Nine Lives (Sam Archer 1)

by Tom Barber

THIRTY

  In the small Parisian café on Rue De Chevilly, Henry had also just received unexpected news. His phone had rung as he began his third cup of coffee and fourth pastry, waiting for Faris and the two lunkheads to deliver his nephew.

  The moment he heard what the situation was, his appetite had vanished instantly.

  He’d sat motionless for fifteen minutes since the call ended, considering his options and looking for a solution.

  He’d found one.

  The evening would still go ahead as planned; he hadn’t come all this way to leave empty-handed. But there was now extra business to attend to. Something risky and dangerous. A job for someone who would probably never make it back.

  A job for his nephew.

  If it succeeded, the plan of action would buy him some time. He needed to get back to Riyadh as quickly as he could. But he wasn’t leaving until he’d dumped the coke with the Albanians and got his hands on the cash.

  Satisfied with the fast strategy he’d formulated, he glanced outside. The weather was cold. Pedestrians hurrying past outside were wrapped up in thick coats and scarves. Henry hadn’t given the weather a thought before he’d left and had come from the sunny heat of Riyadh, completely unprepared. The shitty climate here had been pissing him off ever since they’d landed. He’d never been to France before and decided on the spot to never come back.

  He checked his watch. The deal would go ahead in the next couple of hours, then he could get on the jet and get back to his world. Sitting there with the cold coffee, the bad weather outside and a headache, Henry now remembered every reason why he never attended deals or why he rarely left his own country. But through his irritation, he understood how this place could be a good business-ground for gangs like the Albanians. Looking around the café and on the street he saw that the French kept to themselves, getting on with their lives and minding their own business, which was ideal for guys like him.

  Outside, movement on the street brought him back to the present. The moment he’d been waiting for. A black Escalade pulled up outside and once it parked, the two meatheads and Faris stepped out.

  And then, from the other side, Dominick appeared.

  Even from this distance, Henry could see that his nephew looked like he was on the verge of throwing-up. The drug lord smiled.

  The boy would never know that a mere phone-call made a few minutes ago had just saved his life.

  The four men entered the café. As one of the giants pushed open the door carelessly, a bell hanging above it gave a ding; other people in the café glanced up then looked away as they saw the intimidating men enter.

  The foursome walked in and stopped, ten feet from where Henry was sitting.

  Ignoring Dominick for the moment who looked as if he was about to piss himself, Henry signalled one of the enforcers to approach. The guy lumbered over and bent down to listen.

  In his ear, Henry told him of the new situation and what he was going to do.

  The man nodded then straightened.

  ‘Take your friend with you,’ Henry added. The enforcer looked at him for a moment, wondering what he meant. Then his slow brain kicked into gear and he nodded again.

  Turning, he signalled for his fellow giant to follow and the two of them strode out of the cafe, their shoulders so wide that both guys had trouble fitting through the tight doorway. From his seat, Henry saw Faris frown, watching them go and he approached Henry’s table.

  ‘Where the hell are they going?’ he asked.

  Henry ignored him, fixing his gaze on Dominick instead. He gestured to a stool that he’d pulled in front of his table, and he saw the younger man’s eyes flick down nervously.

  ‘Take a seat.’

  The Prime Minister and his wife sat in silence in his office as Rogers ended the call on the speakerphone. Director Cobb had been on the other end. He’d just updated the PM on the current situation with the terrorist, the information he claimed to have and his demands.

  Leaning back in the chair behind his desk, the Prime Minister thought hard. He looked at his wife and Rogers, who were both sitting in chairs opposite him.

  ‘What do you think?’ he asked.

  Both of them looked uneasy. Rogers spoke first.

  ‘I think it’s our only option, sir. He’s our solitary lead, and he damn well knows it.’

  The Prime Minister turned to his wife. Although officially she would play no part in the formal decision-making, he valued his wife’s opinion above all others.

  ‘Jen?’

  She shook her head. ‘After what he did, we should grant him clemency? The whole thing just doesn’t feel right.’

  A brief silence fell.

  ‘OK, let’s take a step back,’ said the Prime Minister quietly. ‘Say I agree. He’ll tell us where this attack will take place and we can move in ahead of time, ready and waiting for the other terrorist.’

  He paused.

  ‘Or I say no. And pray that he’s lying.’

  Roger and the PM’s wife didn’t respond. They didn’t need to.

  All three of them knew there was only one option.

  ‘He’d still be behind bars, sir,’ said Rogers. ‘He can’t hurt anyone else from in there.’

  The Prime Minister made the decision.

  ‘OK. Call Director Cobb back.’

  Rogers nodded and pressed Redial on the phone. He jabbed a button for the speakerphone and the ringing from the receiver filled the room.

  Cobb answered immediately. Rogers had told him they’d call back shortly.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Tell the man he can serve the time in seclusion,’ said the Prime Minister. ‘He has my word on that. But no time off. He does every minute of his sentence and not a minute less. That’s my only offer. And he can take it or leave it.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Cobb said.

  The call ended from Cobb’s end, wasting no time.

  Inside the PM's office three people sat in silence, each with their own thoughts.

  Across the room, the clock on the wall ticked to 10:30 pm.

  Ninety minutes until midnight.

  In a dark house across the city, a man sat alone in a chair in the middle of a drab living room.

  The curtains were drawn, the room still and silent. A roof light above him filled the room with an ethereal white glow, the moon bathing the inside of the house with its cold, pale light.

  Sitting naked, the guy was hunched over, putting the finishing touches to a piece of clothing resting on his lap.

  Tossing aside a set of pliers, he lifted the cloth to examine his work.

  It was a vest. Black, thick, similar to a tactical vest that a police officer would wear. It had a number of compartments sewn into the black cloth and each one was packed full with either one of two things.

  Steel nails. Each one as long as a man’s finger.

  And Semtex plastic explosive.

  Holding the vest in front of him, the man inspected his work. It looked good. The Semtex was a shade of bright orange, ludicrously colourful for such a dangerous weapon. It shared all the power and destructive capacity of C4, but Semtex was harder to trace and easier to mould. It could be shaped to follow any curvature or fit into a slot, and sniffer dogs never picked up on it.

  The man nodded.

  Where he was headed tonight, he figured there may be a few of them about.

  Rising, he lifted the vest over his head and threaded his arms through the gaps so it settled on his bare shoulders. He adjusted it, bouncing gently on his heels to test the weight. It felt good. The vest had a V shape collar, the bulk of the weight carried around his torso and hips, but nevertheless it still looked slightly bulky.

  He carefully started to push and shape the malleable plastic explosive, getting it to flatten and follow the curve of his torso. As he did so he stared straight ahead, his eyes half-open.

  He was starting to become focused.

  Behind him, another man was staring too. He was lying in
a pool of congealed blood, thick and coated to the floor. The man’s throat hadn’t just been cut; someone had sawn through it as if they were cutting a loaf of thick bread. Stripped naked and dumped on the floor, the body looked like a Roman statue in the white light of the moonlight. The way his head had lolled back meant the man wearing the vest was standing where the corpse’s gaze had fallen.

  The dead eyes stared accusingly at the terrorist across the room.

  He finished adjusting the vest, the last jacket he would ever wear. Satisfied, he moved across the room and grabbed a pair of trousers, pulling them on.

  He was ready to go.