by Tom Barber
THIRTY SIX
At 11 o'clock the next morning, a man ran as fast as he could down the street in Canary Wharf, south-east London.
He was dressed in a brown delivery uniform, the kind a guy who delivered packages and parcels for companies like DHL and UPS wore. However, he was carrying nothing in his hands. His arms flashed back and forward like pistons as he raced down the street. Sprinting hard, he suddenly turned a sharp left, ducking into Canary Wharf Station, a stop on the London Underground system.
Dodging past bystanders and Underground employees, the man vaulted the ticket barrier, barely slowing. Around him, a few people shouted and remonstrated as they watched the man ignore the ticketing slots.
He hurtled forward, turning back to check behind him and suddenly collided into a woman walking the other way, smashing into her and knocking them both to the ground. Out of breath and winded, the man staggered to his feet, ignoring the stricken woman on the floor beside him and scrambled forward, running onto a long escalator that led all the way down to the platforms and descending the steps two at a time.
By the entrance, two police constables suddenly sprinted into the station. They too jumped the barriers, although this time to no complaint from the people standing there. They raced past the woman on the floor, who now had concerned people around her helping her back up on her feet.
The constables arrived at the escalator. Looking down, they saw the fleeing man near the bottom, pushing past people in his effort to escape.
‘Police! Stop that man!’ one of them shouted as they both started to run down the escalator, chasing after him.
As he reached the bottom, the guy took off to the left. A train was waiting, the Jubilee line, bound for the city centre. There was an extra security barrier, a series of glass screens that ran along the platform. They were sliding shut.
He threw his hand forward to try to and wedge a set open so he could pull himself inside but they wouldn’t give. He started hitting and kicking the screen in a frenzy. The train moved off and gathered speed, shocked passengers watching from inside at the crazy man on the platform so desperate to get on the train.
Cursing in frustration, the man saw a train on the other platform was just arriving. He turned to run over the tracks, but was smashed hard in a rugby tackle by one of the policemen.
He didn’t see the policeman coming and was taken off his feet. The other officer appeared just behind his colleague and they pinned the delivery man to the floor as he tried to fight his way free. Flipping him to his belly they held him down, knees in his back, while one of the men pulled a set of a handcuffs, locking them in place firmly.
Having finally restrained the suspect, the second officer turned to his colleague, sucking in deep breaths.
'You sure it's him?' he panted.
The other man tilted his head to look at the delivery man's face, his chest heaving as his lungs took in oxygen.
The suspect was flat against the tiles, his cheek pressed firmly on the ground.
The policeman looked at his profile, and nodded.
'Yeah. It's him.'
Across the city at the ARU HQ, it had been a long night.
The fallout from the shooting in Trafalgar Square had been severe. Once Archer had discovered the explosives hidden under the man’s coat, the police had been forced to clear the area just as the fireworks were taking place which was no small task. Bomb disposal had arrived, the EOD team examining and confirming that the device was armed and ready to be detonated by trigger switch.
They’d set about dismantling and separating the explosives for what was the fourth bomb they had encountered that evening. This time, the weapon used was Semtex, a vicious plastic explosive as well as enough nails to renovate a mansion. There was enough of it strapped to the dead terrorist to, as a bomb disposal expert had put it, turn the entire Square into a crater you could see from the moon.
Back at the Unit’s Headquarters, Nikki had checked the Met’s emergency logs and had found a report from Hammersmith and Fulham Station. It was concerning a police constable named Eldridge who’d been absent for two days, having gone missing while on duty on Thursday. Two police detectives had reportedly found his body just before midnight, stripped naked. The terrorist had cut his throat and stolen his uniform.
Needless to say, Chalky was man-of-the-hour with the team. Any concerns Archer and Porter had regarding his condition prior to the shooting were immediately forgotten. He’d more than made up for his previous lapse. There was even a rumour circulating that the very grateful Prime Minister wanted to thank him personally. It had certainly been an eventful day’s work for the young police officer.
It turned out he’d been chasing down the first suspect just behind Fox, Mac and Porter, but in that split-second he’d spotted something odd about a police constable nearby that had caught his attention. The officer was standing by himself, away from any other policemen which in itself was odd and seemed to be talking to himself.
His eyes were half-open, not alert and scanning the crowd as they should have been.
Chalky could also see he was holding something.
But when he stopped and scanned the man, he caught a glimpse of something else.
A wire, running into the man’s coat. Looking at the man’s face under the helmet he’d realised in an instant who he was and the rest was history.
At around 3am, the task force had finally returned to the Unit and stowed their weapons. They’d been ordered to stay on call all night, so most of them found chairs in the Briefing Room and dozed off while they had the chance.
But two men who’d had zero sleep were Director Cobb and Special Agent Crawford. Neither of them had got so much as a wink. Crawford had pulled Cobb aside just after they’d figured out the situation at the Square. Apparently, the two DEA agents at the airfield weren’t responding to his calls and Dominick Farha had been reported as separating from Henry’s crew having been sent on an errand somewhere according to his sixth DEA agent. Crawford mentioned that he had another man in place but he was unable to pursue Farha at this current time.
Neither man could believe it. Right before their eyes, both of their cases were falling apart. Crawford didn’t know if he’d got the deal with Henry on camera and Cobb was wondering how they’d let the leader of the terrorist cell slip away when they’d had him in the palm of their hand.
Needless to say, their working relationship was under severe strain.
But things were about to get a whole lot worse.
In the tech area, Nikki hung up on a telephone call and quickly removed her headset, walking swiftly over to Cobb’s office. The Director was standing by the coffee machine inside, pouring himself a drink and rubbing his eyes wearily. Nikki knocked on the door and moved into the office in the same instant.
Cobb turned as she entered, his eyes red-rimmed with fatigue and stress.
‘Sir,’ she said. ‘I just spoke to Limehouse Police Station. They have Number Four in custody.’
Cobb looked at her, the information registering in his tired brain.
‘Great. That’s good news,’ he said.
‘Not quite, sir. There’s a problem.’
‘What kind of problem?’
‘A big one,’ she said.
Across the level in the Briefing Room, Archer stirred awake. He blinked, yawning, gathering his thoughts. He was slumped in a chair beside the noticeboards, his back stiff from the angle he’d been sleeping in.
He sat upright and stretched, yawning again, then saw Chalky sitting in the chair beside him. Archer noticed that in a complete contrast to yesterday, today his friend looked surprisingly fresh and rested. And not hungover.
‘What are you so happy about?’ Archer asked, rubbing his face.
‘Got a good night’s sleep. Crashed out in one of the holding cells,’ Chalky responded, with a wink.
Archer rolled his eyes as his friend passed him a cup of tea.
‘Thanks. What time is it?’ he asked
, yawning again.
’11:30,’ said Fox, who was sat nearby. He was reading a newspaper.
Archer glanced at the Sports headline on the back of the broadsheet.
Chelsea-Manchester United fixture to go ahead, despite tragedy at Emirates.
‘I thought the PM cancelled the game?’ Archer asked, sipping the cup of tea and leaning back in his chair.
Fox shook his head. ‘No. He gave a speech earlier demanding that the match continue in tribute to those killed. They’re carrying out a ceremony before the game and holding a minute’s silence.’
Archer nodded. ‘What time’s kick off?’
‘1:30’ he replied. ‘All we need now is for Farha and the last terrorist to turn themselves in before lunch. Then I can watch the game.’
‘Forget the game, I could sleep for a week,’ mumbled Deakins’ voice from nearby. He was lying back in his chair, his arms folded, his eyes closed.
Archer didn’t reply. He was looking at Shapira across the room as she leaned against the wall, overhearing their conversation.
She was smiling.
‘You a football fan?’ he asked her.
She looked down at him. ‘I am today.’
At that moment, Cobb entered the room, Mac striding in behind him, both of them moving quickly and purposefully. Most of the room was already up and awake and anyone who’d dozed off was given a quick prod or kick. Mac shut the door as Cobb got right down to it, wasting no time.
‘Morning, lads,’ he said. ‘First of all, fantastic work last night. The whole operation was the perfect example of what we stand for as a Unit. You found the target and you took him down.’
He turned to Chalky.
‘I spoke to Downing Street earlier. The Prime Minister wants to meet you after this is over and give you a commendation. Well done. You saved a lot of lives last night.’
There was a small cheer; someone wolf-whistled. But the room quietened immediately.
