Silent Night (Sam Archer 4)

by Barber, Tom

  Two other cops had walked through the doors, blocking him off.

  The four police officers stood there, boxing him in, the clips on all four holsters undone, their hands resting on the grip of each pistol.

  Oh shit.

  TWENTY EIGHTUp on the walkway at the Counter Terrorism Bureau, Archer swore and called the number again. He’d been trying to get through for over five minutes, but the guy on the other end was an unreliable correspondent at the best of times and wasn’t picking up. Archer checked his Casio. It was mid-afternoon, just coming up to 3pm which meant it would be around 8 pm in the UK.

  C’mon, he thought, Jacobs on his mind. Pick up, idiot. We need information on this guy.

  Finally, someone answered.

  Abruptly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Is that any way to answer the phone?’

  ‘Archer!’ Chalky said. ‘Jesus Christ, you withheld your number. I thought you were an ex-girlfriend.’

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘Not bad. Yourself?’

  ‘I’ve had better mornings.’

  ‘Yeah, I saw the news. There was a bomb threat at Macy’s? And a load of people died at a clothing store?’

  ‘Rings a bell.’

  ‘You all OK?’

  ‘Yeah, we’re fine. But the thing at the store wasn’t an accident. And I need your help with something.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Five vials of a pneumonic virus were stolen from a lab in Manhattan last night. It’s some seriously nasty shit. We’ve secured all but one of them.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘But one of the bombers has a message on his cell phone. It sounds like someone else is involved. And he’s English.’

  ‘Oh dear. What’s his name?’

  ‘Alistair Jacobs. You heard of him?’

  ‘No. But someone else on the team might have.’

  ‘Are you at the station?’

  ‘Yeah. Nightshift.’

  ‘We’ve got this guy’s file up on the screen here, but it’s looking pretty clean. A little too clean, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Tell you what, I’ll get one of Nikki’s team to run a search. Gimme a couple of minutes.’

  ‘OK. Thanks.’

  Archer ended the call. He turned and walked back into the briefing room, re-joining Shepherd, Josh and Rach.

  ‘I’ve got someone pulling information on Jacobs. I’ll call him back in a moment.’

  Shepherd nodded. ‘Good.’

  Marquez appeared, re-entering the room. ‘Sir, they just picked up Jacobs at his apartment building. They’re bringing him in now.’

  ‘Great. Background information on Rourke and Sway?’

  ‘Agent Faison arranged for their ATF files to be transferred to us. They should be here already.’

  Rach looked down at her terminal, then pulled up a large file she’d been sent from next door. The team watched as she opened it and pulled up both men’s jackets, side by side on the screen. They saw vital statistics, addresses, known family, felony records and a mug-shot of each man. Both were in orange jumpsuits, standing up against a height chart, holding a placard with their full name and prison ID in white on the front. The team paused and took a good look at the men they were hunting.

  On the left of the screen, Rourke was staring grimly ahead. He looked unhealthy, his black hair messy, his face flushed. The black chart behind his head said he was five-eight. To the right, Sway was taller, over six foot with that short mullet haircut that Peterson had described. He looked lean and angry, his eyes hard as he stared into the camera like the lens would shatter if he did it hard enough. Under the vital stats came the charges against the two men. The lists were long.

  ‘Send out the photos and profiles to every precinct in the NYPD,’ Shepherd told Rach. ‘Let’s get a manhunt going.’

  'Yes, sir. There are two more files here too.’

  She pulled them up. Rourke and Sway’s files disappeared, replaced by two others, a man and a woman. They were both in orange overalls too. It seemed prison service was a prerequisite for joining The Stuttgart Soldiers. The man had bleached white hair and dark eyes with a nasty scar across his eyebrow. The woman was dark-haired and looked tough as hell.

  ‘The man is called Ryan Wicks,’ Rach read. ‘In and out of prison the last few years. Suspected perp in several homicides in the San Antonio area.’

  ‘What’s the scar from?’ Archer asked.

  ‘Someone tried to stab him in prison.’

  ‘The woman?’

