by Tom Barber
She was on the second floor in a house across the street, leaning on a table that had been pushed up against the window to serve as a make-shift stand. Lifting the camera again, she tracked the lens back on the two young policemen as they arrived by a black 4x4. She pushed the button, snapping two more shots in quick succession. She thought for a moment, then took two more of the licence plates of the car.
Suddenly, a noise came from behind her. In the same instant, she snapped around, a pistol in her hand that she’d pulled from a holster on her hip, reacting with electrifying speed.
She waited, the gun aimed at the doorway, her aim as steady as a rock.
But it was nothing. Just the boiler turning on, or a mouse running around in the attic, the kind of subtle noises that houses always made.
Slowly, she lowered the pistol, flicking on the safety with her thumb and slotting it back in its holster on her dark suit trousers. Turning back to the desk, the woman clicked open the side of the camera, pulling out a memory card. A small netbook was resting on the table beside her. She clicked the memory card into the side of the computer, and waited for it to load. As she did so, she found herself looking at a framed photograph beside the laptop. A young couple, smiling arm-in-arm on a beach. They looked happy. The woman glanced at the luscious interior of the room around her. I’m not surprised they’re smiling, she thought.
A series of photographs started appearing on the screen as they uploaded to the computer. Snapshots. Two unkempt men, hands cuffed behind their backs, being pushed towards a police car. Shots of the policemen in the navy blue overalls, the men with the MP5 sub-machine guns. She’d got some good close-ups. One of the officers was a seriously good-looking young guy, with blond hair and blue eyes. The woman had found herself staring at him through the view-finder of the camera. He seemed almost too handsome to be a cop, more suited to a movie set or on a billboard. He stood out, a real contrast to all the other dark-featured hard-faced men down there. The rest of the photographs uploaded, they were all of this police task force. She wasn’t interested in anybody else.
Reaching down, she pulled a phone from her pocket and pressed Redial, lifting it to her ear. The phone rang twice, then connected. There was a lot of noise in the background from the other end. She put her other finger to her free ear to close out any other sounds, listening closely.
‘I’ve got some news,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘The police found three of them. Two were arrested. I think one was killed.’
There was a pause.
‘Where?’
‘Some safe-house near Dominick’s place. I had no idea they were here. I saw it on the news. I rushed over quick as I could and took up surveillance.’
A pause.
‘Was he there?’
‘No. He wasn’t here.’
There was another pause on the other end of the line. She took the opportunity to tap some keys on the keyboard with her free hand, forming an email. ‘I’m sending over some photos,’ she said. ‘Most of them are of policemen from a unit I haven’t seen before. I think these guys made the bust. They could be a real problem if they get to Farha before we do.’
‘Or a solution,’ the voice said.
She frowned, as she hit Send. She didn’t see how that statement could work.
‘Listen,’ the voice continued. ‘I’ve had an idea.’
Inside the hotel restaurant, sitting by the window, Dominick Farha had just finished an egg and toast breakfast with a tall glass of orange juice. It had been surprisingly good. He’d enjoyed every bite. Around him, the restaurant was busy with other guests taking seats and breaking their fast. Some were moving along a buffet across the room by the wall, loading up on yoghurts and muffins, whilst others waited at their table for a waitress to bring them a cooked meal. Farha was holding a newspaper in front of him, examining the headlines as he drank from a thick cup of coffee. He was still wearing his sunglasses, which made reading the paper a slight challenge, but it reduced the chances of being spotted or recognised by anyone looking for him. As he read the articles and headlines in the broadsheet, one thing pleased him. Neither he, nor any other members of the cell, were in any of the paper’s reports.
Not yet.
To his left, he suddenly sensed a stirring in the room, one that pulled his attention from the newspaper. He saw a score of other diners sitting to his left watching something across the room, momentarily ignoring the food on their plates. He lowered the broadsheet to see what was so interesting.
It was a television. An aerial view from a helicopter of a street that Farha instantly recognised. There was a banner headline that ran across the bottom of the screen, bold black text on a yellow background.
Breaking News: Armed man killed in police raid. Explosive materials, weapons and dead body found in house.
He felt his stomach tighten, his pulse quickening. How the hell did they find them? He glanced around, left and right, slowly. Have they found me? No one seemed to be paying any extra attention to him. They were all more interested in the report on the screen. He took slow breaths, thinking hard as he lifted and held the broadsheet in front of him, covering his face. He made a quick decision. Lowering the newspaper, he pulled a ten pound note from his wallet and trapped it under a glass. Grabbing the black holdall from under the table by his foot, he rose and strode out of the restaurant. He was headed straight back to his hotel room and the television inside.
He needed to watch the news alone.
And think.
FIVE
At the Armed Response Unit’s headquarters, the unexpected discovery of the three members of the terrorist cell had left Cobb both relieved and worried. The safe-house they’d been holed up in wasn’t on any of the databases, or listed on the raid-sheet to be searched. That was concerning. He had Nikki and her team working the three guys’ mug-shots through every file they had. Mac had called, saying he was on his way back and that he’d ordered the team from Farha’s apartment to return. Two of the arrested suspects were already on their way here for questioning. The other was headed to the morgue.
