by Barber, Tom
‘Good morning.’ Bale looked around. ‘Where's Joel?’
‘He took sick. I'm covering his shift.’
Bale nodded. The guard had a pad and pen in his hands.
‘Your name please sir?’
‘Dr Bale. My team should already be here.’
‘Yes, they're all upstairs. You’re the last one. I'll just buzz you in.’
The guard pushed a button under his desk and the glass panel beside the desk slid back. He smiled warmly.
‘You have a good morning, sir.’
Bale nodded as he walked forward and approached the lift, pushing the button. The door in front of him opened immediately. He stepped inside and pressed 3, mentally running through all the tasks he and his team had to work on today. A few seconds later, the lift dinged again and the doors slid open on the third floor.
He walked forward, looking at the folder in his hand and his mind on the day ahead, but suddenly sensed someone standing in front of him.
He looked up.
A large man with thick black curly hair was blocking his path.
No one else was around.
The man's arm was outstretched; he was gripping a pistol aimed straight at Dr Bale’s forehead.
Bale dropped his folder and briefcase, shocked, and raised his hands instinctively.
Behind the handgun, the man’s face was cold and hard. He nudged the pistol to Bale’s right.
‘Move.’
Dr Bale did what he was told, staring at the weapon, too scared to object.
‘Keep going.’
Dr Bale kept walking.
He arrived at a colleague's office. The door was closed.
‘Open it.’
Dr Bale did.
As the door pushed back he saw with horror that a pile of bodies had been dumped inside, all of them shot in the head. They were all the members of his team, dumped one on top of the other. Amidst the heap he caught a glimpse of a security guard’s uniform. Joel. The white-tiled floor was pooled and caked with dried blood.
‘Whh-what-,’ he stammered, fear making his vocal cords seize up.
‘Inside.’
Trying not to faint, Dr Bale did as he was told. At his feet, he could see the dead faces of his colleagues and friends. Some of the most brilliant scientists in the country.
Their eyes open and lifeless.
‘Against the wall.’
Bale moved back to the wall, but self-preservation kicked in. He started trying to reason with the man.
‘Please. I’m beg-’
He never finished the sentence. The weapon in the other man’s hand was a modified Glock, an illegal trigger catch turning the weapon from a semi-automatic into an automatic. With an extended magazine slapped into the base of the weapon, he had thirty two bullets to work with. Lowering the weapon in anticipation of the muzzle climb, the man pulled the trigger. The weapon drained the mag in just over a second, and Dr Bale took every single bullet to the face. When the gun clicked dry and the echo of gunfire ceased, the body collapsed to the floor, cordite in the air, blood and brains and small black holes sprayed all over the wall behind where he’d been standing. The curly-haired man pulled the empty clip from the weapon and tossed it to the ground. Then he walked out, shutting the door behind him. He pulled a fresh magazine from his pocket and slapped it into the weapon, snapping the working mechanism forward and loading a shell in the chamber.
He walked across the empty lab towards a chair and took a seat directly in front of the lift.
Waiting for whoever came next.
THREEFifteen minutes after Archer had stepped inside the taxi, it turned off Vernon Boulevard in Queens and began to move down a side street, passing a long junkyard and several auto-body shops. In the back, Archer looked out of the window to his right. The snowfall here had been pretty heavy last night, the same as in Manhattan. The white stuff had been shovelled and ploughed to the kerb to clear the way for vehicles, piled a couple of feet high in some places.
They paused at a red light for a few moments, then crossed the street and continued to head south. Before long, a long red-brick building slid into view on the left. It was unmarked and looked innocuous, blending in with all the other structures on the block.
‘Here’s good,’ Archer said.
The driver looked at him through the rear-view mirror. ‘Right here?’
‘Yeah.’