They could see from the look on his face that Cobb wasn’t finished.
‘I have some more news,’ he continued. ‘Two constables arrested Number Four about half an hour ago. They picked him up at Canary Wharf and he’s over at Limehouse right now getting prepped for an interrogation.’
He paused.
‘The officers who made the arrest saw the suspect coming out of a building. He was disguised as a delivery man, but they’d seen the news and recognised him. Good work on their part. The guard on the front desk said the man entered the building with a large brown package under his arm.’
‘What was it?’ Deakins asked.
‘We don’t know. He left without it.’
Silence.
‘Which building, sir?’ asked Porter, standing to the left by the noticeboards.
Cobb looked at him.
‘One Canada Square.’
The moment he said it, Archer’s blood froze.
Oh shit.
Oh shit shit shit.
THIRTY SEVEN
‘Jesus Christ. That’s the second biggest building in the UK,’ said Deakins.
Cobb nodded.
‘Yes, it is. And unfortunately for us, the business community doesn’t care that it’s a public holiday. We estimate there are just over eight thousand people inside, spread over all floors, and most of the shops on the lower levels are open too.’
He looked at Mac.
‘The evacuation has already begun. CO19 and Bomb Disposal have been deployed over there. But I just spoke to the Prime Minister and he asked that you get down there too.’
There was a pause.
The room was silent as each man considered the sheer scale of the task ahead.
‘How many floors in the building, sir?’ asked Fox.
‘Fifty,’ said Mac. ‘Each one is twenty-eight thousand square feet.
‘Do they know what floor he got off?’ Archer asked.
‘Security is checking the CCTV as we speak. There aren’t any cameras in the stairwell, so he might have stepped out of the lift and moved to a different level.’
There was an uneasy murmur in the room.
‘We could search all week and not find this thing. It’s like finding a needle in a haystack,’ said Deakins.
‘More like a needle in an entire hayfield,’ added Chalky.
Cobb nodded. ‘I know. I’m sorry. But we have to try. Now it could be nothing. Just a hoax. But judging by yesterday’s events, I think we all know what it potentially could be.’
‘If it’s a bomb, the building could blow at any minute,’ said Fox.
Silence.
The room was still. Any positivity had instantly vanished.
Cobb looked at his men.
‘You need to get down there, lads,’ he said, quietly. ‘And make every second count.’
After his arrest on the platform inside the Underground station, Number Four had been taken back upstairs and hauled over to Limehouse Police Station, located nearby by the docks. Officers there had processed the suspect through to holding and he’d been dumped in an interrogation room, alone. Word had spread from a security guard at Canary Wharf that he’d left a package somewhere inside One Canada Square; they were now preparing to ask him what and where it was.
A CID detective stood outside the interrogation cell watching the arrested terrorist closely. His name was Davis. He’d been a Detective Inspector for twelve years and was also the father of a teenage son who’d been at the Emirates stadium the night before. The boy had been in the opposite stand to the explosion and had thus escaped unscathed, but Davis felt his knuckles whiten with fury as he stared through the window at the suspect.
The guy was slumped in his chair, navel-gazing. He was still dressed in the delivery uniform, his hands now cuffed in front of him, resting on his lap.
Davis watched him for a moment.
Time for a little payback.
Before he entered the room, the detective turned and moved through a side door and into the reception area. A younger detective was behind the desk, manning the post.
‘Did you make the call?’ Davis asked.
The man nodded. ‘Yes, sir. They’ve started evacuating the building. EOD and counter-terrorist teams are on their way over there.’
‘Good.’ Davis paused. ‘Now let’s go and see what our friend’s been up to this morning.’
He turned and walked back into the station. He approached the door to the interrogation cell, taking a look inside as he reached for the keys to the door in his pocket.
But the terrorist wasn’t in the chair anymore.
He was lying on the floor, blood pumping from his severed jugular. It was spilling out of him like a ruptured pipe leak.
Davis saw a small work-knife spilled to the floor, fallen from his hand.
The suspect was spasming and shivering on the floor as his blood pooled around him.
‘Oh shit!’ Davis fumbled into his pocket for the keys, staring at the terrorist bleeding to death inside the cell.
The detective next door had heard Davis shout and he ran in from the front desk, catching sight of the wounded man through the glass.
Davis eventually managed to get the key in the lock and twisting it open, the two men ran inside towards the terrorist. He was jerking and gasping like a fish on dry land, lying in a vast pool of blood as his heart pumped it out relentlessly.
Without hesitation, Davis pulled off his suit jacket and clamped it to the man’s neck, trying to staunch the bleeding. But it wasn’t working; the blood just kept coming. Davis and the other detective were covered in it as they knelt beside the man.
Davis snapped his attention down to the small knife lying in the blood. The blade was only an inch long, but that’s all the guy had needed.
‘Where the hell did that thing come from!’
THIRTY EIGHT
Given the quiet Sunday morning streets, the three ARU police cars made it down to the Wharf in just under fifteen minutes. They pulled to a halt in the
Canada Square plaza, the huge building looming above them like a giant monolith. Climbing out of the vehicles, each man slammed his door and shielded his eyes from the sunlight as he gazed up.
The building seemed to go on forever.
Archer stood side-by-side with Porter and Chalky, the three of them looking up in silence, seeing first-hand the enormity of their task.
When Cobb had told them it was this particular structure, Archer had felt his stomach turn. Standing over seven hundred and seventy feet tall, the building housed fifty floors and thousands upon thousands of people who moved in and out of the doors daily. It served as the central hub for London’s hectic trading and financial district. In photographs, the place had always seemed big, its iconic pyramid roof now a familiar part of the London skyline.
Up close, it was enormous.
Deakins was right.
They could search inside for a week and not find anything.
Mac barked an order and the men brought their attention back to the plaza in front of them. Up ahead, scores of people were streaming out of the large entrance to the building. Various vehicles had been parked in the square, most of them street police, their lights flashing. To the right, Archer saw a black van with EOD printed on the side, a man standing beside it talking into a radio. Bomb disposal were already here, which was good. Past the black van, he saw a cluster of other Ford 4x4s, which looked as if CO19, the city’s other main counter-terrorist team, had also arrived.
As one, the ten task force officers made their way past the evacuees flooding the plaza as they headed towards the entrance and the lobby. Shapira and Rivers remained standing by the ARU cars, both staring up at the building. They’d both played a major and crucial part in events yesterday, but this was a job for the task force.
As the ten-man team moved into the lobby, Archer saw the other counter-terrorist unit standing to the left. Much like the ARU, CO19 were the London Metropolitan police’s equivalent of an American SWAT team. The officers were dressed in much the same clothing as the ARU squad, save for the fact that each of them carried an AR15 Carbine assault rifle instead of the ARU MP5. As they arrived to stand side by side, both teams nodded to each other. Their sergeant stepped forward, a big, barrel chested guy with a sandy moustache. Approaching Mac, the two of them shook hands quickly and the other man updated him on the situation.
‘We found him on the surveillance cameras,’ the man said with a gruff voice. ‘He got off on 30. But he could have used the stairs; we’re not sure. Some genius didn’t put any cameras in the stairwell.’
‘Yeah, we heard.’ Mac said.
‘My lads can start on 30 and work our way down. Can your boys work up?’
Mac nodded. Not wasting a second, the burly CO19 sergeant turned back to his men.
‘Listen up!’ he called.
A silence had already fallen. The ARU guys were listening intently too.
‘Here's the situation, lads. As we know, a terrorist suspect was seen leaving this building roughly an hour ago,’ he said, checking his watch. ‘The CCTV is telling us that he got off on the 30th floor, carrying a large brown package that he didn’t bring back down with him. Unfortunately, he could have used the stairs so we’re looking at a radius of probably ten floors each way. We’re going to sweep them all, one by one. Be quick, but be thorough. You see something, call it in and let EOD take over.’
He jabbed his thumb across the lobby towards the main reception desk. Archer saw two members of the EOD, climbing into green blast suits. He recognised them as two of the guys from the shopping centre the night before. The burly CO19 leader continued.
‘My team, we'll start on 30 and work our way down, floor by floor. Sergeant McGuire and the ARU squad are going to work their way up.’
‘Any word from the suspect?’ asked one of the CO19 officers.
The man with the moustache shook his head. ‘He’s dead.’
There was a moment’s pause.
Everyone frowned, confused.
