Nine Lives (4 page)

He’d been standing watching when one of his men approached, informing him of the latest situation in London. The man’s name was Faris, Henry’s right-hand man, his
lugarteniente
as the Mexicans called it. He was efficient and reliable with a different level of intelligence from the two muscle-bound assholes loading the coke into the plane. He proved it by what he said next. He’d proposed an idea which Henry had considered then agreed to it on the spot without hesitation. It was a good plan, full of initiative and it turned out that Faris had been proactive; he’d already set everything up.

An Albanian cartel based in Paris would meet them at a runway outside the city later that night. They’d agreed to an asking price of six million US dollars for the coke which was two better than Juarez. And Faris had also contacted Dominick, Henry’s imbecilic excuse of a nephew. They would retrieve the boy tonight from the UK before the British police could get hold of him.

Apparently, he was eager to see his uncle face-to-face and finally explain himself after what he’d done.

Standing in the sunshine by the jet, Henry grinned. Not only would he finally get rid of this crappy batch of coke for one and half times the original asking price, he would also have his idiot nephew brought before him, begging for his life. Business and pleasure, his two favourite things, killing two birds with one stone.
Literally
, he thought with a smile.

So right there and then, he’d broken a lifetime of routine for the second time that morning and cancelled his trip to Juarez, opting to go to Paris instead. He knew he’d be pissing off a lot of guys in Mexico. These weren’t appointments that you just missed, but Henry knew how much power he wielded and figured he could ride the wave.

Standing by the plane, he watched as his two enforcers loaded the last few bricks of cocaine into the jet. Once they’d stowed the powder the two giants reappeared, plodding down the steps and standing on the runway, awaiting further instruction.

Ignoring them, the drug lord walked forward and grabbed the rail, clambering up the stairs himself. It took him ten seconds; after all, he was carrying over three hundred pounds of fatty adipose and bulk. Eventually he made it inside and collapsed in a seat that had been specially widened to accommodate him, sweating and breathing hard from the exertion.

The two enforcers followed, taking their own seats. It was pleasantly cool, the air conditioning blasting out of the fans, cold, crisp and refreshing. Wiping sweat from his sunburnt scalp, Henry looked at the two giants sitting across the aisle as Faris secured the door.

They were morons, both of them, more biceps than brain cells, but necessary muscle, considering the enemies Henry had. He’d been planning to get rid of them for a while; he liked to cycle his security, needing to keep them sharp and on their toes, eager to please and scared to fail. He'd noticed recently that these two were getting way too comfortable. And like the shitty coke, today seemed a good as time as any to ditch them. He decided there and then that neither of them would make it back from Paris.

He glanced over at Faris who was finishing locking the hatch, his back turned. Truth be told, the man had proven to be a surprisingly worthy investment. Henry had taken him on just over a year ago from a recommendation after his predecessor had been shot and killed by a rival cartel. It had been a wise decision; Faris was good at his job and the business’s profits had increased impressively with him on board.

But he asked too many questions and he was too intelligent for his own good. Henry knew there would come a day where Faris would challenge his position. It was inevitable, like two animals in the wild, the old leader and the young buck fighting for the right to head the pack. But he was ready for it. He’d waste the two meatheads in Paris then save Faris as a treat for when they arrived back in Riyadh.

He smiled to himself, feeling that tickle of excitement in his gut whenever murder was an imminent prospect, and heard a whining noise as the engine of the jet started to fully warm up.

The plane edged forwards to its starting position on the end of the runway, the long tarmac path stretching out ahead of them.

Faris walked into the cabin and took a seat opposite Henry. He noticed a broad smile on the drug lord’s face.

‘We’ll be in Paris in five hours,’ he said, watching his boss.

Without a response, Henry ignored him and closed his eyes.

Thinking of cement shoes.

FOUR

It was somewhat ironic that Dominick Farha had chosen to rent an apartment in the Knightsbridge area of London. In modern times, Knightsbridge was renowned as being a pretty trendy and upmarket place to live, a great location, adjacent to the always beautiful Hyde Park and with Harrods, one of the world’s most well-known stores right there on its doorstep.