The driver shrugged and pulled to a halt by the kerb. Archer paid the fare and tipped the guy then climbed out and slammed the door shut behind him. As the taxi moved off, turning the corner and disappearing out of sight, Archer looked around. He could see why the driver had been confused. The whole neighbourhood was pretty much deserted, just the faint sound of a radio hanging in the air from one of the auto-body shops nearby.
He walked straight towards a set of glass doors that led into the red-brick building. He pulled one of them open, moving inside.
A second glass door was directly in front of him, this one electronically controlled. He drew an ID card from his pocket and swiped it down a card reader. It buzzed, a green light on the boxed-panel flicking on.
He pushed the second door open and walked into the Counter Terrorism Bureau for the New York Police Department.
The bustle and hum of activity inside the building couldn’t have been in greater contrast to the quietness of the street. To the left as you walked in was a large technical area containing a team of some twenty analysts. On the wall in front of them was a myriad of LED news tickers, electronic maps, digital world clocks and television screens tuned to various news channels both from within the United States and from all over the world. Some of the analysts were wearing headphones, monitoring foreign broadcasts and communications, constantly on their guard for anything that so much as hinted at a threat. Others were working closer to home, running key words through domestic calls and internet searches, scouring communications for anything that seemed at all unusual. The rest were working on a variety of jobs such as threading through intelligence, tracking potential suspects or working with field teams based out of the building. Open twenty four hours a day, seven days a week, the Bureau epitomised both the way the world and technology had changed in the last few years and also how the NYPD now conducted its affairs.
Since that terrible day in September 2001 when the city had come under attack, New York’s security systems had undergone a multi-million dollar transformation. The Mayor, Commissioners, Police Chiefs, Lieutenants and street police had collectively done one hell of a job. Crime-wise, New York was now regarded as the safest big city in the United States, just ahead of El Paso in Texas, a real triumph considering where the place had been back in the 80s and early 90s. The number of criminal incidents across the city had plummeted in the past decade and scores of gangs had been driven out of the State due to intensive policing by city law enforcement.
However, New York was still the number one US target for terrorist activity. With over eight million residents, its standing as the financial and business capital of the nation and with a subway system used by three and a half million people every day, the city knew it had a large red target painted on its chest. Protecting it was a constant and sometimes almost overwhelming challenge. But it was one that was an absolute necessity.
The work was relentless. Like most counter-terrorist work, ninety-nine per cent of the time the public never knew about the successes. They only knew about the failures. From his position near the entrance Archer watched the tech team work. They were like their own tribe, working on assignments, talking to each other in a foreign language of technical jargon, coding and in-house slang, surrounded by some of the most advanced technology available to any police force in the world. The information they gathered was invaluable. It both protected the millions of people who lived in the city and also enabled the 125 detectives who worked out of the building to do their job effectively.
Given that the NYPD had precincts spread across the five boroughs and around 35,
000 officers to call upon, the detectives in the Counter Terrorism Bureau had different responsibilities. Much of their work involved threat assessment on major city landmarks, public and private properties and areas in the city deemed vulnerable to terrorist attack. They conducted security audits, ensuring that every appropriate defensive measure was in place and that there weren’t any chinks in the armour that could be exploited. They had informants and undercover detectives infiltrating the criminal element in the city, their objective to gather any information on terrorist sleeper cells.
It was like a deadly game of chess. Although the city was now protected like a fortress, it was a certainty that there were groups out there desperate to find a weakness in its defences. The 125 detectives were separated into divisions with various assignments. Archer was part of a five-man detail which was at the top of the food chain when it came to emergencies and casework. Given that he’d been a counter-terrorist task force cop in the UK just seven months ago, how Archer happened to land here now was partly luck, but was mostly down to a stroke of good timing and his old boss in the UK.
Archer had left his police team in London, the Armed Response Unit, in May. Being half-American and therefore bypassing any visa issues, he’d decided to move to New York City for the foreseeable future. Once in New York, he’d intended to apply for the NYPD and if accepted, begin re-training and then work his way up through the ranks from the ground. He needed at least five years on the street before he could attempt his goal of qualifying for the Emergency Service Unit, the NYPD’s SWAT team, but it was something that he was fully prepared to do. His father had been an NYPD cop and he’d recently discovered an ambition to follow in his footsteps, to experience what it was like to police the capital city of the world, as his dad had called it.
