Nine Lives (10 page)

‘I heard. Casualties?’

‘Not known for sure so far. But over a hundred at least.’

‘Shit. Any further threats?’

Crawford looked at him as if he was a fool. Then he realised Rivers had come straight here from De Gaulle.
He’s got no idea what’s going on. 
All he’d been concerned with today was closing out their operation on Henry, staying in contact with Agents Flynn and Brody to catch the drug buy at the airfield.

Crawford nodded slowly, then led the fellow DEA agent into the empty Briefing Room.

‘I’ll update you on the situation. Take a seat.’

He walked over to the noticeboards on the right side of the room as Rivers sat in one of the empty chairs. The photographs of the nine men were still pinned to the wall.

The newcomer took a seat, looking at the mug-shots stuck to the board.

‘Get comfortable,’ said Crawford. ‘This is going to take a while.’

THIRTEEN

The black ARU Ford carrying Porter, Mac, Archer and Chalky weaved in and out of traffic as it sped towards the stadium. Outside the window, hordes of fans were streaming along the pavement, fleeing the scene. They all looked traumatised, children crying, adults beside them wide-eyed with shock and fear as they raced away from the stadium.

Behind the wheel Porter skilfully manoeuvred through the streets, the flashing front and rear fender lights on the vehicle helping him forge a path through the traffic. The three officers beside him were each adjusting a throat microphone that they would use to communicate on the ground. With a small mic strapped around the neck, an earpiece tucked into their ear, they could talk to each other by pushing a pressel switch clipped to the front of the tactical vest.

Swerving to avoid two Tottenham fans running across the road, Porter listened to an earpiece in his ear. Instead of his throat mic, he had a hands-free connected to his mobile phone.

He turned to the men beside him.

‘Nikki found him on the cameras outside the entrance gates,’ he said. ‘It was Number Five.’

Mac hit the dashboard in front of him violently.
‘Shit!’

‘Estimated dead?’ Archer asked, as he finished adjusting the strap on his mic.

Porter turned a hard left, listening as Nikki spoke into his ear from the other end of the call.

‘A hundred and fifty. Same again wounded.’

Archer stared at him.

The London Underground and bus bombings of 2005 had killed just over fifty people. That was a horrific disaster, one that would go down in history as one of the darkest days in the nation’s history.

The casualties here were three times that.

Outside, the streets and pavements were getting clogged with more and more fans fleeing the football ground. They were getting close.

As he finished fixing his gear, Archer suddenly noticed that Chalky was unusually quiet. He hadn’t said a word the entire trip.

Turning, he saw that his friend looked pale. And he noticed something else.

‘Hey.’

Chalky looked at him.

Archer pointed to the MP5 sub-machine gun resting on his friend’s lap.

‘You left the safety off,’ Archer told him.

Chalky glanced down. His friend was right. The weapon was set to
Fire
, a round in the chamber as it lay on his lap.

The angle it was resting meant the barrel was aimed straight at Archer’s ribcage.

If it had gone off, he’d have been killed instantly.

‘Oh. Thanks,’ Chalky muttered, correcting his mistake and clicking on the safety catch.

Archer gave him a look, swallowing down his anger as Porter stopped the car and pulled on the handbrake.

Without a word, the four police officers stepped out of the Ford.

And the quiet of the car was instantly replaced by a cacophony of sirens, screaming and shouting.

They each slammed their doors and came to stand in a line, facing the car park. The four of them were momentarily rooted to the spot as they surveyed the scene before them for the first time.

‘
Jesus,’
Archer muttered.

It was complete pandemonium.

Outside the big stadium there were fans everywhere, fleeing like ants from a nest as they streamed from every exit. Ambulances were scattered all over the car park, their paramedics working frantically amongst the wounded, a number that was growing by the minute. Those able to walk helped carry those who couldn’t as they staggered towards safety; the scene resembled something out of a war movie.

Archer could see many of them were wearing Arsenal and Tottenham shirts singed and spattered with blood.

And above it all, a chorus of screaming and shouting filled the cold air, making the hairs on his neck stand up.

Behind the four officers the other two cars from the Unit pulled up to an abrupt halt beside the other parked Ford. The doors opened and the remaining six officers ran over, led by Deakins and Fox. Each man was fully-equipped with both the throat mic and MP5 sub-machine gun; they gathered in a semi-circle around Mac, waiting for instructions.

He turned to face them

‘
Listen up!
’ he ordered. He turned to Fox. ‘Foxy, take Spitz and Mace. Go and check the other stands. Look everywhere. Rubbish bins, dressing rooms, offices, toilets, I don't care. This could only be half the job.
’

Fox nodded, without a word.

He turned and ran towards the stadium with Spitz and Mason beside him, dodging those rushing in the opposite direction.