But what a lot of people didn’t know was its dark and somewhat sinister history. In the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries the place was infamous as being a haunt for highwaymen and thieves, who lay in wait in the shadows to target those travelling westward out of London. In recent years, it had also seen its fair share of terrorism and crime. The Iranian Embassy siege of 1980 took place in the area, when six armed gunmen took twenty six hostages in a stand-off that lasted for six days until the SAS showed up. It had also been the victim of an IRA car bomb, detonated in the neighbourhood in 1983 and a legendary bank heist around the same time, when thieves had made off with over sixty million pounds.

The address the ARU officers had been given by GCHQ was an apartment on the third floor of a building overlooking the park. The task force had moved through the lavish lobby, two of them staying downstairs to guard the exits while the rest had swiftly moved up the stairs in their riot gear.

Opening the stairwell door, they crept down the third floor corridor, coming to a halt outside apartment 3F.
F for Farha
, Archer thought as he stood in line and waited. Beside him one of the other officers, a man called Mason, crept forward, a shotgun in his hands. It was Benelli M3, loaded with a special breaching round, designed to take locks off doors.

The team collectively took a breath as he aimed the weapon at the door-handle.

He pulled the trigger.

There was a loud blast, and the lock on the front door exploded, splintering and disintegrating as it took the force of the shotgun shell.

Deakins, the point man, slammed the door forward and the officers piled into the apartment.

The policemen moved smoothly in a well-practised drill, dispersing by the door and quickly sweeping the apartment room-by-room. Each man was dressed in navy-blue overalls, the trousers tucked into black combat boots. Above a Glock 17 pistol clipped to their right thigh, a Kevlar tactical vest was zipped up tight around their torso holding spare magazines, tools, plastic hand-cuffs and a mobile phone. All of them save for Mason carried a Heckler and Koch MP5 sub-machine gun. Accurate and reliable, each weapon had a thirty-round magazine slotted into its base, two more tucked into slots on their tac vest, ninety rounds in total. If the policemen needed more than that then they were in serious trouble, but then again, they always had the firepower of Mason’s shotgun to call upon if such a situation arose.

The officers checked every inch of the apartment; it was a large flat, with a spacious living area connected to two separate bedrooms and a bathroom. The place was finely decorated, expensively furnished and immaculately clean. The walls were painted a pale lilac, with a soft cream carpet.

Judging by the interior, one thing was for sure; Dominick Farha had a lot of money at his disposal.

But he wasn’t here. As they completed their search and with no sign of the suspect, the officers re-grouped in the living room. Mac joined them, looking around with a grimace.

The place was empty.

He cursed.

‘Shit. Anything?’ he asked.

Archer appeared from the main bedroom and shook his head.

‘Looks like he’s packed his bags.’

Mac turned his attention to a brown-haired officer who’d appeared beside Archer in the doorway. His name was Porter, Mac’s right hand man; the task force had only been together less than a year, but it was generally accepted that Porter would take over command whenever Mac retired. Professional, considerate and in his mid-thirties, Porter was known for two things. He never swore, and he never complained.

‘Port, get on the horn to Cobb. Let him know,’ said Mac.

Porter nodded. ‘Yes, Sarge.’

Turning, he disappeared out of sight as the rest of the team convened in the living room.

‘This doesn’t change anything, lads,’ Mac said. ‘Find me something we can use. We still need to get this guy.’

The officers nodded and separated, preparing to tear the apartment apart to find any clue on Farha’s whereabouts.

In a semi-detached house not too far away, an elderly lady was just beginning her morning routine. Since the sudden death of her husband the year before, she had taken great comfort in knowing roughly what was going to happen each and every day.
Wake up. Run a hot bath. Get dressed. Feed Tigger. Make a cup of tea. Read the newspaper delivered to the porch.
Routine, routine, routine. What was mundane to the younger generation served as a loyal and reassuring friend to the old lady, unwavering and reliable.

