by Tom Barber
THIRTY ONE
It took them just under ten minutes to draft the contract. Jill Sawyer, the bomber’s somewhat reluctant defence lawyer, had arrived and she oversaw the construction of the document. Her trained eye ensured there were no loopholes or room for manipulation, nor any points of contention that would come back to haunt them later.
After it was completed they printed off a copy and together, Frost and Sawyer moved back into the interrogation cell. The suspect looked up as they entered.
‘Well?’
‘You win,’ said Frost. ‘The Prime Minister has agreed to a deal.’
The guy smirked, pushing the gauze stuffed up his nostrils further into his nose.
‘Reduced sentence?’
‘No,’ said Sawyer.
The terrorist looked at her for the first time, his smile fading.
‘So what then? You’d better not be jerking me around.’
She laid the contract on the table before him. ‘You’ll do the time, but at a different facility. You’ll be isolated, minimal contact with other inmates.’
‘That’s it? A different prison?’
‘Trust me, it’ll be paradise compared to Belmarsh,’ said Frost. ‘When word gets round inside as to who you are, you’re going to be a marked man wherever you go.’
He saw the suspect absorb this. Belmarsh Prison was located towards the south-east edge of London. It was known for two things amongst the criminal community; firstly, as the central detention centre for any terrorists captured and convicted in the UK. There were so many of them in there it was as if someone had called a town meeting. And secondly, Belmarsh was renowned for its inter-walls violence. Unlike some other prisons in the UK, the guards and wardens took a no-bullshit approach to the inmates. They were in charge and they let every con inside the walls know it. Every man doing time in there had to earn every minute of his sentence.
However, despite the notoriety of the prison, Frost saw the terrorist still weighing up his options. C’mon you bastard, take it, he thought. They were running out of time. This was their only option. If this deal was going to mean anything, they needed the information now.
‘This is all official?’ the terrorist asked, deliberating.
Sawyer nodded, pulling a pen from her jacket pocket, passing it to him.
‘It is. I’m serving as a witness.’
Beside her, Frost was getting impatient.
‘It’s a one-time offer. Take it or leave it.’
Number Eight looked at him, enjoying the power.
For one tense moment Frost thought he was going to say no.
But after a long pause he leaned forward, slowly taking the pen from Sawyer’s hand and signed the contract. Frost hid his relief. The moment the nib of the pen left the page, Sawyer took it back from him and the grey-haired detective beside her started pushing.
‘Right, start talking. Where’s he going to be?’
The bomber leaned back. ‘Trafalgar Square. Midnight.’
‘Whereabouts?’ continued Frost, searching for further detail. ‘It’s a big place.’
‘I don’t know where exactly,’ he replied. ‘But he’ll be there. Trust me.’
Outside the room, Cobb heard this and turned to Crawford.
‘Time to go to work.’
Fifty yards from the runway in the shadows of the Parisian airfield, the two DEA agents hadn’t moved. They were still tucked away in the darkness on surveillance, silent and invisible.
In the air, they could hear distant cheering. High up in the sky, premature fireworks had already started going off in the distance. However, neither man was celebrating yet. They had plenty of work left to do this night.
Earlier, they’d watched as the pilot moved from the cockpit of the jet down the steps to stand on the tarmac. He’d sparked a cigarette and stood there smoking, cradling something in his arms. The man on the left, Agent Brody, had looked closer with his binoculars. It was an HK CAWS automatic shotgun, a savage German weapon. It housed a ten shell magazine that clipped into its base. If a guy pulled the trigger, the chemical reaction and force of the blast would push the mechanism back as it fired, slotting another round into the chamber automatically. In an experienced pair of hands, someone could fire over two hundred shells a minute with it. Ridiculous firepower with gruesome results. Someone pointed that thing at you there was no point in fighting. Just get on your knees and beg.
And its presence in the pilot’s hands confirmed something to the two agents.
The cargo they were interested in was definitely still inside the jet.
Suddenly, there was a rustling from behind them. Flynn and Brody snapped their heads around with a jolt, startled. They looked into the darkness, tense. Waiting. But it was nothing, a false alarm. Just an animal, out hunting for late-night prey. Nevertheless, neither man moved for a moment. They stared into the pitch black. Finally satisfied it was safe, the pair turned their attention back to the jet.
But then there was another sound behind them.
A crunch.
A foot stepping on a stick or branch.
They twisted round again.
Two men were standing there.
They were Henry’s enforcers, the two giants.
They’d crept up out of nowhere and the two DEA agents were momentarily frozen with shock.
Each enforcer was holding something in his hands, a silenced AR 15 Carbine assault rifle. Each one had a magazine clipped to its base. Thirty rounds, set to fully automatic.
The two men stood over the two agents, who lay there helpless.
Then one grinned and raised his weapon.
‘Boo.’