‘He cut his own throat inside a cell at Limehouse,’ the man explained. ‘He must have had a knife or something that they missed when they frisked him. And that means we’re going to have to do this ourselves, lads. Whatever this thing is, it could very well be a shitload of explosives, possibly on a timer. So all of you, move quickly, be thorough and just find the bloody thing. Let’s move.’
He turned immediately, jogging across the marble floor towards the lifts. His men followed immediately behind. Mac turned to the ARU squad.
‘First team, with me to 31,’ he ordered. ‘Deakins, take Second Squad to 32.’
‘Yes, sir,’ the task force said in unison, and together, the group of men headed for the lifts.
Across the city Dominick Farha was staring at the grass by his feet, wondering both what to do and also how the hell he’d ended up back in London.
He was in a small clearing, surrounded by pine-trees and leaning against the side of a small helicopter that had brought him here. He was thinking about the task ahead of him. No matter how many times and different ways he looked at it, the same undeniable fact kept on presenting itself.
I need a gun.
After meeting his uncle in the Parisian café and somehow managing to get out of there alive, Dominick had climbed into the back of the car that was waiting outside on the street. It had taken him through the streets of Paris on a journey that had left him completely clueless, no idea where the hell he was. He’d been tense the whole trip. Half of him suspected it was a trap and there would be an unpleasant final surprise waiting for him whenever or wherever they stopped.
They’d arrived in a small field, gated off from the public; the driver had pulled up alongside a small white helicopter parked in the field.
Once Dominick had stepped out, the car immediately turned around and sped off into the night. He saw a small, wiry man standing by the helicopter and the rear door to the vessel was open.
The guy saw Dominick standing there and without a word, turned his back, and starting climbing into the front seat.
Henry had mentioned these men were reliable and that they worked for an associate. They certainly moved like drug-runners. Neither the pilot nor the man who’d brought him here hung around for a second longer than necessary.
Dominick had glanced behind him cautiously and slowly approached the helicopter. He still wasn’t sure if this was a trap. He didn’t want to turn his back and suddenly get jabbed with an autojet syringe, a pistol-shaped injection weapon that Henry used to sedate his victims.
But no-one was lying in wait. He’d approached the helicopter and climbed in. The pilot wasn’t wasting any time, the rotors were starting to spin, gathering speed, the engine whining as it warmed up. They’d been in the air in less than five minutes and heading back towards London.
The whole journey had taken around ninety minutes. Farha had watched in silence from the back seat as the inky waters of the Channel glinted dully below them in the moonlight, on his guard the entire time.
He didn’t fancy having a gun pulled on him and being told to jump out.
But they’d made it to London around 1am UK time. Dominick was wondering if his man had succeeded at Trafalgar Square, but he had no way of finding out seeing as he’d ditched his mobile phone a few days ago after arranging his escape with Faris.
The helicopter had landed in an empty field under cover of darkness. The pilot had shown great skill. He’d navigated the vessel down in a small clearing, surrounded by a cluster of tall pine trees, the perfect place to lay low.
And if Dominick got a move on, they wouldn’t be there for long.
This whole trip had left a bitter taste in Farha’s mouth. He’d spent a year almost to the minute hatching a plan to get the hell out of this country, but he’d been away for less than an hour then immediately sent back. It was almost laughable. If it had been any other person on the planet telling him to do this Farha would have spat in his face. But his uncle was the one man
who could make him do it; hell, he could make him do whatever he wanted.
After the helicopter had landed, Farha had debated whether to make a move there and then in the darkness, or wait until morning and hatch a plan. The nervous tension of the day had hit him like a freight train and he realised he was more tired than he thought. He’d nodded off in the back of the vessel and had woken up again after the sun had come up.
He hadn’t gone anywhere yet though.
If this whole thing was going to work, he needed to plan his next few moves carefully.
He checked his watch. It was coming up to midday, UK time. The sun filtered in through the trees which was bad. The good weather meant there would be more people on the street, not indoors as there would be during inclement weather. He needed to lay low; his face was all over the news channels and papers and he was the most wanted man in Europe right now.
And Henry’s proposition was a risky one. More than risky; potentially suicidal. It could either be incredibly hard or surprisingly easy. He had to be careful.
And he needed a weapon.
Some sort of gun would be perfect. Anything would do at this point. He cursed. If he had more time and access to weaponry, the job would be a cinch. He could do the deed from a distance and be out of the country before anyone realised what had happened. But where can I get one? He couldn’t risk using a phone, or using one of his old contacts. He couldn’t trust anyone.
A light bulb suddenly turned on in his head; he turned to the pilot.
‘Does your boss have a safe-house here? Any weapons?’
By the front of the vessel, the pilot shook his head as he read a paper.
‘Don’t even bother. I’m not taking you anywhere else. My job was to get you here. If you don’t get going soon, I’ll go ahead and leave without you. I’m going to leave to refuel in ten minutes anyway. If you’re not back by sundown, I’m off.’
Farha felt his temper start to rise.
But he couldn’t react. This guy was the only way he was getting out of the country again.
He thought for a moment, searching for another solution.
‘You got a toolkit?’ he asked.
The guy nodded, not looking up from the paper. ‘Under the front seat.’
Farha moved to the pilot’s door, opening it, and checked under the pilot’s seat. Sure enough, there was a red toolkit there, about the size of a large shoebox.
Pulling it out, Farha put it on the pilot’s seat and opened the box. It was mostly full of stuff he couldn’t use. A map, two flares, some small screwdrivers. But he did find something that could work.
He pulled it out, examining it in his hands.
It was a jack-knife.
He pushed the switch, and the blade slid out. He tested the edge with the tip of his finger. It was as sharp as a razorblade.
Suddenly, he felt a little bit better.
He really needed a gun.
But a knife would do.
THIRTY NINE
High up in One Canada Square, Archer glanced out of a window from the 31st floor. The winter sun was shining down across the city and the view was spectacular. From here, he could see all the landmarks; the London Eye. Big Ben. Westminster. Even Wembley in the distance. Tourists would have paid handsome money for a view like this but he snapped his attention back to the present.
He wasn’t here to sight-see.
He was standing in a long conference room, ten chairs positioned each side of a lacquered, polished table. Across the room Porter was kneeling down, searching under the table and checking the drawers.
‘Nothing,’ he said, shaking his head and climbing back to his feet.
Archer nodded and looked around his end. No luck.
The package wasn’t here.
Together, they left the room and moved swiftly out into the corridor. The 31st floor was a maze of hallways and different rooms. There were endless tables, drawers, cabinets, countless potential hiding places.
Archer looked around and cursed. The damn thing could be anywhere.
Up ahead, Mac appeared from a kitchen, Chalky alongside him. They both looked equally frustrated.
‘Anything?’ Mac asked.
Archer shook his head. Mac then pushed the pressel to his radio, as the three officers beside him continued to sweep the floor.
‘Second Team, report, over.’
Deakins’ voice came up in each man’s earpiece. ‘Nothing up here, Mac’.
Fox’s voice followed. ‘Nothing here either.’
Mac swore and pushed the switch. ‘Keep looking.’
‘Roger that.’
Mac turned to Archer, his face strained and wrought with concern. He knew the suspect had got off on 30, which was nearly the exact middle of the building. Demolition logic meant if the package contained explosives, which it probably had, and if he’d placed them well, they could detonate and the whole building would go down in seconds. The charge would rupture the building’s support systems and the top half would collapse, crushing the lower portion like a crumpled accordion.
‘Go with Chalk up to 33,’ he ordered. ‘Port and I'll finish here. This is all taking too long.’
Archer nodded; together, he and Chalky ran to the stairwell, pulling the door open. The two of them sprinted up towards 33, both increasingly uneasy.
Whatever and wherever the package was, they were running out of time.
Almost directly above them on 32, Deakins and Fox were clearing the floor together. They’d just entered an executive office belonging to someone who was clearly high up the trading food chain. The office contained nice furniture, ornaments and a television that probably cost more than either of them made in a year. A polished desk and chair were pushed against the far wall, taking pride of place.
Deakins whistled. ‘Whatever this guy does, I-‘
Fox suddenly cut him off.
‘Shhhh!’
He jabbed a finger to his lips. Deakins immediately paused.
‘Listen,’ Fox added quietly, his brow furrowed.
Both of them stood motionless, looking at each other as they concentrated their hearing.
Fox was right.
