Nine Lives (5 page)

FIVE

Over in Knightsbridge at Farha’s apartment, reinforcements had arrived. Cobb had been in touch with the CID, the Criminal Investigation Department, and they’d sent over a team of detectives who were more than accustomed to searching places like this for clues. Around them, the ARU officers were also still hard at work, examining everything they could find, searching every drawer, every shelf, every inch of the flat. They needed a lead and no one was leaving until they got one.

Archer was sitting at a desk in the main living room with a view overlooking Hyde Park. He’d found a stack of papers tucked in the top drawer that he was currently rifling through. There were bank statements from a well-financed account with a fake name, receipts from hardware stores. There was even one from
NEXT
, a woman’s retail store, for a dress. That one seemed a bit bizarre.

Across the room, Mac appeared in the doorway, finishing a conversation with a detective from the CID. He saw Archer behind the desk and approached him.

‘Anything, Arch?’ he asked.

Archer shook his head. ‘Nothing we can use. Just some old receipts. I guess it counts as evidence, but it’s not telling us where the hell this guy is.’

Mac nodded as Chalky appeared from one of the bedrooms, overhearing the conversation.

‘Maybe he’s coming back?’ he suggested.

Across the room, Fox shook his head as he examined the contents of a cupboard.

‘No bags, Chalk. No clothes to speak of. There’s nothing here. He’s gone.’

Mac shook his head, cursing with frustration. Fox was right; they were too late to the party. As Mac went to continue, Porter suddenly reappeared in the doorway and interrupted him.

‘Mac, I just spoke with Nikki. The Met want us to check out a weapon sighting in the area.’

Mac snorted, shaking his head.

‘No way. We just got here. Tell them to put someone else on it. We’re busy.’

‘I tried. They said all the other suitable teams are in the south and east, conducting raids. We’re the only unit in the area. It’s our call.’

Mac sighed with frustration. Since the Firearms Act was passed, whenever a live weapon was reported in the city it was the responsibility of an armed police unit to go and retrieve it.

He checked his watch.

‘Shit. Alright. Chalky, Arch, Port, we’re going,’ he ordered. ‘Let’s take care of it and get back here quick as we can.’

He turned to Deakins, who had just entered the room.

‘Deaks, take over 'til I get back.’

Deakins nodded; he was used to this. For operational ease, the task force had been split into two teams. Mac was the head of First Team, which was himself, Archer, Chalky and Porter. Deakins was in charge of the other five guys in Team Two, and therefore was the unofficial second-in-command of the squad.

Mac moved swiftly to the door, Chalky right behind him and both followed Porter outside into the corridor, heading downstairs to the car. Rising from behind the desk Archer went after them, taking one last look at the expensive apartment behind him as he left and picturing the suspect’s face in his head.

Dominick Farha.

The leader of the cell.

‘Where the hell are you?’ he muttered as he left the apartment.

He was just over ten miles away. In a hotel beside Heathrow Airport, the handsome dark-featured terrorist cell leader stepped outside Room 418, freshly showered and dressed.

As he clicked the door shut, he glanced either side of him, looking down the corridor which was empty. He knew he was being paranoid, but this close to freedom he couldn’t afford to make any stupid mistakes. Caution was his best friend right now.

And after the last few days, he couldn’t handle anything else going wrong.

As soon as he’d realised the group had been compromised earlier in the week, the first thought in his mind had been to flee the country. In any other situation he would have done exactly that. But however tempting the idea was, he’d quickly dismissed it. To stand before Henry with no kind of recompense after what he did would be like signing his own death warrant. He was already in some drastically deep shit, and to screw this whole operation up after all this planning and preparation would be like drying the concrete to his feet himself.

So, with sudden escape not an option, he’d been forced to consider the alternative. With every instinct prompting him to leave, he’d calmed himself down. He’d contacted the cell by using two of them as couriers and yesterday, had ordered the whole gang to meet at an empty warehouse on an industrial estate near the airport. Face to face meetings like this were extremely risky and dangerous at this stage, but they didn’t have a choice. If they used phone or email, Farha knew the government’s security would be onto them in an instant.

