Nine Lives

by Tom Barber

He paused as something else came into his mind. ‘Also, has anyone discussed a motive with you yet?’

  ‘For the attacks?’

  Crawford nodded. Cobb considered the question, then shook his head.

  ‘No. I figured it was just fanaticism.’

  Crawford shook his head.

  ‘Let me tell you why.’

  ‘A year ago to this day, Dominick was actually high up in Henry’s organisation. Their relationship wasn’t always this fractured,’ the American explained. ‘Farha, as a trusted family member, had been sent to New York on a business run that we were tailing. He’d set up a meeting with a brother cartel based in Queens, providing them with samples of fresh, top-grade cocaine from Juarez. It was New Year’s Eve and Dominick had been drinking in a bar all day. The meeting was scheduled for a room inside the Four Seasons hotel. It must have turned sour. Dominick ended up killing the two guys and making off with the samples and cash they’d brought. All in all, about two hundred and fifty grand.’

  Cobb nodded, listening carefully.

  ‘Now this put him in some seriously deep shit. One of the guys he whacked was a lieutenant within the other organisation. Those are guys you do not mess with. Once details of what had happened spread, the top man on the other side put the word out. Seven figures on Farha’s head, dead or alive. And our wiretaps revealed Henry was even angrier with him than the other cartel were. His little stunt had permanently ended relations with the New York organisation, and consequently took away a huge source of business. Dominick fled to the UK the next morning, and he hasn’t contacted his uncle since.’

  He paused.

  ‘Now, Henry hates the United Kingdom, more than anything in the world, even more than his dislike for the United States. His parents were killed during the Gulf War when a British scud missile hit their home.’

  And suddenly, it all fell into place in Cobb’s mind.

  ‘And Dominick thinks these attacks will wipe out what happened in New York and please his uncle enough to let him back into his organisation. And keep him alive and protected,’ he said.

  Crawford nodded.

  ‘And his screw-up in New York would stay there.’

  Cobb frowned. ‘This all seems pretty extreme for a family argument.’

  ‘Oh, to reasonable men like you and me, absolutely. But remember the kind of people we are dealing with here, Director. Right now, there will probably be cartel hit-men scouring the London streets, searching for Dominick, wherever the hell he may be. With the protection of his uncle and his men, Dominick could just about survive. Without it, it’s only a matter of time before someone finds him. And he’d be better off killing himself than if the New York cartel ever took him alive. They’d make his death last weeks.’

  And just like that, Crawford fell silent. He’d finished his report, showed his hand. The rest was up to Cobb.

  The Englishman thought hard, assessing the situation, the scenario, his options.

  And finally, he nodded.

  ‘OK, I’m in. Let’s do it.’

  Crawford grinned. ‘Fantastic. Let’s take them all down, Director. Every single one of these assholes.’

  The two men rose. Cobb walked around his desk and shook hands with the American, sealing the deal.

  ‘There’s one more thing,’ added Crawford. ‘One of my men is on his way here from Paris. He’s a field agent, a good man. Used to be SEAL Team Six. I figured he could assist your ground team.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s either that, or he sits here with us. I couldn’t leave him in Paris. He’s a field agent, not surveillance.’

  Cobb considered the proposition, then nodded. ‘OK. He can attach to my task force as an observer. Tell him to come in whenever he lands. You can bring him up to speed.’

  As Crawford nodded, Nikki appeared from around the corner in the ops room. She knocked on the transparent glass door to the office. Cobb beckoned her in.

  ‘Sir?’ she said, sticking her head through the gap in the doorway.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Sorry to interrupt, but I thought you should know. The two suspects have arrived. Frost is down there with them now. They’re starting the interrogation.’

  All the holding and interrogation cells in the building were located on the lower level. The holding cells were simple rooms. Each one contained the basic facilities of a bed, wash-basin and toilet. The basin and toilet were made of aluminium instead of porcelain. It prevented anyone locked inside from smashing them up and wielding a chunk of shattered porcelain as sharp as a razor. Lessons learnt from the past, unfortunately.