There was a soft sound gently breaking the quiet.
It was so faint, you could barely hear it.
But there was no mistaking what it was.
Ticking.
It was coming from the desk.
Fox crept towards it. The table had three drawers on the left hand side, hidden from view from the door. Softly, Fox knelt beside it and put his ear against the wood.
His eyes widened.
He looked back at Deakins and nodded.
They stayed silent, as if any noise might trigger whatever was hidden within the drawer. Fox took the handle in his hand; Deakins had moved to stand beside him. Fox took a deep breath and then eased the drawer open, as Deakins winced.
The ticking suddenly got louder as it filled the room. They both looked down.
It was just an alarm clock. It was resting on some papers inside the drawer, ticking away like a practical joke.
Sagging with spent tension, Fox reached in and grabbed it. He tossed it to Deakins, who cursed as he caught it.
Fox stood, and turned to his team-mate.
‘Forget this, let’s go to 34.’
Dominick was on his way out of the clearing. He’d walked through the trees and into a park. It was quiet, almost empty. He saw a group of kids away to his left kicking a football around. Behind him, he heard the helicopter take off which meant he needed to get moving.
He passed an old brick wall to his immediate left, part of some house that had been demolished long ago; someone had stacked a series of empty bottles and jars on a smaller brick level just ahead of it, forming a make-shift shooting gallery. He figured some kids had probably been taking pops at the glass with a .22.
God, I wish I had a gun, he thought.
The knife in his pocket had its advantages. It was silent and
wouldn’t jam, but also meant distance would be a problem. Luckily however, Farha was dressed in a suit. At the moment, he looked like a guy who’d woken up in an unfamiliar place after partying too hard the night before, or maybe a guy who’d got lucky and was on his way home, an extra kick to his step.
As he walked, Dominick started smoothing down the suit jacket and adjusting his tie. With a bit of smartening and fixing up, he’d pass for a businessman. He suddenly remembered he had the thick sunglasses in his pocket. He took them out and gave them a quick polish, sliding them up over his nose.
For the first time that day, he smiled. It would be hard for anyone to recognise him now.
He could walk straight up to his destination.
He exited the clearing and turned onto a residential street. The place was quiet, no one around, just the odd car moving slowly along the road. As he was wondering how long it was going to take him to walk, he remembered he had some spare English banknotes stuffed in his wallet. He saw a black taxi turn to move up the road ahead and raised his hand, sunglasses over his eyes, the knife hidden inside the inner pocket of the suit jacket.
The taxi moved forwards and slid to a halt on the kerb beside him. The driver had the window wound down and he looked over at him.
‘Long night?’ he asked with a smile, noticing Farha’s suit and shades.
On the pavement, the most wanted man in the country nodded, smiling.
‘You can say that again.’
33 was just as quiet as the other floors but the lay-out up here was slightly different. The centrepiece of the floor was one large square room that served as the nucleus for the rest of the level. There were scores of desks and chairs in cubicles, walled off from each other to separate each worker and provide privacy, a pretty typical office environment.
Looking around, Archer swallowed.
The place was giving him the creeps.
It was eerie as hell. Pens without their lids had been discarded on desks, resting on documents. Computer screens around the room hummed, cursors blinking expectantly. The evacuation had been so sudden that many of the screens hadn’t yet had time to flip to a screen-saver.
Half-drunk cups of coffee and mid-morning snacks were scattered on various desks.
I thought today was a holiday, thought Archer as he scanned the room. He guessed it was true, the stocks never slept. Chalky suddenly appeared from a conference room across the office floor, looking agitated.
‘Anything?’ Archer asked him.
Chalky shook his head, kicking a swivel chair in frustration. ‘Nothing. Not a damn thing. We could be in here all month and not find it, Arch.’
The blond man pressed the switch on his vest, as he walked back towards the lifts. ‘Mac, this is Archer. I’m with Chalky on 33. I wouldn’t bother coming up here. It looks clear.’
Mac’s voice responded. ‘Roger that. Get up to 35.’
Chalky heard this through his own earpiece and was already moving towards the stairwell, pushing open the door.
Turning, he noticed that Archer had paused.
He was staring at something.
Chalky frowned and walked back to join him.
Archer’s gaze was fixed on a small kitchen, fifteen feet to the right of the stairwell. It looked standard. A coffee machine. Mugs and cups stacked by the sink. A refrigerator. All of it perfectly normal.
Chalky turned to Archer. ‘Arch, what-’
Archer cut him off. He pointed at something inside the kitchen.
Chalky looked.
His gaze landed on the cord to the fridge. It was unplugged. Someone had stuck a piece of paper with Out of Use written in black pen to the front of the unit.
On any other day, that wouldn’t have been any cause for alarm.
But this wasn’t one of those days.
It was slightly out of the ordinary and that was enough for Archer.
Not saying a word, he moved forward slowly, entering the kitchen.
He reached out, his hands touching the front of the white rectangular fridge.
‘It’s warm,’ he said.
Without a word, Chalky had also entered the room. He stepped past Archer and leant forward over the counter, peering behind the back of the refrigerator. He searched for any mechanisms, trips or anything that shouldn’t have been there.
‘Looks clear,’ he said.
They both looked at the handle.
Archer took it carefully in his hand. He turned to Chalky, who realised he was holding his breath.
‘Ready?’
Chalky nodded.
‘Do it.’
Archer pushed down the handle and gently eased the door open.
They both looked inside.
‘Oh my God,’ Chalky whispered.
In the same instant, Archer’s hand flashed to the switch to his radio.
‘Mac! Mac! You need to get up to 33 right now. We’ve found it!’
As Archer called it in, Chalky stared at the inside of the fridge.
The shelves were packed with Semtex plastic explosive.
Each brick was bright orange, almost ludicrously bright. There must have been close to twenty of them, probably more. Conjoining all of the explosives were an assortment of wires, which all led into a small rectangular box. The battery.
The detonator.
But that wasn’t the worst part. There was a panel on the front of the bomb, an electronic clock-face.
There were a series of constantly-changing red numbers on the digital screen.
2:59
2:58
2:57
The bomb was on a timer.
And they had less than three minutes to go.
FORTY
EOD made it up there in just over ninety seconds. Mac had arrived with Porter moments after Archer called it in from the floor below. The frequency was shared with the CO19 team, so he’d already shouted that they had located the device, it was on a timer and that they had less than three minutes, ordering every person to get the hell out of the building.
Only Mac, Archer, Porter and Chalky were left. They stood watching the device, helpless, waiting for the two bomb disposal experts to arrive.
After what seemed an age, the lift finally dinged and two men rushed out, each struggling to run in their green blast suits. They hurried into the kitchen and examined the device before them.
The clock was ticking down.
1:20
1:19
1:18
They reacted instantaneously. One of them started frantically opening a tool box he had brought with him, while the other spun to the four police officers standing behind.
‘Get the hell out of here right now!’
They didn’t need to be told twice. Porter was already moving down the corridor. He jammed his hand in the lift doors, catching them just before they shut, and ducked inside as Archer and Chalky followed.
By the kitchen, Mac took a last look at the two men kneeling by the refrigerator. All his experience had taught him never to leave a man behind.
However, one of them sensed he was still there and whirled around.
‘Go!’
Mac ran to the open lift. Porter was frantically pushing the button for the ground floor.
Eventually the doors closed and the lift started moving down.
In the kitchen, the two bomb experts were scanning for any trip-wires, collapsible circuits, anything that would prevent them from touching it.
The red numbers on the clock face ticked down mercilessly.
1:10
1:09
1:08.
The lift doors opened in the lobby. The moment the metal doors parted, the four officers rushed out and sprinted towards the front entrance. Ahead of them outside, police and CO19 officers were frantically trying to push the gathered crowd back from the plaza.
There were hundreds of people out there.
Archer glanced back as he ran, checking to make sure there
was no one left behind. He didn’t see four stairs that led to a lower level in front of him and he stumbled, landing on his ankle awkwardly and heavily.
There was a loud crack. He fell to the floor, shouting in pain, as his three team-mates ran through the exit and out into the sunny plaza.
Chalky, hearing the shout, turned and realised Archer was still inside, staggering to his feet from the floor and trying to get out of the building.
Without hesitation, he ran back for him.
He sprinted across the lobby and hooked his friend’s arm around his shoulder.
‘C’mon Arch, we’ve gotta go!’