Mac turned to the remaining six men before him.

‘The rest of you, stay out here,’ he ordered. ‘Move through the crowd. Help the medics and the other coppers. Gather the wounded, try to maintain calm and keep your eyes open for anything suspicious. Stay on the radio and stay mobile.
Move
!’

The men nodded and turned instantly, dispersing swiftly into the traumatised crowd.

Across the stadium car park, a young doctor called Hannah Gibbs was working flat out. When she’d seen her name down for the New Year’s Eve shift three days ago at St Mary’s Hospital, she knew she was in for a long night. Most people who celebrated the New Year were just out to have a good time; they had some drinks, had some fun and partied away until the early hours. But then again wherever there’s alcohol, trouble soon follows, and the shift was renowned as an especially hectic and busy one with all the drunken injured stumbling in.

Two years shy of thirty, Gibbs had finished her degree in medicine at Nottingham University some four years ago, then moved south and taken up a post at St Mary’s. Although she’d been there for less than four years, she thought she’d seen pretty much everything. Gunshot wounds. Stabbings.

But as she pushed the wheeled stretcher and looked at the crowd around her, she realised this was beyond anything she could have ever imagined.

She was in the middle of the car park, trying to make her way through the mass of wounded and emergency services who were using the tarmac as a sort of makeshift triage. She was attempting to push a gurney holding a female Arsenal fan she’d been treating who’d been close to the blast.

The woman was in a bad way; she’d been standing just ahead of the explosion, about seventy feet away with her back turned. It was a miracle that she was still alive. Her Arsenal shirt was torn, singed and covered with blood, her back riddled with nails and chippings of glass, some of it lodged in her vertebrae and spine. She was in such a critical condition that every second counted. A moment’s delay, or hesitation, and she’d die in the ambulance or on the operating table. The clock was ticking, and Gibbs had to get her out of here immediately if she had any chance of making it.

Looking ahead, she saw an ambulance with its rear doors open, a slot available. Gibbs rushed forward as fast as she could, praying that someone wouldn’t get there first and steal the spot. She made it. A paramedic was inside the vehicle, clearing space, he’d seen her coming.

Gibbs had already hooked the injured woman’s vein up to an IV which she passed up to him carefully.

‘This one?’ he asked, hurriedly, looking at the injured woman lying on the gurney.

‘Severe head and back trauma,’ said Gibbs.’ Multiple injuries. Nails, shards of glass in her neck and spine. She needs to get to theatre asap.’

He nodded as another man appeared from the side of the ambulance. The driver. He ran to the other end of the bed and together, the two men lifted it and pushed it into the ambulance, locking it in place.

The woman lying on the gurney didn’t make a sound; Gibbs saw she’d passed out.

The driver slammed one of the doors, he reached for the other one, but Gibbs suddenly spotted something and grabbed his arm.

‘Wait!’ she told him. ‘
Hey!’

She called to four wounded fans, who were slumped together on the kerb ten feet from the ambulance. They turned to look at her in unison, like four owls in a tree, dazed and wide-eyed with shock. Gibbs waved her arm frantically, beckoning them to come forward.

Climbing up and helping each other, they shuffled over.

‘Get in,’ Gibbs ordered, helping them one by one up into the back of the vehicle. When that was done, she turned back to the driver. ‘We need to get as many of them out of here as fast as we can.’

The driver nodded and ran to the front door, climbing in behind the wheel. In the back, it was a tight squeeze, the group including the other paramedic gathered around the injured woman on the bed, but they’d all made it inside. Gibbs decided to jump in as well; she wanted to try and keep the woman alive until they could get her to hospital.

As she took a seat and reached forward to shut the door, she saw a news reporter hurrying into position on the tarmac close by. Amidst all the wounded and blood-stained medical help, she looked absurdly neat and polished, like a model who’d just stepped off the runway. The engine roared into life as the driver fired the ignition, jerking Gibbs back to the present.

She pulled the door shut.

With the siren blaring, the ambulance pulled out of the car park and sped off towards the hospital.

Outside the bar in the shopping centre in Angel, it was also time to leave.

The man standing beside the two black bags was still watching the screens inside. The volume was muted, so he couldn’t hear the report, but he didn’t need to.
A picture tells a thousand words
. The screen was showing all the wounded outside the stadium, smoke billowing from the South stand, people outside screaming and crying. It looked as if the whole place was packed with ambulance teams, paramedics and the injured.

Showtime.

Placing his glass down on a nearby table, he turned and walked away from the bar quickly.

No one was standing near him, so nobody noticed his departure.

Every person inside the pub was staring at the televisions, some covering their mouths with horror, all of them rooted to the spot as they watched the horrifying scenes unfold. The stadium was only a few miles from the bar; if they stepped outside they could probably hear the screaming in the distance.