But a few days after he’d arrived and was prepping his application, Archer had received a call from Director Tim Cobb, his boss at the ARU in London. When Archer had explained his reasoning for handing in his notice back in May, Cobb had promised to try and help speed up his process of induction. He’d worked quite extensively with members of the NYPD in the past and had the sort of professional connections that could help Archer out.
However, the proposition he’d made in that phone call was beyond anything the younger man could have imagined or hoped for.
In its new era of law enforcement, the NYPD now had detectives placed in major cities all over the world, in locations such as Lyon, Hamburg, Tel Aviv and Toronto. It wasn’t a secret to the police forces in those countries; the detectives weren’t on clandestine operations. They were there to work closely with the major intelligence departments in each city and act as tripwires, giving immediate heads-up warnings whenever they were alerted to something relevant to New York City’s safety and security. It was a crucial part of the new age of the NYPD.
If something was coming, they wanted to know about it as soon as possible.
Cobb told Archer that he’d contacted one of his colleagues in the Department concerning Archer’s situation. The guy had then passed Cobb on to Lieutenant General Jim Franklin, the man who ran the newly-formed Counter Terrorism Bureau. Although the two men had never had dealings in the past, they’d quickly realised that an agreement between them would benefit both parties considerably. Franklin already had two men in the UK working with New Scotland Yard, but given that the ARU was at the forefront of London’s fight against terrorism he’d realised that stationing a man at the Unit’s headquarters in North London could prove very beneficial.
A deal was proposed.
If Cobb took a man from the NYPD, then Franklin would be happy to take Archer.
When Cobb had rung that night, he told Archer about the planned exchange. He didn’t even need to ask if the younger man would say yes. The next day, the swap was given the green light. An NYPD detective was heading to the ARU in London and Archer was joining the Counter Terrorism Bureau in New York City. However, admission wasn’t guaranteed. He’d endured extensive background checks and been enrolled in a federal police programme down in Georgia. Given that he’d been a frontline cop in the UK for almost a decade, he’d cruised the training and enjoyed every minute, learning some new techniques and honing some old ones. Once he’d passed the course, the deal was done and at the end of July he’d been formally presented with his badge. It was a huge moment for him.
It meant 3rd Grade Detective Sam Archer was now a member of the NYPD’s Counter Terrorism Bureau.
Moving further into the building, Archer turned right and headed into the workplace for the detective squads. This portion of the building was spread over two floors. The lower level was where the working areas were located. Upstairs there were a series of Briefing Rooms and Lieutenant General Franklin’s office, all of which lay behind a fenced railing that looked down into the detective pit.
That morning, the place was humming. The weekend shift was hard at work, scores of people at desks, phone conversations taking place and fingers tapping computer keyboards. With the New Year approaching in a couple of weeks, many of the detectives had been assigned security roles for the crowds that would gather in Times Square. Given that there was always an upcoming celebration, parade, sporting event or political visit in the city, there was no such thing as a quiet shift when you worked in this building. Amongst the organised melee, Archer saw that someone had made a half-hearted attempt at putting up Christmas decorations. Token strips of gold and silver tinsel had been draped over a number of partitions separating each cubicle, and a Christmas tree with golden lights had been placed by a wall up ahead. Beside the tree, Archer saw his partner Josh Blake pouring himself a drink from a machine. Archer smiled and walking around the detective area, headed towards him.