Helping his friend, Chalky took Archer’s weight as the two of them moved to the doors as fast as possible.
They made it outside and moved as quickly as they could across the plaza, Archer grimacing in pain.
Thirty-three floors up, the clock ticked to 0:30.
Thirty seconds to go.
The two men worked fast. All their training and experience came down to this; if the bomb exploded, the two of them would become vapour in an instant.
The lead guy was called Harry Jameson. He was a Staff Sergeant and one of the best. The device in front of him was his hundred and ninety-fourth. He’d done two tours of Afghanistan with 11 EOD Regiment, the Explosive Ordnance Disposal, men and women responsible for defusing IEDs and bombs left by the Taliban and the rebels. Before that, he’d done five months in Iraq in 2003. There, he’d knelt before everything aside from a nuclear weapon.
But this batch of Semtex was the most powerful device he’d ever seen. He couldn’t move it; he didn’t have time to anyway and it would most definitely go off if disturbed by motion. He couldn’t cut into the Semtex and extract the explosive materials into an acid bath. He didn’t have time. The bomber had fitted an anti-defusing device behind the panel, tucked away from view. It was an electronic fuse, an even charge running through it. If Jameson tried to cut one of the wires, it would sense the difference in current and react, triggering the explosives. That meant every wire was tripped. And the bomb in front of him wasn’t like those from the movies, where the wires were all different colours.
Every wire on this device was red.
Distinguishing them was a nightmare.
‘Shit!’ his partner said, seeing the time running out.
Jameson was thinking, thinking.
Suddenly, he jerked round to the other man.
‘Liquid nitrogen!’
The guy reacted instantly, and pulled a spray gun from a pocket on his thigh.
Jameson grabbed it and started spraying the battery and anti-defusing device. It wouldn’t stop the device from detonating, all it would do was delay it. When the countdown ended, a charge would kick through the battery into the blasting cap. Jameson could freeze the battery, buying them seconds.
Once it warmed to room temperature, the charge would go through.
The device would blow. He would have to cut the wire leading into the battery within the following few seconds.
If the battery wasn’t frozen, the bomb would explode.
The red numbers on the digital clock ticked down.
0:05
0:04
0:03
‘C’mon!’ screamed Jameson, squeezing the gun as hard as he could, willing the battery to freeze.
‘C’MON!’
Outside in the plaza, people were fleeing. The ARU officers took cover behind parked police cars, looking up.
Time was up.
It didn’t blow.
The battery had frozen. But the charge was in there.
They had seconds.
Jameson grabbed a set of pliers and found the wire.
‘Hurry, Joe, hurry!’ his partner said.
And with one swift movement, Jameson clicked it in half.
And just like that, they were safe. The cut wire had severed the current.
The bomb was defused.
Both men sagged with relief. They rocked back to sit against the wall, their chests heaving. They were both covered with sweat.
Jameson turned to his partner and shook his head.
‘Jesus Christ. I need to get a new job.’
Outside, the crowd was confused.
‘What happened?’ shouted Mac to a third bomb disposal member, standing by the EOD truck.
The guy was listening to the radio, covering one ear with his free palm. He suddenly smiled and called out.
‘We’re good. We’re good!’ he repeated. ‘It’s defused! They did it!’
Everyone in the plaza sagged with relief, like hundreds of balloons deflating all at once. There was a small round of applause and some cheers.
Behind one of the ARU vehicles, Archer had taken cover next to Porter and Chalky. The three of them had their backs to the car, but Archer was grimacing in agony, his ankle feeling like it was broken.
‘Good job,’ Porter said happily. ‘We did it, Arch.’
‘Great,’ the younger man muttered, his teeth clenched against the pain.
Right then in the north of the city, the taxi driver had just arrived at his passenger’s requested destination. He was about to pull into the place, but Farha asked him to keep going down the road. The guy obliged, they came to a stop beside some office buildings in the heart of the city.
Farha paid the fare then got out, shutting the door. The cab drove off and he was left alone.
He turned and started walking slowly back down the way they’d just come. The street was relatively busy, but wasn’t hectic. As he strolled, he came across a newsstand. Terror strikes city said one of the tabloid headlines. London rocked by terrorism said another.
He glanced at the headlines but didn’t slow and continued to the end of the street. He stopped by the corner; leaning against the wall, he casually peered round at the address he’d been given.
It was an impressive building.
He looked hard, but couldn’t see what he was after.
He briefly considered making a move, but decided against it.
He’d scope it out.
Wait for his target, who’d appear soon enough.
Then he’d move in and be out of here before anyone knew what had happened.
FORTY ONE
‘So let’s get this straight,’ said Deakins, leaning against one of the Unit vehicles. ‘We’ve spent the last twenty-four hours going to war with a nine man terrorist cell. Ten, if you include the girl at the airport. And the only injury we sustain is when Archer trips and breaks his own ankle.’
There was laughter, a welcome release from the tension of the last twenty four hours. The team had gathered around in a ragged circle. Archer was being helped by Chalky and Porter into the front seat of one of the cars. He laughed with the other officers, but the jolting jarred pain into his foot, so the laughter changed to wincing.
‘I’m never going to hear the end of this, am I,’ he mumbled through gritted teeth, shaking his head. The men chuckled as Porter moved around the car to the driver’s seat.
He climbed in and both men pulled their doors shut.
‘C’mon Arch, I’ll take you back to the Unit,’ he said, inside the car. ‘We’ll get you patched up.’
Archer nodded as he grimaced in pain. ‘Thanks.’
Porter fired the engine and the vehicle moved off back towards the Unit’s HQ.
The men watched them go, still grinning. The remaining officers were standing in a circle in the plaza, enjoying a moment of much-needed relaxation. Smiling, Mac looked around his men.
‘Hey, where’s Fox?’
‘I forgot to tell you, Sarge,’ said Deakins. ‘He left with the woman, Agent Shapira, a few minutes ago.’
‘Why? Where’d they go?’
‘She said she’d received an urgent call from her agency. There was some kind of situation at Stamford Bridge.’
‘The football ground? There’s a game there today, isn’t there?’
‘No, it was cancelled, out of re
spect,’ said one of the other officers, Mason.
Deakins shook his head. ‘No, he’s right, the game’s still on. United-Chelsea. Kick-off's in twenty minutes,’ he added, checking his watch.
Mac frowned, thinking.
‘Why the hell wasn’t it cancelled?’ he asked.
‘The Prime Minister demanded that it take place,’ Chalky said. ‘I think he’s there, with his family. They’re doing a big remembrance ceremony before the game.’
‘Shapira didn’t have a car so Fox offered to take her,’ Deakins told Mac. ‘You know he’s a big United fan. He probably just wanted to be outside the ground before the game.’
Mac frowned again, his brow furrowed.
‘But what the hell do Mossad want down there?’
He paused, thinking.
He didn’t like it.
‘And what situation is there that we don’t know about?’
Just as the officers were discussing this in the plaza, back at the ARU’s HQ Nikki had stolen her first moment of quiet in what seemed like forever.
She was sitting behind her desk in the Operations area. Cobb and Crawford had been standing beside her moments before; the computer system in front of her was hooked up the police radio so they’d heard all the drama unfold in One Canada Square. The building secure, the bomb disarmed and everyone safe, the two men had retreated to catch their breath and take stock of the situation.
Glancing over her shoulder, Nikki saw Cobb sat at his desk. Crawford had said he was going outside for a cigarette.
His presence here was making her curious. The DEA’s arrival and involvement in the Unit’s case had only been explained in passing to her and Cobb and the American had been working side-by-side the whole time, which was unusual for Cobb. Nikki knew he hated to be lumbered with unnecessary operational weight so she was surprised by his apparent willingness to work with Special Agents Crawford and Rivers.
Over the last twenty-four hours, she’d heard snapshots of conversations between them, especially during the times she’d entered Cobb’s office. She hadn’t heard explicit details, but she’d picked up that Crawford was trying to take down some Middle Eastern drug cartel. That was pretty much it.
But she’d also heard one name over and over again. It seemed to be involved in every conversation she caught.
Henry.
It seemed a curious and bizarre name for someone involved in a cartel. It sounded so quaint, and English. Unthreatening. With some time to kill and her curiosity piqued, she clicked onto the Unit’s database and typed in the name Henry. The ARU shared a lot of files with MI5, MI6 and GCHQ, not to mention the Met’s database and crime log, so thousands of results came up.