Addressing the group, Dominick had emphasised the fact the security services and police knew of their plans meant nothing. He’d deliberately kept the list of targets a secret and had never intended to reveal them until the very last minute, just in case of a problem like this. And he’d been damn relieved he had. It was far too late to change the plans now.

He’d finally revealed the targets, each member informed of their particular role which they’d all agreed to without hesitation.

Saying goodbye, the members of the cell had turned their backs and departed, going their separate ways, knowing they would never see each other again.

Farha had stayed at the warehouse, watching everyone leave. He’d arranged a couple of safe-houses for some of them and told the rest not to go home, but he knew that he would be the one the police would be concentrating on. Which gave him a dilemma. There was no way he could ever return to his apartment in Knightsbridge. A guy from a counter-terrorist task force would be there to open it for him.

But similarly, he couldn’t move around the city. There was too much risk of being recognised and captured out on the street. He’d wracked his brains, searching for the answer as to where the hell he could hide out until his escape on Saturday night.

And then it had come to him, like a light-bulb going off in his brain.

A hotel by the airport.

It was organised mayhem in those places. There was an endless rotation of different faces and names in the building, so many people coming and going that he could disappear into the crowd as another anonymous guest. So he’d selected a hotel and used a fake name to check in, holing up in the room where he’d been for the past twenty four hours, out of sight. Right now was the first time he’d risked stepping out of the room since he’d arrived; he was pleasantly surprised at how calm and confident he felt. There was no-one about. No-one had a clue where he was.

And he’d be out of the country before the clock struck midnight.

Pushing a pair of sunglasses up over his nose, he started to walk down the quiet corridor towards the elevators. Dressed in a smart suit, he looked like a typical businessman staying at the hotel, his hectic lifestyle momentarily slowed until he hopped on a flight to New York or maybe the Far East.

Indeed, there was only one thing about Dominick Farha’s polished appearance which looked slightly out of place that morning.

A large black holdall, slung over his shoulder.

‘Alright, here’s a bet. Ten quid says it’s a water pistol,’ offered Chalky, watching the street flash past his window in the back of the car.

The four policemen were inside a black 4x4 Ford moving quickly through the streets, speeding towards the location where the weapon was sighted. Porter was behind the wheel, Mac beside him in the front passenger seat, with the two younger officers sat behind them.

Archer turned to his friend. ‘Deal.’

He offered his hand, to seal the terms. Chalky shook it.

‘Who called it in, Port?’ he asked.

‘Old lady across the street. Said she saw a kid take a handgun into a house,’ said Porter, swerving to avoid a car parked just too far into the road.

Chalky grinned at Archer. ‘Told you. Might as well pay me now, Arch. At least it'll make this little journey worthwhile.’

‘You making a point, Officer White?’ Mac growled from the front seat, as he inspected the MP5 resting on his lap.

‘Just that we’re meant to be a special unit, Sarge,’ he responded. ‘Armed response, counter-terrorism, that sort of thing. But here we are, going to pick up a Super Soaker from some twelve year old kid who made the heinous mistake of carrying it down the street.’

‘Have you considered that it might be a real gun?’ Archer asked.

‘How many kids are walking around carrying real handguns in London, Arch?’ his friend countered.

‘OK, so let me ask you something Chalky,’ said Mac. ‘Why did you apply to join this unit? It seems to me that you’re starting to complain about doing anything that actually involves police work.’

Chalky sensed his sergeant’s irritation and backtracked. He knew better than to provoke him. ‘Oh, I love the work, Sarge. I’m just saying it wouldn’t hurt to have a bit of excitement once in a while.’

As he spoke, Porter turned to the right and pulled the vehicle into a gap on the kerb, applying the handbrake and turning off the engine. They were parked on a residential road, rows of semi-detached houses facing each other all the way down the street. They could see a few people walking down the pavements on either side, but the place was pretty quiet.

‘We’re here,’ Porter said. ‘Number 33, up ahead to the right.’

All four men looked where he’d indicated and saw the front door in question.