  The interrogation cells were equally sparse. Each one was a rectangular shaped room, painted bone-white, with no furnishings save for a solitary table with a chair placed either side. There was no voice-recording equipment resting on the table like in the good old days; the room had been hooked up with several microphones, so every exchange was recorded from the outside instead. It was a useful inclusion, meaning the detective conducting the interrogation could concentrate solely on working the suspect. Indeed, the room looked like any other save for one thing, a long sheet of mirrored glass had replaced the left side wall. It meant people outside the room could look in, but no one could see out.

  On this occasion, a young man was slumped in one of the chairs inside the cell, his tousled dark hair hanging over his face as he stared at the ground. His hands were still cuffed behind him, no one had bothered to take them off, or alternatively no one cared to. He can’t be older than twenty five, thought Cobb as he watched the young man through the glass in the small dark observation room next door. He was standing side by side with Crawford and Mac, having just made the necessary introductions. Cobb had updated Mac on the situation, informing him that the DEA and ARU would now be working together on the operation, and that an American field agent called Rivers would attach to the task force whenever he arrived.

  Through the glass, the grey-haired detective who’d shown Crawford to Cobb’s office was sitting in the chair across the table from the suspect. His name was Frost. Cobb had pulled him from the CID at what had proved to be an unwittingly perfect time for the man. Frost was the wrong side of fifty and had just gone through a messy divorce, so the offer of a new position in a new department was a welcome change of scene and just the late fresh start that his career needed. All his years of experience and excellent track record were the main reasons why Cobb had asked him to join the detail; he’d been with the CID for almost twenty years. Frost had a knack of extracting information and was a pro at conducting interrogations like these. As he watched the detective working on the suspect, Cobb reminded himself never to play a game of poker with the guy.

  ‘So what was the target?’ Frost asked quietly, more as an ice-breaker than anything else.

  The young man ignored him.

  ‘We know all about you. And your friends. We knew your every move. You were going to attack today, weren’t you?’

  The suspect kept his head down.

  Said nothing.

  Frost had seen some guys back at the CID get really pissed off by this. There are few things in the world more irritating than being completely ignored, treated as if you simply don’t exist. But Frost didn’t mind, he’d been here plenty of times before. I’ve got all day, kid, he thought.

  He leaned forward on the desk, keeping his manner civil. ‘You're in some deep trouble and I want to help you. But I can't do anything if you don't start cooperating. Do you understand that?’

  Nothing.

  No response.

  The guy’s matted hair hung over his face, like a curtain drawn across a stage. He didn’t even twitch. It was as if he was made of stone.

  Frost nodded. Stubborn refusal to cooperate was pretty standard at this stage.

  This was going to take a while.

  Outside the room, Cobb, Mac and Crawford continued to watch the scene in front of them, as silent as the suspect. The door from the corridor behind them opened, and Porter and Archer entered with a blonde wo
man in her late-thirties. Both the officers were still in their tactical gear, but their Glock 17 and MP5 sub-machine guns had been stowed. The woman was smartly dressed in a grey suit and trouser combo over a white shirt, professional yet feminine. Her name was Jill Sawyer, she was a lawyer attached to the detail.

  ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen,’ she said, as Porter closed the door gently behind them. Cobb turned.

  ‘Afternoon, Jill. How’s the case?’ he asked.

  ‘Gift-wrapped. He’s done for,’ she said, nodding through the glass to the suspect in the chair. ‘Two handguns, a twelve-gauge shotgun, a couple of bags of cocaine and enough raw materials for a bomb that could take out a football stadium. Oh, and a dead body in the bathroom. He’s looking at twenty years. Possibly life. Depends if the judge is having a bad day.’

  Archer and Porter were standing beside Mac, watching the interrogation inside the glass as they listened to Sawyer’s summary. Mac turned to Porter, speaking quietly.

  ‘Is the other suspect talking?’