Josh was twenty nine, black, and just about the nicest person who worked out of the Bureau. Everyone in the building called him by his first name, not his surname, a testament to the high regard in which he was held. He had a cool head and a maturity befitting a much older man. In the five months Archer had known him, he’d never seen him lose his temper. Originally from New Orleans, Josh had relocated to New York after Katrina had hit in 2005. A Pace University graduate with four years of street experience, he was married with three kids and had a balance in his life that Archer often felt was lacking in his own. Everyone liked Josh. He was strong and calm, with a measured approach to everything he did. He was also a serious weightlifter and had forearms like Popeye. It was always a gamble when a cop was assigned a partner and Archer had hoped that he and 3rd Grade Detective Josh Blake would get along. He needn’t have worried. The two of them had hit it off from the moment they met and had since become very good friends.
As Archer walked towards him, Josh sensed someone approaching and turned. He had two foam cups in his hands. Like most in the Department, Josh had been a routine coffee drinker when he and Archer had first met, but his new partner had got him hooked on tea. Now he drank it every morning and had become quite an aficionado, much to his wife’s and Archer’s amusement.
He passed one of the cups to Archer and winked.
‘Earl Grey, no milk, no sugar. And good morning.’
‘Thanks,’ Archer said, taking it. ‘You too. Am I the last one here?’
Josh shook his head.
‘You’re number four. No sign of Shepherd yet.’
The drinks machine was near where their five-man team was stationed in the detective area. Archer glanced over his shoulder and saw that none of their team was at their desk.
‘Where are we meeting?’
‘Briefing Room 5,’ Josh said, motioning up with his head. ‘C’mon.’
The two men turned to their left and headed up a metal stairwell to the second floor. When they reached the top of the stairs they turned right and moved down the walkway, entering Briefing Room 5. In the centre of the room was a long rectangular table, chairs either side. A large screen was mounted on the wall straight ahead, hooked up to a computer terminal which was positioned down the far left of the tab
le, ready and waiting for any member of the analyst team who needed it. Following Josh into the room, Archer saw two other members of the detail had already arrived, Jorgensen and Marquez. Both of them were wearing off-duty clothes, Jorgensen in a thick navy-blue fleece and jeans, Marquez in a black coat, black sweater and grey trousers. They were sitting on the left of the table. Josh and Archer took seats opposite them on the right.
Across the table, Jorgensen glared at Archer.
‘Finally,’ he said, confrontationally. ‘Where the hell have you been? At the salon getting your hair done?’
Archer smiled at him. ‘No, I was with your sister. She says hi.’
Marquez and Josh both chuckled. Jorgensen’s eyes narrowed in hostility.
His full name was Dave Jorgensen. Queens born and bred, he was an imposing guy, six foot three and about two hundred and twenty pounds. Before he became a cop he'd been a real up-and-coming American Football player, a starting line-backer at Rutgers for three years. By all accounts he’d been a red-hot prospect and had all the potential to go into the NFL after he graduated. But like many guys before him and many to follow, one injury had destroyed that dream. He’d blown his knee out in his final year and any promise of a professional career had instantly vanished. When he’d managed to get off crutches and walk again, he’d done two things. He’d applied to join the NYPD and had developed a large chip on his shoulder that he'd never managed to remove. He was short-tempered and confrontational, and a lot of people in the Bureau avoided him as a consequence.
But he had a special dislike for Archer. It had been evident from the minute Archer had walked in five months ago. Given his background, he’d been expecting some heat and initial opposition to his inclusion in the Bureau, despite the fact that his father had been NYPD. He hadn’t been disappointed. But Jorgensen in particular really hated him, so much so that it had taken Archer by surprise, although he could guess the reason. Archer knew that close to a thousand cops had applied for positions in the Counter Terrorism Bureau after its inception. Josh had told him over a beer that Jorgensen’s best friend, an old team mate at Rutgers, had applied for one of the spots but had just missed the final cut. Judging from his attitude, Archer guessed that Jorgensen felt his friend would have been a more valuable addition to the team than him. He met the big detective's glare across the table and stared straight back, not intimidated in the slightest. Archer just thanked God that the two of them hadn’t been assigned as partners. That would have been awkward.