She narrowed the search, typing Henry Drug.
This time, hundreds of results. She tried one more time.
She typed Henry Cartel.
This time, just one file came up.
She clicked it open.
There was a moderate amount of information inside. They had a surveillance photograph of a large man, taken from what looked like the inside of a bar. He was vastly overweight, wearing a beige suit that was bulging at the seams from his excess body fat. He had small dark eyes, a bald head, and was looking in the photographer’s direction, which was unnerving; he had a cold, hard, emotionless face.
Nikki examined him for a moment, then clicked off his photograph, reading on.
There was quite a bit of information about him. Not so much for his apparent involvement in drugs, but for his potential terrorist intentions. The log said that both his parents had been killed when a British missile had hit his house during the Gulf war. Cobb had mentioned yesterday that the attacks in London were designed for Dominick Farha to win back favour with some cartel. She could now see why he’d chosen the UK as a target.
Amongst the detailed commentaries, there was another file. It came from someone called McArthur. She clicked it open.
It contained a series of surveillance shots and a report from 2006. She examined it. It appeared that McArthur had been an undercover detective with MI5. He’d been positioned in a bar in the Upper West Side neighbourhood of New York City. His team were working to bring down a Real IRA cell recruiting and buying weapons. They’d been tipped off that in the bar that night the leader of the cell and a prominent East Coast gun runner would meet.
However, the meeting had never taken place but there had been another surprise. The operative, McArthur, couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw who walked through the door. He emphasised in the report the freak coincidence. He knew of Henry who was a priority foreign target for the agency. The man was renowned for being extremely hard to both track down.
And here he was, inside this bar in New York.
Clicking on a photo, Nikki saw the initial surveillance shot of Henry. McArthur had taken it from his seat in the bar. She continued reading the report. The agent said that someone had entered the bar and met with the drug lord.
Suspected family member, McArthur had written on the report. Treats her like such. Not a lover.
Nikki saw that there were more photos in the file. She clicked them open. The person had their back turned in all of them.
But then in one shot they’d turned, her face looking down the bar past McArthur who’d taken a photograph.
Nikki gasped.
She couldn’t believe what she was seeing.
The woman was Agent Shapira.
She was sitting with Henry in the bar.
FORTY TWO
The man known as Henry had a reputation for being impossible to scare or intimidate. He cared about nothing, nor anybody but himself. He murdered government agents and members of his own crew for fun; he’d even killed his own brother-in-law after he'd once drunkenly mocked him for his weight.
As the head of a cartel, it was impossible to gain leverage on him. Over the years many had tried; rivals, upstarts, young guys from the surrounding areas who, in a state of delusion, thought he could be stopped or dethroned. But each story ended the same way. They all ended up either shot in the face or at the bottom of the sea, seventy pounds of concrete moulded to their feet, screaming as they plummeted into the abyss.
But there was one thing no one knew about him. Not a soul.
Henry had a secret. Only one. But it was powerful enough that he would sacrifice his entire business for it in a heart-beat.
His daughter.
Mia.
Her mother was a maid who’d lived inside his compound. Henry had drunkenly mounted her one night when he was eighteen, still a lieutenant in the business and the next time he’d laid eyes on her, the bitch was three months pregnant. He considered drowning her but decided to wait, curious to see what effect a child would have on him. If it was a boy, he was even considering raising him as an heir, seeing as when the woman was seven months pregnant he’d ascended to his position at the top of the cartel.
But it had been a girl. The first moment he saw her, Henry experienced a feeling that he didn’t like. Attachment. He realised he actually cared about the child much to his surprise.
But he hated it; it felt uncomfortable and unfamiliar. It also meant one thing, and he knew without a doubt it would mean the same word to his enemies.
Leverage.
After the girl was born he’d kept the maid and baby in the compound, hidden away from the outside world and prying eyes. Only two other people, a pair of other maids, knew of the baby and who the father was so they were quickly disposed of. And one night, twenty five years ago, he’d put the maid and baby on his private jet and flown them to New York, far away from any potential danger. It was a fact of life that if word got out that there was someone he cared about, the child would one day either be held hostage or killed. It was inevitable, like the sun rose and set every day.
He had snuck meetings across the Atlantic to see the child. He couldn’t afford to risk using JFK or Newark, so he used a private airfield in New Jersey and had then taken a limo into the city. He�
�d set the two of them up in a place in the Upper West Side, on 79th and Amsterdam, a safe neighbourhood. It had been dangerous going there alone. He couldn’t take any security with him due to the secrecy and he had a lot of enemies stateside, both Federal and criminal. When the child had been old enough to attend private school, he’d enrolled her and strangled her mother. And with each passing year, Mia was proving to be an increasingly pleasant surprise. She was definitely her father’s daughter.
He saw that she was not intimidated by pain or death. She didn’t mourn her mother’s passing. She was resilient, resourceful and also highly intelligent. Despite his passion for secrecy, Henry had shared more and more with her until eventually, she knew the ins and outs of his entire business. His passion for drowning his enemies. His associates. The obscene profits. Rather than be scared she had often provided surprisingly sound advice for him on ventures and people who needed to be eliminated. And all this while living in New York, anonymous in the city.
To her friends, she was Mia, the college grad.
To Henry she was his pride and joy, the only other person in the world he cared for.
She was also the only person in the world that he trusted implicitly. He’d called her from Riyadh a year ago on a private and secure line. She had never heard him so angry. He informed her of what Dominick had done at the Four Seasons and the new enemies they now had as a consequence. The other organisation had contacted Henry in a rage, demanding answers and blood. Henry had promised them retribution; but he needed Mia’s help.
Unlike her father, there was no black mark against her name on any government databases. She had a fake passport and no one had any idea who she really was.
Henry asked her to fly to England, to track down her idiot cousin.
And to take him out.
The prospect of murder didn’t intimidate her. Henry had helped her kill her first man when she was fifteen. The guy was an informant, so he deserved what he got. Henry had injected the man with an autojet sedative, knocking him out cold and he showed Mia how to cinderblock and cement a victim. He’d let her push the guy into the Hudson from a boat in the early morning, the man’s mouth duct-taped, his eyes wide as saucers, Henry’s proudest moment as a father.
For Mia, finding Dominick had been easy. The guy was a complete idiot. He’d rented a flat in a part of London called Knightsbridge using his real name on the lease, showing just how stupid he really was. As a result she tracked him down quickly, but before she made a move something told her to stay back and observe, just for a few days, to see what he was up to. Slowly but surely, as she tailed him wherever he went, she realised what he was doing. It looked as if he was recruiting some kind of cell. She’d even followed them on a train to a deserted plain in south Wales two months ago, and watched from far away with binoculars as the cell practiced demolitions out there on the moor.
But her interest was fading. She had a job to do. When she got back to London from the Welsh moor she’d called her father, telling him how she’d found Dominick and where. She offered to waste him the moment he got back.
But Henry had been intrigued. The boy had always been a disappointment, just like his father.
Could he finally be about to do something useful?
Mia had reluctantly held back. She was worried for her father. If the police got wise and took Dominick into custody, he knew far too much about Henry’s business to be safe. She’d reminded him of this fact on the telephone three days ago. He’d come to his senses and finally gave the order for her to move in and take him out.
She’d broken into his apartment that night with a silenced pistol, ready to shoot him between the eyes as he slept.
But he wasn’t there.
He’d packed his bags and was gone.
Pulling back from the apartment, Mia had wracked her brains, trying to figure out where he could be. She didn’t have a clue and was angry with herself for letting him slip away. But yesterday morning, as she prowled the street trying to think, she’d caught a glimpse of a television in a shop window. It was giving breaking news of a raid on a house in North London. She’d raced over there as fast as she could, easily getting past the police cordon and breaking into a house opposite the street. From her vantage point, she’d seen police officers arresting two members of the cell that she recognised from the Welsh moor.
She’d contacted Henry, telling him of the situation. If the cops got hold of Farha before they did, he knew enough to bring down the entire cartel. Henry’s response had surprised her. He told her to forget about him. He’d take care of it. But he wanted her to do something else.
For all Dominick’s stupidity and clumsiness, he’d given Henry an idea.
She knew her father hated the UK. He’d been sent to school with his sister during the Gulf war only to return and find a crater where their house should have been. That had planted a seed of hate inside the boy that had grown over time. Aside from Mia, his mother was the only other person he’d ever truly cared about and the British had killed her. Although inept, Dominick’s intentions had been on the money. Henry had never dabbled in terrorism.