As Nikki worked at her computer, Cobb stood behind her in silence, desperately trying to think where the other six suspects could be. It was only by a stroke of serious luck and a nosy old lady that they had stumbled upon these three. They couldn’t rely on such good fortune again. He turned and withdrew to his office, shutting the door behind him, his mind running through every possible scenario. He sat back in the chair behind his desk, thinking hard. His office was a modern design in that the walls were made of clear transparent glass. It meant he could see what was happening outside without leaving his desk.
It also meant on that particular morning that he saw the newcomer arrive, escorted by the detective who manned the front desk.
The stranger was dressed in a dark suit, with a badge clipped to the breast pocket that said Visitor in bold red letters. Blue shirt with red tie. Smart, but simple. No bullshit. The guy looked like a typical corn-fed Southern boy in his mid-thirties, lean and tanned, blond hair bleached from years of sun, combed smartly over green eyes. Kind of like a younger Robert Redford, Cobb thought, as he watched the two men approach his door. American. He has to be. He noticed the newcomer paid no attention to the processes of the intelligence team behind him, which told Cobb that he’d seen it all before. A government guy. Cobb rose from behind his desk as the detective escorting the man knocked on the glass door. He nodded, and the two men entered.
‘This is Special Agent Crawford, sir,’ said the detective. ‘He’s with the DEA.’
Cobb hid a frown. The DEA was the United States Drugs Enforcement Administration, the agency tasked with leading the world-wide war on narcotics from the frontline. On any day regardless, Cobb would have been baffled as to why this man had walked into his office. The US agency battled cartels and dealers in South America and at their own borders, not in the UK. His presence here today was too coincidental and it filled Cobb with immedi
ate unease. It had been a morning full of unpleasant surprises and he didn’t fancy any more.
Swallowing his trepidation, Cobb nodded to the detective, who turned and departed, leaving them alone. The visitor stepped forward, offering his hand and introducing himself. ‘Jason Crawford.’ American accent, southern lilt. Georgia maybe? ‘As your man said, I’m a Special Agent with the DEA,’ he added. ‘Pleasure to meet you.’
Cobb shook the man’s hand.
‘Tim Cobb, Director of Operations.’ He waved a hand towards the busy intelligence team in the ops room. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, Special Agent Crawford, but now really isn’t a good time.’
Crawford turned to glance at the ops room. He looked back and nodded. ‘I understand, Director. But believe me, I wouldn’t be here if this wasn’t crucially important. I only arrived from Paris twenty five minutes ago. I flew all the way over here just to speak with you personally.’
Cobb was confused and didn’t hide it. ‘About what?’
The American looked into his eyes.
‘Dominick Farha,’ he replied.
‘Excuse me for asking Director, but how familiar are you with the current associations between drugs and terrorism?’
Crawford spoke to Cobb’s back as he stood across the room, making them two cups of coffee by the right-sided wall. Cobb turned.
‘How do you take it?’
‘Black, no sugar. Thank you.’
Cobb finished making the two drinks. He turned and passed one to the DEA agent, who nodded in appreciation. Cobb took his fourth cup of the day and sat back behind his desk. He knew all about the links between the two trades, but he decided to keep his cards close to his chest. He wanted to test Crawford out.
‘To be honest, not very,’ he lied, answering the man’s original question. ‘In the United Kingdom, the two of them are mostly exclusive. Neither gets to a very high level without being stopped, we’re an island after all. It’s hard to smuggle drugs through our borders, and it’s even harder to plan a terrorist conspiracy without us knowing about it.’
He paused. Well, almost, he thought.
Crawford nodded, taking a sip from his coffee. ‘Allow me to explain. In the last few years, my agency’s most recent intelligence reports have shown that over sixty per cent of modern terrorist organisations are in some way involved with drug-trafficking or narcotics. The United States has deduced that there are forty-three recognised foreign terrorist organisations in the world, FTOs, as we call them. Of the forty-three FTO groups, we know for sure that at least nineteen of them are heavily involved with the major drug cartels.’
Cobb sipped his drink, nodding. Crawford continued.
‘Since 9/11, military organisations all over the world have stepped up their game in regards to the war on terrorism, as I’m sure you know. Police and the military soon realised that if you remove the terrorists’ funding, you severely impact their ability to attack. Staggering amounts of terrorist money have been seized since, in many repeated and successful attempts to cripple the financial coffers of these FTOs. As a consequence, those groups who were affected suddenly found themselves broke. If they still wanted to succeed or pursue their ideology, they needed to find a new way to fund it and re-establish a constant cash supply.’
He paused, drinking his coffee. ‘And for most of them, the answer lay with drugs.’
Cobb stayed silent.
‘The two businesses go hand in hand,’ Crawford continued. ‘They’re both built on government opposition, intimidation, the latest technology and obscene levels of violence. Do you remember the Madrid terror attacks a few years ago, Director?’
Cobb nodded. He’d been at MI5 when the disaster had happened in 2004. A series of co-ordinated bombings had struck the Spanish city’s subway system, killing a hundred and ninety-one people.