  ‘Natasha Drexler. Former prostitute and heroin addict. Did time for assault and battery. Lead suspect in four unsolved murders in Southern Texas.’

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ Josh said. ‘Not exactly Romeo and Juliet, are they?’

  Shepherd turned to Archer.

  ‘Try your friend again. I want information on Jacobs before he gets here.’

  Archer nodded, pulling his cell and pushing Redial. The call connected, and he put it on speakerphone.

  ‘Chalk?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m here mate.’

  ‘Good. You’re on speakerphone.’

  ‘OK. I’m with one of the analysts now. CID have a file on Jacobs. It’s not as clean as you thought.’

  ‘Shoot.’

  ‘CID did an investigation a couple of years ago into a loan shark operating out of Canary Wharf. They pulled his list of clients and one of them was your man Jacobs. They’ve got him tagged as a gambling addict and therefore possible blackmail material. They think he’s owed well into seven figures on occasion. He’s always managed to pay the debts and keep his record clean but it’s been close a couple of times and he attracted CID attention as a consequence. He’s never been charged with anything though.’

  ‘That’s why he’s still able to practise as a lawyer,’ Archer said, as Shepherd nodded.

  ‘Apparently his divorce hasn’t helped his bank account either.’

  ‘Anything on his ex-wife?’

  ‘Hang on. Bringing her up now.’

  Pause.

  ‘Nothing relevant. He dodged a bullet there though, Arch.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘I’m looking at a picture of her. He must have married her after losing a bet. She’s a dog. Got a face put together like a ransom note.’

  The comment was so inappropriate and unexpected that Marquez, Josh and Rach burst out laughing, immediately quelled by a look from Shepherd.

  Archer fought hard to hide a smile and shook his head.

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Yeah. He’s got a kid that he was battling to get custody of but it was awarded to his wife. The gambling is his kryptonite though. If you want somewhere to push, there you go.’

  ‘Alright, thanks.’

  ‘I’ll call you next week. Stay out of trouble.’

  ‘Later.’

  Archer hung up, then turned to Shepherd. ‘So he’s a gambling addict. And he’s got a kid. That’s stuff to work with.’

  ‘Maybe that’s why he’s involved in this,’ Marquez suggested. ‘He needs the money.’

  Jorgensen suddenly appeared at the door. Shepherd saw him arrive. ‘Welcome back.’

  Jorgensen nodded.

  ‘I passed a black-and-white outside ,sir. The lawyer you were after just arrived.'

  At Kearny Medical, Dr Glover tried to blink fear out of his eyes as he worked, forcing himself to focus. It wasn’t easy. He’d just seen the woman who’d kidnapped him shoot a lady in the head as she stepped out of the elevator. The woman’s body had been dragged off and dumped in a room with Melissa’s. Glover had caught a glimpse of a whole pile of bodies inside when the door was opened. He felt as if he was in a nightmare.

  Sitting at the desktop and wearing a bio suit, Glover was working on the distinct orders the curly-haired man with the gun had given him earlier. He’d demanded that Dr Flood’s virus be mixed with a nutrient broth already here at the lab. The resulting mixture would then be tipped into the six caniste
rs the man and woman had brought, all of which had been emptied and cleansed of the pesticide they’d held previously. Unfortunately, the man with the gun had done his homework. The strength of Dr Flood’s virus would devour the bacteria in the broth like giving it a free lunch.

  Within a couple of hours, it would turn one vial of the virus into an entire canister.

  God only knew what they were planning to do with it.

  Glover was doing what the man ordered but was deliberately drawing the process out, trying to give himself time to think of a way to escape. He was working on the sixth canister, the last one, but was desperately trying to work out a means of escape. Once he was done they’d kill him. He was sure of it. But he was trapped and unarmed. There was nothing in the lab he could use as a weapon and they all had guns. Besides, he wasn’t a fighter. He was a doctor. The only thing he had at his disposal was the virus. He was trying to think of a way to lure them all into the lab without wearing protective clothing. If they inhaled the gas, it’d be game over and he could get the hell out of here and contact the police immediately.

