
And the night was still young. Two more of the terrorists were still out there somewhere. Three, considering the cuffs hadn’t yet gone on Farha.
Despite the worry, Cobb realised he was enjoying being alone in the small dark room for the moment. It felt like the only quiet room in the building, a place for him to think and ponder.
But just as those thoughts came into his mind, the door behind him clicked open as Crawford walked in, closing it behind him gently. He was carrying two mugs of coffee.
‘I just spoke to two of my men,’ he said, passing one to Cobb. ‘The jet’s landed outside Paris. They’ve taken Farha into the city’.
Cobb gave him a look. Crawford read it.
‘Don’t worry. Three of my guys are in place. He’s not going anywhere.’
‘The guy is currently the most wanted terrorist in Europe. And we’re just leaving him alone to drive around Paris and catch-up with his old crew,’ Cobb said. ‘One of his people just tried to take out a commercial jet. Another tried to blow herself and an entire Terminal up at Heathrow for Christ’s sake.’
He sighed.
‘What am I doing?’
Crawford nodded.
‘I understand; I totally get it. But please, just wait a little longer. We’re talking ninety minutes. The moment the buy is done, we can move in. I have almost an entire DEA division on standby in Riyadh, as well as the police force there. They’ll be waiting for them the moment the jet returns. Anywh
ere Farha goes right now, we’ll know about it. Don’t worry, I have constant surveillance on him.’
Cobb nodded, reluctantly. A silence fell. With Farha under the DEA’s supervision, Cobb and his team needed to focus on the remaining two terrorists still out there.
Together, their attention naturally shifted to the interrogation happening through the glass.
‘So who was she? The girl?’ Frost asked, inside the interrogation cell.
The bomber said nothing. Frost reached for a cup of coffee he’d brought down from upstairs and took a long sip. He also used the moment to examine the guy in front of him closely.
He was different from his two cohorts, the guys they’d picked up from the raid earlier in the day. Frost could see that straight away. This man was impassive and cold. The other suspect hadn’t been able to look Frost in the eye, but this guy was holding the detective’s gaze, a contemptuous smile on his lips.
And strangely, he still seemed relaxed, despite the apparent failures of the evening and his broken nose.
All in all, the guy looked smug, which was unnerving the detective.
It was a look that said I know something you don’t.
This was a completely different scenario from the other with the previous suspect. The kid had started tough and ended the interrogation in pieces, but the guy sat before Frost right now seemed arrogant, looking at him with a smirk on his lips. His nose had been smashed, broken by the Mossad agent; someone had stuffed two pads of gauze up his nostrils but blood was seeping through, staining the white bandage red.
‘Who was she?’ he tried again. ‘The girl from the airport.’
This time, the terrorist responded, which surprised him.
‘I didn’t know her,’ he said, his raspy voice sounding nasal from the padding up his nose. ‘Farha picked her up a couple of months back.’
‘Were they together? An item?’
The man looked at him. ‘Who gives a shit?’
‘He must have had some hold on her to make her do what she did.’
The guy shrugged.
‘He used her. She was stupid. A stupid bitch. Now she’s dead. A stupid dead bitch.’
The terrorist paused. He looked at Frost, closely.
‘But he got away, didn’t he?’
‘I’m asking the questions.’
‘Must piss you off,’ the man continued, with a grin. He sniffed, and some blood dropped from the gauze to the table. ‘He was so close and you lost him.’
Frost allowed himself to feel a small moment of victory. That’s what you think, you smug prick. The suspect had no idea that the DEA were currently tracking Farha’s every move. Cobb had informed Frost of the situation before he’d started the interrogation so this time, it was the detective with the gleam in his eye. The terrorist noticed it.
Riding the momentum and enjoying the power shift, Frost tapped the photocopy in front of him.
‘Forget about him. I want to know about these two,’ he said, pointing to Number One and Four. ‘Where are they?’
The guy shook his head, snorting as more blood spilled from the makeshift bandages stuffed up his nostrils.