  Porter shook his head. ‘Looks like he doesn’t speak a word of English, Sarge. Deakins and Fox are in there with him next door, trying to get something. I also spoke to Nikki outside. She’d received a call from a lady named Kim Collins, from forensics. Apparently she wanted to pass on a message to you.’

  ‘Concerning?’ Mac asked.

  ‘The guy on the shower rail. She said his fingerprints came back from the lab. Apparently, he’s a government agent. Or was. He’d been undercover in the cell.’

  Mac took this in, then looked past Porter to Archer, who was watching Frost try to engage the suspect through the glass.

  ‘How’s Chalky?’ he asked.

  Engrossed in the interrogation next door, Archer gave him a quick look and shrugged. I don’t know, his face said. Through the glass, Frost told the suspect that he was going to get some coffee. He rose, and walked to the door, pulling it open and entering the observation room. He closed the door behind him, it was sound-proof so there was no risk of being overheard. In the room, he turned to Cobb. ‘I’m going to grab a cup of coffee from upstairs, sir. Give him some time to think.’

  ‘Did you get any kind of read on him?’ Cobb asked.

  ‘No. Not yet.’

  There was a pause. Frost nodded and moved to the door that led to the corridor.

  ‘I know this man,’ a voice said quietly.

  Everyone in the room heard this. They turned.

  Archer was staring intently at the suspect. He was the one who spoke.

  ‘What was that, officer?’ asked Cobb.

  The younger man turned to him. ‘I know this man, sir. I’ve seen him before.’

  ‘What? Where?’

  ‘I don’t know. But I’ve seen this guy. Ever since I saw his photo this morning, I’ve been trying to figure it out. It’s been bothering me all day.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Go in,’ said Cobb.

  Archer turned to him, unsure. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Go in. Talk to him. Maybe you’ll recall where you know him, or how. Who knows, maybe he’ll remember you.’

  Archer saw Frost rolling his eyes by the door, the grey-haired veteran, dismissive of the younger man. ‘You’re wasting your time,’ he declared. ‘The guy won’t say a word. Not yet. Give him a couple of hours, then maybe.’

  Ignoring him, Archer turned to Mac for reassurance. His was the only opinion in the room aside from Cobb’s and Porter’s that he really cared about. The older man looked at him and nodded.

  ‘You heard the man. Do it, Archer.’

  The suspect didn’t look up as Archer entered the room. The young officer closed the door quietly, then took a seat in the empty chair Frost had vacated. On the desk in front of him, he saw that the photocopy detailing the nine suspects had been laid in an open folder. Archer didn’t need to look at it for reference. He already knew this guy was Number Three.

  There was a moment’s silence.

  ‘How are you doing?’ Archer asked. Idiot, he thought to himself instantly. How do you think he’s doing? He paused and mentally cut himself some momentary slack. He’d never done this before, and the atmosphere in the room was tense. He felt uncomfortable too, especially since he knew his bosses were watching him through the glass, Frost dismissing him as a rookie kid, wet behind the ears, fresh from the farm.

  ‘You want some tea? Coffee?’ he asked.

  There was a bump outside the mirrored wall. Someone outside clearly wasn’t liking his method of interrogation. Archer looked over at the mirror and shrugged.

  But for the first time, Number Three flicked his eyes up, looking across the table at Archer through his hair. The young policeman looked back at the man and found himself staring straight at him, holding each other’s gaze. The police officer thought he saw a moment of confusion, then a glimmer of recognition in the other man’s eyes.

  He knows me too.

  His suspicions were confirmed.

  ‘I know you,’ the terrorist said, in a raspy voice, his eyes narrowing. ‘Yeah, I know you.’

  He paused.

  ‘Your name’s Sam Archer.’

  ‘How the hell did you know that?’ Archer asked, baffled. Neither man had glanced away. They continued to stare each other down, like two boxers across the ring before the bell, or rivals in a poker game.

  The guy seemed as if he was about to speak, but stopped himself, and didn’t respond.

  Archer asked him again. ‘How the hell did you know that?’

  Another long pause.

  Archer looked at him, silent, waiting. Finally, the suspect replied.