But the boy had wet his beak.
He’d arranged for a package to be delivered from Riyadh and contacted a man in the UK who would send it where it needed to go. The guy wouldn’t fail. He was part of Henry’s team. Mia had listened to the plan; it was genius. If it worked, it would go down in history and no one would ever realise their involvement.
But then a major problem had arisen.
One of Dominick’s morons had blown himself up at the Emirates.
Security would have been tough to infiltrate before, but now it would be like breaching Fort Knox. That was even if the game ever took place. Mia and Henry had been about to give up, thinking the whole plan was finished, but then they got a stroke of luck. The Prime Minister hadn’t cancelled the other matches that weekend. Better still, he was going to be attending the Chelsea-Manchester game with his wife; it was as if fate had intervened for Henry and Mia.
Through her surveillance photographs from the raided house, she’d learned that the squad of policemen who made the bust were known as the Armed Response Unit, some new police detail set up by the English government. Judging by the way they took charge at the crime scene, Mia figured they had access everywhere. She’d followed one of their cars back to what she assumed was their headquarters.
When the bomb had gone off at the stadium, she’d tailed them there too. Across the car park, she’d seen four of them separate and run back to one of their vehicles, jumping in and speeding off. She’d followed them all the way to a shopping centre, but there was a logistical problem when she got there. The police had parked on Parkfield Street, but there was nowhere for her to go.
There was a gathering crowd outside and she didn’t want to draw attention to herself, thus she’d been forced to drive around the block, ending up on the other side of the shopping mall, on Upper Street. And just as she was preparing to get out and move in to see what was happening, she couldn’t believe her luck.
One of Farha’s men was right there in front of her on the street.
He was standing beside an ambulance. She watched him attempt to detonate something and saw that it failed. He’d jumped into the ambulance and she followed him to the stadium. She figured out his plan the moment she saw him approach the Emirates, so she held back and took him out just before he could detonate the device. She had considered detonating it herself, but then the police officer had appeared. It was perfect. She pulled the fake badge Henry’s guys had made her a few months previously. Agent Shapira. Mossad, she’d said. She’d watched the cop look at her badge, then at the unconscious terrorist.
She’d saved the day.
Infiltrating the police unit had been surprisingly easy. She knew enough about Dominick’s cell to back up her Mossad story and she’d already earned their trust by busting up the ambulance bomber. Her plan was to lay low until Sunday when she’d need their hel
p to get past security at the football stadium. But when she’d taken out the guy with the rocket launcher, they were practically throwing her a party.
But one thing had taken her by surprise. She was keeping to herself inside the Unit’s headquarters but she couldn’t help notice the presence of the two American agents. Crawford and Rivers. From the DEA. Through overheard conversations and snippets of trusted detail from Rivers, she pieced together that they’d been building a giant case against Henry. But not only him. The evidence they’d gathered incriminated other cartels. She knew of such a method of trial. They called it a RICO case.
Trial by association, in other words.
After she’d whacked the kid with the rocket launcher on the roof, Rivers was totally on her side. She’d used her increased standing to ask him for details about the DEA operation’s situation, and he’d told her that they had two men tailing a drug buy at an airfield outside Paris. It was the culmination of their entire operation he told her. Henry was never seen present at a deal.
If they captured him tonight, it would be the closure they needed to bring down the cartel and all those around it.
Panic had kicked in then. She’d managed to sneak a phone call to Henry, warning him off, and he’d sent some of his men to fix the problem. Soon after, she’d received a phone call from a private number. A man she didn’t know. He’d confirmed that Henry’s package from Riyadh was in place.
The rest was up to her.
Where Dominick had screwed up was his rationale. He had figured the more bombers he had, the bigger the destruction. That wasn’t true. What he should have done was pick his targets carefully. Like Mia. Stamford Bridge football ground was the home of Chelsea football club. It had a maximum capacity of 41,837. Over 41,000 souls in one place, every single one of them distracted, focused on events on the pitch.
And today the Prime Minister would be there.
So would his wife.
How ironic, she thought.
They all gather to mourn the dead, yet every single one of them will die before the end of the first half.
She smiled to herself at the thought.
She was sitting alongside one of the ARU officers in his car, making their way to the stadium. She’d given him some bullshit story about how Mossad needed her help at the ground. Some kind of situation, she’d said vaguely, but much to her pleasure the idiot had driven her down willingly.
She was planning to kill him, but wouldn’t get rid of him yet.
She still needed him to get her inside.
Beside her, the cop pulled to the kerb on Fulham Broadway. Around the car, fans in blue and red shirts were pushing forward, heading to the entrance turnstiles of the large football stadium. This was as close as they could get to the stadium without walking.
‘Here we are,’ he said, applying the handbrake.
He turned, noticing a grin on Shapira’s face.
‘What are you smiling about?’
‘Just looking forward to the game,’ she replied. ‘Let’s go.’
FORTY THREE
The first thing Nikki did was rush straight to Director Cobb’s office.
She barged in without knocking and immediately told him what she’d found. He’d listened closely, then jumped up from behind his desk and ran through to the Ops room to Nikki's computer to see for himself.
Right now Nikki was frantically trying to pull any files on Shapira, but there was nothing. No one anywhere seemed to have any idea who she was.
At that moment, Cobb’s mobile phone rang. Pulling it out of his pocket, he saw it was Mac.
‘Mac, are you on speaker-phone?’
‘No, sir.’
‘I need you to apprehend Agent Shapira right now!’
There was a pause.
‘She’s not here, sir. She’s gone.’
‘What? Gone where?’
‘She said her people had needed her at Stamford Bridge. The football stadium. Fox is driving her down there.’
Cobb swore.
‘Get on the phone to Fox right now. Order him to make the arrest. Get over there as fast as you can.’
‘What’s this all about, sir?’
Nikki turned to Cobb, having realised the connection. ‘Oh my God.’
He looked at her, the phone to his ear.
‘She’s Dominick Farha’s cousin.’
At the stadium, it was ten minutes until kick off. Scores of wreaths and tributes had been laid outside the ground, including many Arsenal and Tottenham Hotspur shirts with messages and tributes written on the front. They were gathered by the gates like a sort of shrine.
Shapira ignored them as she moved with Fox towards the entrance. Armed security and police were everywhere. At the entrance, one of them stepped forward, seeing that the ARU officer was armed.
‘Who are you?’ he asked.
‘Ryan Fox. I’m with the ARU,’ he said, pulling a badge from a sleeve on his uniform. ‘This is Agent Shapira. She’s with Mossad.’
The man turned his attention to her. She’d already pulled her badge and ID and passed them over, cool and calm. The forgery was perfect. He examined them both for a moment, then passed them back, satisfied.
‘OK, so what can I do for you?’ he asked.
Fox turned to Shapira, letting her take over.
‘Some of my team are already inside,’ she said. ‘We think there might be a security issue.’
‘Not likely,’ the guy said stubbornly. ‘And whatever it may be, it’s not your issue. Our team will handle it.’
‘We can stand here wasting time, or you can listen to me and we can go fix the problem,’ she said. Her phone rang in her pocket. She grabbed it and saw it was Henry’s private line. Thinking on the spot, she showed them the ringing phone. ‘See? They’re calling me right now. You can come with me and see for yourself.’
The guard thought for a moment.
‘OK. Fine,’ he said. ‘But both of you, weapons stay here. You can collect them on the way out.’
Fox nodded. He checked the safety on his MP5 and un-looped the strap from his shoulder. He passed it over, along with the Glock 17 pistol from its holster by his hip. The guard took the guns and put them in a security hut behind him. Shapira pulled her Sig Sauer pistol and passed it over.
The guard nodded. ‘OK. So let’s go.’
Together, the three of them moved into the ground. There was still a large crowd outside the stadium itself as fans bought match-day programmes and drinks before taking their seats in the stands.
As they moved forward, Fox felt the phone on his tac vest vibrate as it rang. He pulled it out. It was probably Mac, calling him back to the Wharf.
He answered it. ‘Mac?’
He heard murmuring at the other end but he could barely hear him over the crowd. He turned, putting his finger in his other ear.
‘Speak up, Sarge. I can’t hear you,’ Fox shouted.
‘Fox, take Shapira into custody!’