‘No way. I’m not saying shit until I get a lawyer.’
‘That could take a while. Traffic’s bad on New Year’s Eve. Could take all night.’
Number Eight’s smirk suddenly changed into a full-on grin.
Something Frost had just said had triggered it.
‘What time is it?’ he asked.
Frost ignored the question. Said nothing. He didn’t want to respond and let the power swing back towards the suspect like a pendulum. You grant a request, then before you know it you end up granting the next one. Anyone the wrong side of this table needed to be reminded every second who was in charge, otherwise things could spiral out of control. Frost had seen it before. Give them an inch, they’ll take a mile.
The suspect could sense Frost was trying to keep the upper hand and kept grinning like a Cheshire cat.
‘C’mon, you can tell me the time. Nothing weak about that. I’m the one wearing the cuffs, remember.’
Frost looked at him. His jacket was off, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up; he glanced at his wrist.
‘9:50pm.’
The suspect whistled, blood staining his upper lip as it leaked from his nose.
‘You’d better get moving, old man. You haven’t got time to play stupid games. And you’ll be very interested in what I have to say, I guarantee. That’s a promise.’
Frost held his gaze. He didn’t know if this was a play, or the guy was telling the truth. He watched him carefully and felt his stomach tingle.
The guy knew something. It was written all over his face.
Frost tried another approach, picking his words carefully. He had to, seeing as the whole exchange was recorded on tape.
‘We could persuade you to talk. You never know. We can be very persuasive when we want to be.’
The suspect grinned. ‘Go ahead. I’m getting bored, anyway. And I’ve got nothing but time.’
He paused.
‘Something you’re running out of.’
TWENTY NINE
Outside the room, Cobb and Crawford were watching closely as they both sipped on coffee from the two mugs. They saw Frost rise and move to the door. He entered the observation room and joined the other two men, closing it behind him.
‘What do you think?’ Cobb asked immediately. ‘Has he got something?’
Frost looked at him, wiping his brow.
‘I hate to say it, but yes, sir. I think he has. He wouldn’t be that cocky without good reason.’
Cobb double-checked the time on his watch.
‘Shit. We’ve got just over two hours until midnight. There’re crowds gathering all over the city,’ he said. ‘Bombings, rocket-launchers, stolen ambulances. What the hell are this lot going to come up with next?’
Crawford was looking intently at the suspect through the glass, saying nothing.
Cobb noticed.
‘What are you thinking?’ he asked the American.
‘I’ve encountered my fair share of guys like him since I joined the Agency,’ he said as he watched Number Eight next door. ‘Ninety-nine per cent of all the terrorists and extremists out there, they’re too fanatical for their own good. Past all their ideology, dogma, whatever the hell they believe in, most of them struggle to think for themselves. Which is what makes them so easy to manipulate.’
Cobb nodded. ‘Like the boy from the raid. Number Three.’
‘Or the girl at the airport,’ said Frost.
‘Exactly,’ continued Crawford. ‘And remember guys, this man wasn’t suicidal. He tried to detonate two separate devices remotely. Which tells us two very important things. One, he’s intelligent.’
‘And two?’ asked Cobb.
‘He wants to live. He’s got no reason to lie; he’s telling the truth. And he’s the only lead you have right now. As you said, there are crowds gathering all over London, waiting for midnight. And the clock’s ticking.’
Cobb looked through the glass at the suspect, who was looking at the table, a slight smile on his blood-stained lips.
Crawford was right.
Across the building, the task force had just returned from the airport and the hotel. Seeing as they had to be on call and couldn’t afford to be pinned down to any one area, the CID and airport police had taken over the crime scenes. After stowing their weapons in the locker room, it was once again a case of sitting around and waiting, each man poised to spring into action at a moment’s notice. One thing was for sure, the coffee machine in the Briefing Room was having the busiest day of its life too.