‘Well that operation was almost totally funded by the sale of narcotics. One of the first to do so. Other FTOs saw how successful those attacks were and decided to jump on the bandwagon.’
Crawford paused again, looking at the coffee cup in his hand. ‘As more and more of these groups have realised the potential profits that are out there, there’s been an unpleasant consequence. The two criminal businesses have started to merge. There are now what you could call hybrid organisations emerging. Basically, one side drug cartel, the other side terrorism.'
Cobb nodded. ‘Like the Taliban.’
‘Exactly. When the two were more mutually exclusive, the DEA mostly kept to itself as we focused on the cartels. But after it became clear that these unions were starting to be forged, we began working much more closely with both our own agencies and others around the world. And it’s been a great success so far. In the six years from 2005 to 2011, my agency, in co-operation with other government teams around the world, has seized over seventeen billion dollars in drug money.’
He paused, letting that last sentence hang in the air. Cobb was impressed, he couldn’t even begin to comprehend that amount of money. ‘So, slowly but surely we’re winning the war,’ added the American, draining the last of his coffee. He seemed to have finished. Cobb looked at him.
‘I’m very pleased to hear that. But forgive me for asking, but I’m not quite seeing how this ties into my unit, Agent Crawford.’
The American halted for a moment, fixing Cobb with a steady stare. Cobb realised that he’d been weighing him up too, from the moment he entered the room. ‘Can I rest assured that what I am about to tell you stays with you, Director?’ Crawford asked quietly.
Cobb nodded. ‘Of course.’
‘I was in Paris on an operation. A six man detail, including myself. Our target is the head of one of the most powerful drug cartels in the Middle East, a man known as Henry. I arrived at De Gaulle from Riyadh last night with three of my men. We got a tip off that there was going to be some kind of deal taking place outside the city later on this evening. And I’m happy to say we’ve hit the jackpot.’
‘How so?’
‘Henry is going to be there himself. I can’t emphasise to you enough how rare that is. He’s the head of his own cartel. Men as powerful as he is don’t just turn up at trades and business deals. They let the people under them handle it.’
Cobb nodded, thinking.
‘OK. But I’m still failing to see how his relates to my team?’
Crawford looked at him.
‘Because Dominick Farha is Henry’s nephew.’
‘There are certain names tagged in the file for my team’s operation,’ Crawford continued, as Cobb listened closely. The information Crawford had just given him had immediately grabbed his attention. ‘A red flag comes up whenever one of the names is searched in any databases we share with other agencies. That includes the CIA, NSA, FBI and foreign organisations we have close ties with. One of those groups is MI6, and this morning, Dominick Farha’s name came up. Straight away, I contacted Chief of Staff Rogers at 10 Downing Street. He informed me of the operation underway, of these nine suspects, all potential suicide bombers, and all led by Dominick Farha.’
He looked at the coffee cup in his hand, preparing his approach. ‘Simply put, I want to help, Director. During my team’s operation, I have managed to accrue extensive knowledge of Farha and his family. I think I could be of great assistance to you and your detail.’
Cobb nodded, but stayed silent. He liked the suggestion, but he knew there was also an ulterior motive here. Crawford hadn’t come all this way just to help him out.
Cobb realised what it was.
‘And if Dominick Farha gets in contact with Henry in Paris, you want us to hold back until your operation is over,’ he replied. ‘If we move in, Henry realises he’s compromised and disappears. And you don’t get footage of him at the drug buy.’
Crawford nodded slowly.
‘Correct.’
Cobb went to speak further but paused. He noticed the American’s expression had changed. He seemed troubled. Cobb had sensed something wasn’t right ever since Crawford had
walked in, but he had known better than to ask or pry.
After a brief silence, the blond DEA agent spoke.
‘One of my men went missing last night,’ he said. ‘I’d left him running surveillance from outside Henry’s compound in Riyadh while four of us flew to Paris to get a head start on the scheduled drug buy. I tried contacting him from the plane and again when we touched down at De Gaulle, but there was no response.’
He paused.
‘Before the operation, each member of my team had been implanted with a tiny microchip back in the US. It acts like a transponder. It means if one of our operatives goes dark or gets in trouble, we can always track them down.’
He licked his lips.
‘We located him by satellite an hour ago.’
‘Where?’
‘At the bottom of the Red Sea.’
There was a long silence.
‘A diving crew are out there right now trying to retrieve him,’ continued Crawford. ‘He was exactly where the satellite said he was. Henry’s favourite method of killing someone is to knock them out and put their feet in quick drying cement. Then they get thrown overboard to drown. And that’s exactly what happened to my agent.’
A pause. Crawford shook his head.
‘His name was Faber. A good man. Real solid. Two daughters and a wife back home. We’d been working together for over a year.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Cobb quietly.
Crawford nodded, his tanned face hardening. ‘Needless to say, I’ve had enough of this shit. It’s time to take Henry and his whole organisation down. It’s clear that our two cases are intertwined, so I wanted to come here in person and offer the DEA’s services myself. I promise my agency will assist you wherever we can, Director Cobb.’