The curtains to the windows in the front room were all drawn, which was a mixed blessing. Whoever was inside wouldn’t see them coming, but equally they couldn’t get any idea who or what was inside.

Mac turned to his three officers, ready to go.

‘Check your weapons. Arch, you’re primary. Chalk, secondary.’

Archer nodded, appreciating the responsibility.
Primary
meant he’d be the first man through the door. Each man checked his weapon and went to open the doors.

‘Oh, and Chalk?’ Mac added.

The younger man paused, his hand on the door handle.

‘Be careful what you wish for.’

Inside the house, the three men hadn't moved from the table, smoking their cigarettes and still playing cards.

But suddenly, there was another hard pounding on the door.

Three stiff knocks.

But this time it wasn’t Saqib’s brother.

‘POLICE! OPEN UP!’

For a split second, the three men sat there frozen, staring at each other, wide-eyed with fear and shock.

How the hell did they find us?
their faces said.

Then they bolted into action.

One of them grabbed the two bags of cocaine, throwing them under the couch in a frenzy as the other two rushed to grab the weapons scattered around the room.

They were trapped, with no way out.

But they weren’t going down without a fight.

Outside the front door, the four officers could hear the sudden commotion inside the house.

Without hesitation, Archer stepped back and kicked the front door as hard as he could, but it wouldn’t budge.

He tried twice more quickly. Nothing.

He put everything he had behind the fourth, and threw his body weight behind it.

This time, it worked and the door splintered open.

Pushing it all the way back, he moved into the house, followed by his three team-mates, shouting as he held his MP5 to his shoulder, tight in the aim.

‘Police! Nobody move!’

Sweeping through the front hallway, he turned right, arriving in the doorway of the living room. The place was dark and dirty, like a seedy den.

But in the shadows in that split second, he saw three men standing there.

One of them was holding a pistol. This one wasn’t a toy.

Immediately, Archer could tell it was the real deal.

But things got a hell of a lot worse.

He saw a second man across the room holding another weapon.

A pump action twelve-gauge shotgun. 

The guy had it in the shoulder.

And it was aimed at Archer’s head.

SIX

As a kid, Archer had always been bad at football, or
soccer
as his Dad used to call it. For the life of him, he could never kick the damn ball properly. Other boys his age had taken to the game with ease, able to seamlessly perform elaborate tricks and passes while Archer struggled to master the most basic of skills. But during one game at school, when he was about ten, he’d discovered that there was one thing he excelled at. Goal-keeping.

He’d been stuck in the goal-mouth by a coach during a school practice, probably to keep him out of the way of the more talented kids. But then during the game, the other team suddenly couldn’t score. They’d thrown everything at him, but he stopped the ball every time.
He’s got hands like buckets
, his coach had enthused upon seeing the boy’s hidden talent. But even then as a kid, grateful as he was, Archer knew his gloves weren’t the key to his success between the posts.

It was his reaction speed.

On this occasion, that same rapidity was going to save his life. Before the gunman had time to pull the trigger, Archer was already diving behind the far wall for cover.

‘Shotgun!’
he screamed, to his three fellow officers.

They all threw themselves back in the hall as the guy fired the weapon. There was a deafening explosion; white plaster and dust burst from the wall behind where Archer had been standing as it took the full brunt of the shell.

On the floor, his ears ringing, the young policeman looked up and saw one of the other two suspects fleeing frantically up the stairs ahead of him. Scrambling to his feet, Archer pursued the other man, chasing him down.

The wall shielded him from the guy with the shotgun, so he was momentarily safe.

The other officers had fallen back into the hallway, taking cover from the force of the blast. Chalky was the man immediately behind Archer, next in line. Seeing his friend run after the other suspect, Chalky took the initiative and moved into the living room, his MP5 up, as the man with the shotgun racked the pump. The weapon gave a loud double-crunch, as another shell was slotted into the firing chamber.

‘Drop the weapon!’
Chalky bellowed as he moved forward, the sight of his MP5 aimed on the guy’s chest.

Suddenly he stumbled, tripping on an overturned chair-leg in the dim light, and fell, momentarily losing his grip on his weapon. He clattered onto the floor, landing just in front of the guy.