After the team had met up at the hotel and headed back, those who needed to be were filled in by Porter, Deakins and Fox on what had happened on the rooftop. Any reservations the officers had about the newcomers, including Mac’s, were forgotten. Rivers’ speed of thought and Shapira’s speed on the trigger had saved everyone on
the jet from being killed. As he stood to one side in the Briefing Room, Rivers watched as the female Mossad agent shook hands with Sergeant McGuire by the door. The American felt especially indebted to her. He’d hesitated a split-second too long.
As a medical team and the CID arrived at the hotel to take over the crime-scene, Shapira had taken the DEA agent to one side and asked about the situation with Dominick Farha. She told him she’d invested a lot of time in his case, a case which would end only with his capture, and said that she could see something was going between the Americans and Cobb that she didn’t know about.
Knowing he owed her, Rivers had updated her on the DEA’s current involvement. Their surveillance positioned in place in Paris, tailing him, holding back until two of their agents caught the drug deal. He’d told her all of it willingly; he didn’t just owe her one, he owed her more than two hundred and fifty, one for every person on board the airplane that she saved. Shapira had been grateful; she’d thanked him, saying that Mossad wouldn’t interfere but it was good to be kept in the loop.
Now that they were back, most of the guys on the task force were sitting across the room, either drinking coffee or just trying to rest. Rivers moved to the stand and took a cup. He didn’t feel like it but he poured out some coffee regardless. His body was still in Riyadh time and he needed the caffeine.
As the cup filled with the brown liquid from the spigot, the American saw the young blond officer walk in, the one who’d been asking him about the op with Bin Laden. Archer, the guy was called. The policeman rubbed fatigue from his eyes and walked over, joining the DEA agent and making himself a cup after Rivers was done.
‘Talk about deja-vu,’ Archer said. ‘And I don’t even like coffee.’
Rivers smiled as Archer shrugged.
‘I guess it’s a day of firsts.’
There was a pause. The two men ended up standing side by side by the window, holding their coffee, waiting for each cup to cool.
‘Good job with the guy at the hotel,’ Archer continued. ‘I don’t know how the hell you figured that one out, but thank God you did.’
The American nodded without replying, staring out of the window. Shapira was across the car park, a phone to her ear.
She saw the two men watching her and raised her hand in a brief wave.
‘Don’t thank me, man. She was the one who tagged him,’ said Rivers, lifting his hand in acknowledgement.
A pause.
‘You said earlier you used to be a SEAL?’ Archer asked.
Rivers nodded.
‘When did you leave?’
‘End of last year.’
‘Why?’ the police officer asked.
He shrugged. ‘Wasn’t the right place for me anymore. Lost my appetite for it. Once that goes, you’re done. I was discharged but wanted to stay working for the government. They helped me out, saying I deserved some sun and transferred me to Crawford’s detail in the DEA. Before I knew it, I was on the next flight to Riyadh.’
A pause.
‘That operation. Bin Laden,’ Archer started.
‘Geronimo,’ said Rivers.
The police officer paused, confused. ‘Say again?’
‘Geronimo. That was the codename for him.’
Archer smiled and nodded. ‘Were you nervous? About who the target was?’
Rivers shook his head, sipping his coffee. ‘Didn’t have time to be. We’d rehearsed the actual assault for months. They rebuilt a scale replica of his compound in Pakistan at our training facility in Virginia, but we didn’t know what it really was or who the real place belonged to. We must have drilled that assault over a hundred and fifty times. I was in the first squad, coming in from the roof. By the end of all that training, I think I knew that compound better than my own house in Portland.’
He sipped his coffee. Archer listened, in silence.
‘They told us who the target was for the first time just before the mission. Literally an hour before. Guess they didn’t want us getting nervous, or any shaky trigger fingers out there. Guys having nightmares weeks before it happened, freaking out, worrying if they were going to make a mistake. Shit like that.’
He paused, then sighed and continued.
‘I'm not a hero, man. I had nothing to do with the end result. I never even made it inside the house.’