Fox frowned. ‘What? Why?’
‘She’s Dominick Farha’s cousin!’
Fox froze.
He felt the hackles on his neck rise.
‘Don’t let her out of your sight. We’re on our way!’
Mac’s voice disappeared. The next moment, Fox spun around.
But Shapira was gone.
He scanned the area around him, but she was nowhere to be seen.
She’d vanished into the crowd.
FORTY FOUR
The Sunday afternoon lack of traffic meant the ARU police car moved at break-neck speed through the streets. Stamford Bridge to Canary Wharf was approximately nine miles; behind the wheel, Deakins had an encyclopaedic knowledge of the city roads, and he was putting all that information to good use. The streets flashed past; they were almost there, making fast time.
When they’d received the call from Cobb outside One Canada Square the officers had hit a problem. They only had one car. Fox had taken one of them with Shapira, Porter the other
to take Archer back to the Unit’s HQ. They didn’t have time to arrange other transportation, so only four of them could go.
Deakins was behind the wheel, Mac in the front seat beside him. Behind, Chalky was on the right, Rivers to his left. Mac realised that the American had spent a lot of time with the woman over the last twenty-four hours. He figured he might have some ideas as to where she could be.
He checked his watch again. 1:26pm.
‘Floor it, Deaks,’ he ordered.
The officer behind the wheel nodded, and pushed his foot down, the vehicle speeding on towards the stadium.
Inside the stadium, Mia was now on a lower level.
She’d been waiting for the two policemen to turn their backs. All she needed was a split-second. They’d given her an opportunity and in a heartbeat, she’d taken her chance and gone. She knew they’d call in her sudden disappearance via radio and alert other members of the security upstairs.
She needed to get on the lower level before they did.
And she had. Upstairs, it sounded as if the players were now walking out onto the pitch. There was thunderous noise above her as the fans cheered their arrival. The place rumbled as if they were on a fault line and it was an earthquake.
The white corridor she was currently striding down was empty; all the security were watching the crowd or the players on the pitch.
Not down here.
But just at that moment, a guard appeared from around the corner ahead of her. He frowned when he saw Mia walking towards him and moved forward, confronting her.
‘Who are you?’ he asked.
She didn’t respond, bearing down on him.
Then suddenly, she lunged her body forward. Her hands were up, going for his throat. She grabbed his neck either side and with a violent wrench she broke it with terrifying speed, as if it was a dry twig, killing him in an instant.
Once he flopped to the floor, she grabbed his body by the ankles, and pulled it around the corner. As she did so, she saw that she’d arrived where she needed to be.
Ahead of her was a vending machine, Coca Cola printed on the front, white letters over a red background. Dumping the guy’s body beside it, she leaned back and double-checked both sides of the corridor again.
She was alone.
She pulled something from the rear waistband of her suit trousers, hidden by her jacket. It was a small electronic tool. A screwdriver. She reached up and pushing the tool into a slot in the corner of the front panel of the vending machine, she pulled the small trigger.
The tool whined and it started spinning the first screw on the drinks machine, drawing it out.
Across the city, Porter pulled to a halt outside the Unit’s headquarters. Archer was beside him, wincing in pain. On their way back, Mac had called Porter’s phone, ordering him to get over to Stamford Bridge as quickly as he could. He hadn’t been specific, he’d just said there was some situation with Shapira and for Porter to get down there as soon as possible.
Archer looked out of the window and saw that they were outside the ARU car park, twenty five yards from the building.
‘I’ve got to get over there, Arch,’ Porter said. ‘Don’t want to piss Mac off.’
Archer nodded, pushing open his door with a grimace.
‘Thanks for the lift. I’ll see you shortly,’ he said through his teeth.
‘Alright, mate. Take care. Get someone inside to take a look at that ankle.’
Archer nodded as he climbed out awkwardly and slammed the door behind him. He found he could put the slightest pressure on his foot, but not much.
He hopped and hobbled into the car park like an old man as he heard Porter speed off behind him.
Suddenly, he realised something and swore. He’d left his MP5 on the back seat of the car. The Unit had a strict policy on the care and protection of their weapons; he was going to be in deep shit with Mac when he found out.
Cursing his carelessness, Archer limped into the car park and started hobbling slowly towards the entrance twenty five yards away
The place was quiet save for a solitary figure standing to the left of the doors.
Looking closer, Archer saw it was the DEA agent, Crawford, smoking a cigarette.
Archer gritted his teeth and continued on towards him.
The police car containing the three ARU officers and Rivers screeched to a halt on Fulham Broadway. They saw the other Unit vehicle, parked there on the kerb.
Climbing out, the four men ran towards the entrance gates. Even from here they could hear a voice on a microphone inside the stadium, calling for a minute’s silence to remember the lives lost at the Emirates last night. They saw Fox approaching them from inside the ground, a cluster of guards with him.
Mac and his three companions were let into the ground without delay, their weapons still in hand. He strode towards Fox who had arrived by a small boxed room by the gate.
The guard inside passed him over his weapons.
‘Where is she?’ Mac asked.
‘She was out here, Sarge. I turned my back to talk to you and when I looked back, she was gone.’
Mac kept his voice low as a sudden silence had fallen inside the stadium. He turned to the men around him. Including the stadium security, there were nine of them.
‘Find her!’ he said urgently, in a hushed voice.
The men nodded.
The nine of them split up, and they ran into the bowels of the stadium.
Back in the car park at the ARU, Archer was struggling to make it to the doors.
His ankle was causing him agony. He could put hardly any pressure on it at all and he was severely pissed off. This would put him out of action for the next couple of months and it had all happened because of his carelessness. With him out of action, some other guy could come in and momentarily take his spot.
Gritting his teeth, he looked up and saw that by the doors, Crawford had noticed the young police officer’s struggle to get across to the entrance.
Flicking away the cigarette, the American started walking forward to help him.
On the lower level of the stadium, Mia finished with the last screw on the front of the vending machine. Placing the electric screwdriver to one side, she grabbed the panel and pulled.
The front of the machine lifted away.
Inside the rectangular metal box, there were no cans of drinks.
There were two large canisters instead, each containing glowing amber liquid.
Black lettering was printed vertically down each cylinder.
VX Nerve Gas
It was the most lethal nerve agent ever synthesised, five hundred times more toxic than cyanide. Once inhaled, the gas shut down an enzyme in the body that controlled muscle and nerve function. A person would shudder and fit so hard they either bit off their own tongue or swallowed it. Their back would break from the muscle spasms.
And they’d die, their skin melting, blood pouring from every orifice.
She smiled and looked inside the transparent casing of each cylinder. The liquid was oily, golden in colour. Seemingly innocent enough. But these two canisters of liquid would kill every person in the stadium with ease once it was airborne. And scores more unlucky enough to be outside on the street would die from the fallout.
The weapon had been sitting in Henry’s private aircraft hangar for almost a year, an unwanted gift from an associate who’d requested a large haul of meth and who couldn’t front up the cash. Beside the canisters was tucked a silenced pistol, a Heckler and Koch USP. Mia smiled. Her father knew any weapon she had would be confiscated at the gate; he’d even thought to include a silencer.
She reached forward, taking the weapon and racking the slide, loading a round in the chamber and flicking off the safety catch.
With her bare hands, she was dangerous.
Now, she’d be close to unstoppable.
Returning her attention to the nerve gas, she set to work arming the device. She would detonate the gas via
a remote trigger. The switch for the detonation was also tucked inside. She’d make her way out of the ground and push it from a safe distance.
Suddenly, she realised the stadium upstairs had gone quiet.
A minute’s silence, she thought.
The whole place was as silent as a church in prayer.
But not for long, she thought, with a grin.
In the sunny car park across the city, Archer was glad to see the American approaching. Even only light hopping was jarring savage pain up into his body from the ankle. He’d need help before he got any further. The DEA agent was fifteen yards away and closing.
As he approached, something over the man’s shoulder caught Archer’s attention. Another figure had entered the car park. Archer didn’t recognise him, but he was walking fast, approaching Crawford from behind.
The guy was dressed in a suit and sunglasses; there was something about him that seemed familiar.
And then, all of a sudden, the guy’s face rang a bell, even behind the shades.
Archer froze.
He realised who it was.
For a split-second, he wondered if he was delirious from the pain.
But he blinked and realised what he was seeing was real.
Dominick Farha was walking straight towards Special Agent Crawford.