  To his left, Glover heard the door to the lab slide open. He felt a glimmer of hope which died when he saw that the big guy was wearing a bio suit as he walked in. He also had that machine pistol in his hand.

  ‘And?’

  ‘Almost done.’

  ‘You’re lying. You’re finished. You’re stalling.’

  Silence.

  ‘Will it work?’

  ‘I think so.’

  Behind the protective helmet, the man grinned.

  ‘Well we need to find out.’

  ‘Find out what?’

  ‘If it works.’

  Glover looked at him, confused. The man stepped forward. Glover didn’t see the punch coming and it smashed into his stomach, knocking air out of his lungs and winding him. He fell to the ground, gasping. The man grabbed Glover’s helmet and ripped it off, tucking it under his arm. Then he turned and walked towards the exit, scooping up the vial containing the last few drops of the virus.

  He tossed it over his shoulder.

  Hunched over, Glover watched the vial flying through the air, heading towards the ground and certain death. He made a desperate dive to catch it but just missed it. The vial smashed open as it hit the floor. Instantly the yellow virus started seeping out into the air.

  Staggering to his feet, Glover ran forward to the doors, but they’d already clicked shut, locking him in. He pounded on the glass.

  ‘Please! Let me out!’ he screamed.

  The other man ignored him, and removed his helmet, taking in a deep breath of clean air outside the lab. Glover turned and saw the yellow virus drifting across the room, coming towards him. Although only a small amount had been released, that was more than enough. He took a deep breath, holding it and looking around the lab desperately for anything he could use as a respirator. It was hopeless. There was nothing.

  He turned again, looked outside and saw the man with the pistol watching curiously. Glover felt his oxygen running out, desperate to take a breath, the yellow gas coming even closer.

  He fought and fought, but his body couldn’t resist.

  And he breathed in.

  TWENTY NINEAlthough Archer had only been with the Counter-Terrorism Bureau for just under half a year, he’d seen all manner of suspects and criminals processed through the building. Murderers, members of sleeper terrorist cells, suspected suicide bombers, physical monstrosities like Kyle Gunnar. But the sight of a good-looking English millionaire in a smart grey suit being led into the station in handcuffs was definitely a first. His shoes probably cost more than Archer’s entire wardrobe. He had short-cut grey hair the same shade as his suit and a white shirt with a long black tie under a black coat. Moments ago he’d been led into the cell which Gunnar had just vacated, his pockets emptied and placed in a tray next door. Shepherd was in the seat across from him as Archer leaned against the wall to his right, his arms folded.

  Jacobs was still in his chair, his hands on the desk, his face calm. Archer examined him. A man accustomed to getting his own way.

  ‘Before you begin, let me save you some time,’ Jacobs said. ‘I’m not saying a word until my lawyer arrives.’

  ‘It’ll be an old colleague or friend, right?’ Archer said.

  Jacobs looked up at him, surprised. Not at his statement, but by his accent.

  ‘MI6?’

  Archer shook his head. ‘NYPD.’

  ‘How the hell did you end up here?’

  ‘I could ask you the same thing.’

  ‘Here are the concrete facts,’ Shepherd said. ‘We have a recorded message on Paul Bleeker’s phone which you left several hours ago. I think you know about a certain virus and you were planning to do something with it.’

  Jacobs didn’t speak. He also didn’t ask what virus.

  ‘What if we let your partners know this is happening?’ Archer asked. ‘A good lawyer might get you off the hook. That’s a very distant might. But do you think all your clients will still want to do business with a suspected terrorist?’

  ‘Go ahead. Once I get out of here, I’ll sue each one of you for everything you have.’

  ‘From the sounds of it, you need the money.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘We know all about your little gambling problem. How much do you owe this time?’

  Jacobs shook his head. But his demeanour had changed slightly. He studied the table in front of him. Archer had struck a nerve.

  ‘Have they threatened you?’

  Silence.

  ‘Have they threatened your son?’

  Jacobs kept his eyes on the wooden desk but the look on his face answered Archer’s questions. He may have been a good lawyer but Archer could see why he wouldn’t be good at the card table. He wasn’t exactly hard to read.