Silence. Archer didn’t reply, watching the American
‘We trained for days, weeks, months. A once in a lifetime opportunity to write ourselves into the history books. But our helicopter, the one I was in, the turbines got caught in a wind tunnel over the house. It screwed with the rotors and we crashed just outside the compound. One of the biggest military operations in American history, and I'm injured before I even get there. The crash knocked me out. When I woke up, I was being stretchered out and the operation had been successfully completed.’
He paused.
‘I’m good friends with the guys who got inside, who found him. I’m one of the few people in the world who actually knows who each of them are. Those guys, man they’ve got some stories to tell their grandchildren.’
He drained his coffee, shaking his head.
‘I just wish that I did too.’
Silence followed. Rivers stood for a moment, holding the empty polystyrene coffee cup in his hand. He then dropped it in the bin and walked out of the room.
Turning, Archer watched him go.
Disappointing, the American had said earlier, when Archer asked him how he felt about the raid.
Now he understood why.
‘We’ve got a lawyer on her way,’ Frost said.
He’d collected himself and was back inside the interrogation room, opposite Number Eight. This time he decided to stay standing. He felt it gave him a psychological edge and reinforced the hierarchy in the room.
Across the table, the arrested terrorist leaned back; it didn’t look as if he was buying the act.
‘She’d better hurry.’
‘We’ve got a few minutes till she gets here. Why don’t you start talking?’ said Frost. ‘Make it easier on yourself. Who knows, it could improve your standing with the judge.’
He knew it was pointless, even as he said it. He could see the smug look in the terrorist’s eyes. The control in the room had shifted and they both knew it. Frost had all his chips on the table and the terrorist was holding the winning hand.
However, the man spoke, much to Frost’s surprise.
‘OK, I’ll give you a teaser. Just a little one.’
Reaching across the table with his handcuffed hands, he tapped one of the nine mug-shots on the photocopy with his finger.
Number One.
‘This guy’s going to attack at midnight.’
‘Where?’ asked Frost.
The suspect laughed. ‘No way. You’re not getting off that easy. I want to cut a deal. Time off my sentence.’
Frost shook his head. ‘Keep dreaming. That’s never going to happen.’
‘Then good luck finding him,’ said the terrorist. ‘Because I guarantee you, he’s out there right now, getting ready. You’ll never see him coming’.
His smile faded.
‘And I’m losing patience. If I was you, I’d agree a deal with your boss while I’m still willing to talk. If I go quiet, every person who dies is on you.’
Frost didn’t move. To leave now would mean following orders from the suspect, but to stay meant wasting valuable time. But he didn’t have a choice; he had to talk to Cobb. Gritting his teeth, he turned and walked to the door. He heard a sound from the table behind him.
Glancing sideways he saw the terrorist smiling as he made a ticking noise, moving his finger from side to side, like a metronome.
Cobb and Crawford were still outside, and they were both losing patience. Cobb checked his watch as Frost joined them, shutting the door.
‘It’s past ten. Less than two hours to midnight. Shit,’ Cobb said, frustrated. ‘And we all agree he’s telling the truth?’
&n
bsp; The two men nodded.
‘I can’t ask the PM to cut time off his sentence,’ Cobb said. ‘He murdered two kids, the medics. If we did cut his time and the press got hold of it, they’d have a field day. And what the hell do we tell their families if they ever found out?’
‘What if he served the time, but in a different prison?’ Crawford suggested. ‘Isolated, secluded, no threat from any other prisoners. He’d still be locked up. You’d have that.’
‘After everything he’s done?’ said Frost.
‘Behind bars,’ Crawford continued, turning to him. ‘If he’s telling the truth, we could get a head-start on his friend. The guy wouldn’t know you had the drop on him. Your team and Rivers could be right there, ready and waiting for him to show up. You take him down, maybe he knows where the final suspect is?’
Cobb swore, assessing his options. Inside the cell, he saw the prisoner leaning back in his chair, self-satisfied and complacent.
‘I need to call the PM,’ he said. Turning, he pulled his mobile phone from his pocket as he walked to the exit.
Now how the hell do I start this conversation, he thought.