From the ground, he looked up.

And the wrong end of the shotgun met his gaze, an inch from his face.

It was so close, he found himself staring inside the barrel.

Behind it, he could see the man’s face, eyes wide, hopped up from cocaine.

And the guy pulled the trigger.

Click
.

The gun misfired.

A split-second later, the man holding the shotgun was thrown back, two rounds from Mac’s MP5 slamming into his chest. His finger twitched on the trigger as he fell and the shotgun erupted once more, white plaster exploding from the ceiling as it took the round. He was dead before his back hit the floor.

The other man, seeing his friend’s demise, threw his Beretta to the floor in panic, holding his hands high above him and screaming in some foreign language. Mac moved forward to arrest him, never taking the front-sight of his weapon off the guy’s chest. If he tried something cute, he’d be dead in an instant.

Across the room, Chalky leaned back against the wall, his eyes wide with shock. Porter dropped to one knee beside him, grabbing his shoulders, looking into his eyes.

Chalky stared back at him, confused. Porter’s voice was muffled.

He was up close, holding him by the shoulders, looking into his eyes.

He was shouting, asking him something, but Chalky couldn’t hear what he was saying. He stared back at him, his chest heaving as he sucked in air, looking at Porter’s mouth as it moved as if he was watching a silent film.

On the upper floor, Archer was just finishing hand-cuffing the third man’s hands behind his back. The guy was shouting and swearing, but the young officer ignored him, keeping his knee on the guy’s back and pinning him to the ground as he used a set of plasti-cuffs from his tac vest.

Zipping them tight, Archer rose, lifting his MP5 back to his shoulder. Behind him, the man writhed and jerked around as he tried to free his hands, but it was hopeless; Archer had cuffed his ankles too, trussing the guy up like a Christmas turkey. He wasn’t going anywhere.

Looking around him, Archer saw that there were only two doors on the second floor but both of them were shut.

He crept forward to the first, just as a shout came from downstairs.

‘Clear!’

Arriving outside the first door, Archer took a deep breath. Closed rooms were a nightmare to breach. Someone could be standing just the other side with a shotgun aimed at the wood, waiting for the moment they heard movement in the corridor or when they sensed someone touch the handle.

There could even be a group of them in there for all he knew, each one pointing a gun at the door.

Taking a deep breath, he kicked it open and ducked swiftly inside.

It was a spare bedroom, and thankfully, it was empty. No one was there. The room contained just a solitary bed, no sheets or duvet.

But there were a number of things resting on the mattress.

Archer looked closer, and felt his breath catch.

Four large transparent bags had been dumped on the bed. Each one was about the size of a black rubbish bag, and each contained different items.

He looked closer and saw ball bearings and marbles.

Nails.

White powder.

And some kind of clear liquid that looked like bleach.

Beside the bags, three backpacks lay on the bed, along with a spool of wire.

Archer’s mouth went dry as two words came into his mind.

Suicide bomb.

Staring at the bags on the bed for a moment longer, he then raced back into the corridor.

‘
Mac!
’

Wasting no time, Archer moved to the second closed door across the level as Mac appeared below and started moving up the stairs. Same routine again; enter and pray there was no one the other side. Taking another breath, he raised his MP5 and kicked the soft wooden frame, as hard as he could.

The door flew open.

The moment Archer looked inside, he almost vomited.

The room was covered with blood. It was as if someone had got buckets of the stuff and thrown it all over the walls like an art project. A dead body was hanging limp, hand-cuffed to the shower rail, like an animal in an abattoir. The guy was naked. Pieces of him lay all over the tiled floor, the white walls red and spattered with his blood.

Archer covered his mouth as Mac appeared alongside him from the stairs. The older man’s eyes widened and he paused, standing beside Archer; he’d seen some pretty awful things in his time, but this was up there with the very worst.

Beside him, the younger man coughed, the sweet smell of dried blood filling the air.

‘What the hell did we just find?’ Archer asked.

Mac stared at the dead body, hanging like a slaughtered pig from the rail.

‘
I don’t know, Arch,
’
he said quietly. ‘I don’t know.’