  ‘Holloway Under-Sixteens. First team. You played in goal.’

  And in that moment, everything fell into place in Archer’s brain like a jigsaw. As if someone had just shaken the box and all the pieces suddenly fell into position, forming a picture in his memory. He remembered who the guy was and where he knew him.

  We went to school together.

  ‘That’s what it was,’ Archer said. ‘I knew I recognised you. You were a few years behind me. Patel, right? Your name’s Patel.’

  The guy gave a slight nod, but said nothing more. There was a pause, and the nostalgia in the room suddenly faded. Two old acquaintances, who now had nothing more to say to each other. Nothing in common, save a part of their history. Two men sitting only a foot away from each other, but worlds apart in their morals and beliefs.

  ‘So what the hell are you doing here?’ Archer asked. ‘How did you get mixed up in all this?’

  The terrorist lifted his gaze and glared back at him. Didn’t respond.

  ‘C’mon, talk to me,’ Archer said. ‘You need to say something.’

  Silence.

  ‘People change. We’re not kids at school anymore,’ the suspect finally said, quietly.

  ‘Yeah. Guys like us became doctors, or teachers. We’re all getting married. Having children. None of us are plotting bombings, or becoming terrorists, making home-made explosives.’

  The suspect didn’t respond. He glowered at the police officer across the table instead, his lank hair hanging over his face like vines in the jungle.

  ‘You killed a man too. You butchered him like a pig,’ Archer added.

  Number Three shook his head, but still said nothing.

  ‘So you didn’t kill him?’ Archer asked.

  Silence.

  ‘Look, this is your chance to tell the truth. You know what we found in that house. Bomb materials, coke, guns. Add them up and that’s some serious jail time. But if you get convicted for a murder charge that severe, you’ll be going away for life, no question.’

  That seemed to work. The suspect looked up.

  ‘It wasn’t me,’ he said. ‘I didn’t do it.’

  ‘Well who did?’

  ‘He brought him in. Told us to stay where we were downstairs or we’d be joining the rat on the rail.’

  ‘Who’s he? The guy you say did it?’ Archer asked.

  The terror
ist shook his head, looking straight up at the police officer.

  ‘You don’t have a clue, do you?’ he said. Archer didn’t respond or react. ‘You’ve no idea what you’ve got yourself into. It’s going to be a long night for you, Archer, I can promise you. One old friend to another, just try to stay alive ‘til the end of it.’

  A silence fell. Archer stared at the hostile young man sat across the table. He hadn’t seen the guy in a few years, but the teenager in his memory was charismatic and friendly. Unthreatening. He looked at the man opposite him and was stumped. He couldn’t believe it was the same guy.

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ Archer asked, quietly.

  Across the table, the terrorist looked back at him, expressionless.

  A pause. ‘Why?’

  ‘Yeah. Why? I know you. You were a good kid.’

  Number Three shook his head- his eyes dropped to the floor.

  ‘You got a girlfriend, Sam? Or a brother or sister?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  A silence fell.

  ‘You remember the riots?’ Number Three eventually said.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘On the second night, a group of them ran into my Dad on the street. He was on his way home from work. Minding his own business, causing no trouble. They killed him. Beat him to death. Stamped and kicked his skull in.’

  He paused. ‘A witness said they were laughing as they did it. They even mugged him when he was unconscious. These were all local guys. Born and bred in the area.’

  Silence. ‘Together, do you know how long they got?’

  Archer shook his head, slowly.

  ‘Six years. For manslaughter. They killed my father and four of them get six years in a joint sentence.’

  He suddenly hawked and spat on the floor, clearing the bile from his throat. ‘Now what if that was someone you cared about?’ he asked.

  Another silence followed.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Archer said quietly. The guy didn’t react. ‘But you think hurting more people is going to help?’

  Looking up, Number Three fixed the policeman’s gaze. He had a strange look in his eyes, almost feral. ‘Look around you, Archer’ he said. ‘Open your eyes. This is a war. You’re part of it, whether you like it or not.’