Behind them all, outside the entrance, the two thickly packed holdalls rested against each other on the ground.

As he walked towards the exit, the man glanced back at the bags and smiled to himself.

Nobody would notice they were there.

Not yet.

FOURTEEN

Across the Channel, the Parisian café that Henry was using to kill time was located on Rue De Chevilly. Two miles from the city centre, it was convenient enough to allow easy access to the heart of Paris, yet was far enough out to give a sense of distance and escape from the hustle and bustle of the city.

The interior was warm and welcoming. Small tables and chairs were placed around the room, seemingly random yet adhering to some sort of pattern. A number of them were in use, patrons enjoying drinks and talking in quiet tones. In one corner, a number of people had gathered to watch two older men play a game of chess, the whole group engrossed.

Across the room, Henry leaned his considerable bulk back into his chair as he watched a television mounted on the wall in the café. Someone had switched the channel to
BBC World
and it was showing footage from outside the Emirates stadium.

Over a hundred feared dead
, the banner headline was telling him.

Henry snorted. It was a shitty result. He knew from memory that the Emirates had over 60,000 seats inside. The ratio was one out of every six hundred killed.
Only a hundred of them dead. A drop in the ocean.
Pitiful.
He wondered if Dominick was watching the report, wherever he was. He was probably pleased, figuring it was a good outcome, that it would buy him some credit whenever they next met. Instead of being sedated and waking up as he was being thrown into the Seine, he probably thought he’d be welcomed back into the fold with open arms, the prodigal son returned. Everything would be forgiven. Henry felt his mood darken at the thought of the boy.

He was in for a surprise.

His actions in New York had ended relations with a brother cartel which had been a major and profitable partner in recent years. Henry had worked tirelessly to set that one up. Not only had the boy cost his business a shitload of money, but one of the guys the moron whacked in the hotel was a
lugarteniente,
a lieutenant, one of the highest guys in the other group’s organisation. No wonder the boy was desperate to get back in his uncle’s good graces.

A waitress approached him, looking nervous. She was petite and slim like so many Europeans and held a pad and pencil in her slender hands, ready to take his order.

Before she had a chance to speak, he told her what he wanted.

‘Coffee, three pastries. I’m hungry.’

He wasn’t sure if she understood him, but he didn’t care. He had a feeling she’d end up giving him what he wanted. People always did. Turning, he saw her cast anxious looks at the two giant men sitting fifteen feet away; they had their backs to her, watching the door. Henry saw her weighing up whether to approach them, but decided against it and hurried back behind the counter to fetch Henry’s order.

Clever girl
, he thought.

Tilting his wrist, Henry checked the time on his Rolex. He had a few hours to wait. Faris had gone with the jet and the pilot to London to fetch Dominick, the coke still inside the cabin. The business deal with the Albanians based here wasn’t set to happen until after midnight, Paris time, and he was only twenty minutes from the airfield so it wouldn’t take long to return. All he had to do now was sit back and wait for his cocaine to return and for his nephew to be brought into the café, served up like a sacrificial lamb.

The waitress reappeared carefully carrying a tray. She was quick, impressively so. She arrived at the table and laid down a full cup of coffee with a pot of milk and sugar, which were then joined by a plate holding three Danish pastries.

She stood up nervously, seeing if he was happy. Ignoring her, the feared drug lord grabbed one of the pastries and pushed it into his mouth, chomping down.

It was delicious, fresh from the bakery, and the frosting smeared over his lips as he munched down on the treat.

After watching him for a moment, the waitress turned and scurried away.

In London at that moment, the accident and emergency ward of St Mary’s Hospital was in meltdown. Gurneys and the wounded were rolling in as if they were coming off a factory line. The most seriously injured were being seen to immediately, the rest tended to as soon as any staff became available. It was relentless work, as the injured just kept coming and coming.

By reception, the unfortunate Chief of Surgery for the evening, a grey-haired man in his fifties called Jeff Mays was desperately trying to direct operations and maintain some semblance of order.

Hannah Gibbs suddenly appeared, pushing her way through the double-doors. She still carried the IV hooked up to the injured woman on the bed, who remained unconscious and motionless on the frame. A group of medics rushed over. One of them picked up a medical pad resting on the bed which Hannah had filled out on the brief journey over.

‘She’s critical,’ Gibbs told him.

He nodded, rapidly reading the sheet, then followed the bed as it was wheeled away out of sight.

Gibbs paused for a split second, breathing hard. She turned, preparing to find another ambulance and head back to the scene. But as she went to walk back towards the entrance, she heard someone calling her name. Turning, she saw it was Chief Mays standing by the reception desk. He was beckoning her over.