  ‘If you work with us, we can help you,’ Shepherd said. ‘We can bring the boy in and put him in protective custody. Something tells me the men you owe aren’t the type who follow the rules . You help us out, we can make that all go away.’

  Pause.

  ‘No. You can’t.’

  ‘A man was killed in Central Park last night. He was gassed with a small dose of the virus we think you’re involved with. Two other viral bombs were left across the city this morning. Paul Bleeker arranged it. If you work with us, we can secure the remaining sample of this virus before anyone else is killed.’

  Jacobs looked up at Shepherd. He seemed genuinely surprised.

  ‘Wait a minute. Bleeker already had the virus?’

  ‘Yes, he did.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘The morgue.’

  Jacobs dropped his head. ‘That son of a bitch.’

  ‘What was your deal?’ Archer asked.

  Shepherd suddenly rose from his chair, and walked out, closing the door. Jacobs and Archer were left alone.

  ‘What was your deal?’ Archer asked again. ‘How did you end up in this?’

  Jacobs didn’t reply.

  A few moments later, the door opened, and Shepherd reappeared, something in his hand. He closed the door and moved back to his chair. He slid a photograph across the table towards Jacobs. It was a shot from the morgue of the groundsman from the Park, Luis Cesar, taken from above the steel tray he was laid on.

  ‘This is the man who died in Central Park,’ Shepherd said, as Jacobs looked down. ‘He had a wife and five children. He drowned in his own blood.’

  Pause.

  ‘Right now, you can help us. I’m sure your lawyer will be the best of the best. He’ll wrestle these charges down to something manageable. Two years in a private facility, maybe less. Maybe you’ll never see a prison cell. But if you don’t start working with us, hundreds, maybe thousands more people could die like this man.’

  Silence.

  ‘Talk to us!’ Archer said. ‘Cut the shit. We don’t have time for this!’

  Just then, the door burst open and a lawyer walked
in, a briefcase in his hand.

  ‘Not another word, Mr Jacobs,’ he said, moving forward and placing the briefcase on the desktop in a smooth motion.

  Archer and Shepherd looked over at the English lawyer, who’d seemed on the verge of speaking. Then he looked up at his lawyer and nodded.

  He wasn’t going to be talking any time soon.

  At Kearny Medical in New Jersey, Bobby Rourke was looking through the glass at the body of the dead doctor inside the sealed lab. He’d finally stopped twitching, blood and pieces of lung tissue surrounding him, some of it sprayed on the glass. He’d watched the man’s death with fascination.

  The virus sure as hell worked.

  Behind him, the lift dinged and opened. He looked over his shoulder and saw Finn walk out, heading towards him. As he approached, Sway noticed his friend wearing the protective suit minus the helmet and saw the dead body inside the lab.

  ‘Why didn’t you just shoot him?’

  ‘I wanted to do a test. ’

  Finn looked at the six canisters sitting on the desktop in the lab. He pointed.

  ‘OK, genius, so how do we get them out now?’

  ‘Relax. One of the doctors showed me how to filter the air before I shot him. I push a button, it’ll be clean in less than a minute.’

  Finn nodded. ‘OK. We’re halfway there.’

  ‘No, we’re all the way there. The doctor cooked up six canisters for us and Bleeker’s dead.’

  ‘Yeah, but his contact isn’t.’

  ‘Wait. You still want to go through with that?’

  ‘Yeah. I do.’

  ‘Do you have his number?’

  Sway nodded. Rourke turned to him.

  ‘Think for a moment. We need to be careful. You and Bleeker set this up to con the money out of the Brit. That was before Bleeker screwed us. What he did this morning will have alerted every cop and Federal agent in New York.’

  ‘Relax. It doesn’t affect our plan. It just means we’ll do it with an early two million in our back pockets.’

  ‘You sure he’ll pay?’

  ‘Bleeker said the Brit’s in seven figures with a Triad gang. He’s been given one week to front the money or his kid dies. He won’t back out.’

  ‘Could be a set up.’