Having just added the right amount of milk to a mug of tea poured to the perfect level, she shuffled through to her living room and took her place in a comfy armchair by the window. Placing the mug carefully on a coaster on the small table beside her, she leaned back with a sigh and looked outside.

It was a bright but chilly December morning. Frost from the previous night had clamped itself to the edges and corners of the window pane, leaving tiny white whorls and swirling patterns like intricate calligraphy. As she gazed outside, she noticed that the red rosebushes in the front garden hadn’t been pruned properly in the autumn. She frowned; she’d have to do that when the weather warmed up in the spring.

But she also noticed something else.

Something odd.

Across the street, a young teenage boy was pacing down the pavement in a hurry. He was so focused on getting somewhere, the lad didn’t seem to have noticed that the back of his coat had ridden up, catching on something jammed into the back of his waistband.

Frowning again, the lady looked closer then gasped.

Even from this distance, she could see what the object was.

The youngster stopped outside a house across the street, and her suspicions were confirmed. Walking up and knocking on the front door, he reached behind him and pulled the black shape from his belt.

It was a gun.

She knew her duty. Forgetting her cup of tea, she pushed herself up from the armchair and moved to the other side of the window. Scooping up the receiver to a telephone sitting on the table, she dialled three numbers and waited.

The call connected as a voice arrived on the other end, asking a question through the receiver held to the woman’s ear.

‘Police, please,’ the elderly lady answered.

In contrast to the lady’s home, the interior of the house across the street couldn’t have been more different.

It was dimly lit, the air reeking of stale cigarette smoke. With the curtains drawn, the lights low, three men sat at a kitchen table, playing cards. Two of them were smoking cigarettes while the other munched on some breakfast cereal from a bowl. Several small bags of cocaine were scattered carelessly on the kitchen table amongst the cereal and cards, joined by a nine-millimetre pistol. The gun had been dumped on the table so that the barrel was currently aimed at one of the men’s chest, the safety catch on the weapon off. None of them seemed to have noticed.

The pistol was a Beretta. There was another one somewhere in the house, but they couldn’t find it. A third gun was leaning against the wall, within reach of one of the two men playing cards. It was a Remington 870 shotgun, twelve-gauge, a fearsomely powerful weapon. Some firearms had to be aimed carefully to have the desired effect, but the Remington wasn’t one of them. All a man had to do was aim at the central mass and pull the trigger. Whoever was unfortunate enough to be standing in front of it would be getting stuck back together with glue.

As the men sat there in silence, there was suddenly a knock on the door.

The trio froze and looked at each other; they weren’t expecting a guest.

The knocking continued.

The guy sitting closest to the shotgun lowered his cards, rising from his chair and taking the weapon from the wall. The other two men separated, one of them grabbed the pistol using an armchair as a screen, as the third man moved to the door. He crept up to it, and peered through the spy-hole, then relaxed instantly and turned to his two companions.

‘It’s your brother,’ he said to one of them.

As they put down the weapons, the man by the door opened it and turned without a greeting, walking back to the table and returning to his cereal.

The man who’d snatched up the pistol frowned, as his younger brother appeared from the hallway.

‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he asked.

The boy didn’t respond, staring at the cocaine on the table.

‘
Hey
!’ Saqib shouted, grabbing his brother’s attention. ‘I asked you what you’re doing here?’

The boy looked at him nervously.

‘I borrowed something. I thought I should bring it back,’ he said.

He pulled out the missing Beretta from behind his back, placing it carefully on the armchair.

The moment Saqib saw it, his eyes blazed with anger.

‘
You little shit!
Come here!
’ he shouted, lunging at him, trying to grab his coat.

The boy had been expecting that reaction and already had a head-start. Before Saqib could grab him, he was almost out of the front door. He sprinted outside and ran off down the street, running to the corner and then fleeing out of sight.

Standing in the doorway, his brother squinted as his eyes adjusted to their first taste of the morning light.

Across the street, he noticed an old lady standing in her front room, a phone to her ear, watching him.
Nosy bitch
, he thought.

He glared at her for a moment, then turned on his heel and slammed the door shut, locking it behind him.