She moved towards him, dodging a wounded Tottenham fan who was being helped into the ward.

‘Have you seen Beth or Will?’ Mays asked as she arrived by the counter, referring to two of her fellow medics who were on rotation for the evening’s shift.

Gibbs thought for a moment, then shook her head.

‘I checked in at 5.30. The next thing I knew, I was in an ambulance heading to the stadium.’

She thought for a moment.

‘Come to think of it, I didn’t see either one of them over there.’

‘Well I’m not surprised. Neither one showed up for work. I’m not happy, Hannah.’

He looked at her like she knew something he didn’t.

‘Well, I haven’t seen them in a couple of days,’ she replied. ‘I thought they had time off.’

‘They haven’t. And wherever they are they have an ambulance. I’ve been trying to call them but they won’t pick up and answer.’

He shook his head.

‘I don’t know what they’re playing at but I need every available pair of hands.’

Grabbing a pad from the desk, he passed it to Gibbs. It was a contact sheet, a list of phone numbers for everyone on shift tonight printed on the paper.

‘Keep trying. Find out where they are,’ he ordered. ‘Tell them I don’t even care that they’re late, I just need them both here soon as possible.’

Hannah looked out the entrance and at the sheer volume of wounded in the room around her. She needed to get back to the stadium, not waste time doing errands like this.

‘But Chief-,’ she said.

But he was already walking away. Gibbs cursed under her breath, and snatching the phone she started dialling a number.

Despite her frustration at being made to perform this mundane task, she was also surprised. She’d known the other two medics for four years.

And neither of them ever missed work.

Inside a dark vehicle across the city, a fluorescent light flashed on and off like a firefly.

It was a mobile phone. The small dark shape rang quietly, muffled and dimmed from inside a white piece of pocket fabric.

It belonged to a woman lying in the back of the vehicle.

She was lifeless, her body limp and sprawled in a heap, like a puppet with the strings cut. Another dead body had been dumped on top of her, a young man staring with lifeless eyes at the rear doors of the vehicle.

Both of them were surrounded by a pool of congealed blood which had clotted and thickened, sticking them to the floor of the vehicle. The bruising around the young woman’s neck showed that she’d been strangled. The man had put up more of a fight, so his throat had been cut.

The phone continued to ring quietly, flashing on and off.

But no one was ever going to pick up.

Fifty yards away, the man from the shopping centre checked the traffic as he strode across Upper Street towards the vehicle. Cupping his hands together, he blew hot air into his palms. It was cold, too cold. Dodging the traffic that passed down the road in front of him, he approached the vehicle parked on the kerb.

An ambulance.

Checking to make sure no-one had followed or was watching him, the man moved around the side of the stolen white vehicle. Pulling a set of keys from his pocket, he opened the door and climbed inside, slamming it shut behind him.

A sudden noise from the back of the vehicle startled him. He snapped his head round but realised it was just the dead bitch’s mobile phone. He relaxed; the damn thing had made him jump.

Ignoring the constant, quiet ringing, he grabbed a set of overalls from the front passenger seat beside him. They were light green medical scrubs; he’d planned to use what the guy in the back had been wearing, but he’d had to cut his throat and the prick had bled all over the white paramedic outfit as he died. He’d been forced to improvise but after raiding the ambulance he’d struck gold.

Pulling off his shirt, he started to change into the uniform quickly.

Over his shoulder, the phone continued to ring.

Back inside the shopping centre, a bartender had moved out from behind the bar with a cloth. If his boss asked, he was wiping down tables, but in reality he was using the opportunity to gain a moment’s respite from the mass of customers at the bar, leaving a colleague to handle the orders. There had been a brief lull when reports of an explosion at the Emirates had flashed onto the screens, but business was now back in full swing and it was exhausting work, constant shouted orders, people vying for his attention.

As he moved from table to table, giving each one a cursory wipe, the barman zigzagged his way towards the exit. Picking up an empty glass from an outside table, he noticed something against the wall.

Two black bags, sitting alone and unattended.

He frowned, then looked around.

There were sets of chairs and tables out there, but no one was using them. It was too cold.

He shrugged. Someone must have left the bags by accident. They’d realise soon and would be back any minute to collect them, no doubt worrying that they’d have been stolen.

The barman decided to move the two holdalls behind the bar for safe-keeping and until whoever owned them returned. He walked over and dropped to one knee in front of them. They were both bulky, packed full, and curiosity got the better of him.

Holding the rag and glass in his right hand, he reached forward with his left and pulled the zip of one of the bags open.

Tilting his head, he looked inside.

An instant later, he gasped, snapping upright and dropping the glass.

It hit the ground and shattered into a hundred fragments.