Nine Lives (7 page)

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 the broadsheet back up in front of him, covering his face.

Then he made a quick decision.

Lowering the newspaper and leaving it on the table, he grabbed the black holdall from under the table by his foot, 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.

EIGHT

At the ARU’s headquarters, the unexpected discovery of the three members of the terrorist cell had left Cobb both extremely relieved and extremely 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, which was more than concerning. Right now he had Nikki and her team working the three guys’ mug-shots through every file they had. Mac had just 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 in the tech area, Cobb stood behind her in silence, desperately trying to think where the other six suspects could be. It was only by a stroke of ridiculous luck and a nosy old lady that they had stumbled upon these three. They couldn’t rely on such good fortune again. Turning, he withdrew to his office, shutting the door behind him as his mind ran through every possible scenario.

Lost in thought, he sat back in the chair behind his desk. His office was a modern design in that the walls were made of clear transparent glass, which meant he could see what was happening outside without leaving his desk.

It also meant he saw the moment the newcomer arrived, escorted by the detective who manned the front desk downstairs.

The stranger was dressed in a dark suit, with a badge clipped to the breast pocket that said
Visitor
in bold red letters. He was wearing a blue shirt with a 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.

‘Sorry to disturb you, sir, but this is Special Agent Crawford,’ 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 DEA 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 immediate unease. It had been a morning full of unpleasant surprises and he could do without any more.

Swallowing his sense of foreboding, Cobb nodded to the detective who turned and departed, leaving them alone.

The visitor stepped forward, offering his hand and introducing himself. 

‘Jason Crawford. As your man said, I’m a Special Agent with the DEA. 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 Operations area.

‘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. Believe me, I wouldn’t be here if this wasn’t crucially important. I only arrived from Paris twenty five minutes ago. I flew 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 quietly.

*

‘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 both a cup of coffee from his machine by the far wall. Cobb turned.

‘How do you take it?’

‘Black, no sugar. Thank you.’

Cobb finished making the two drinks then 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. ‘Here in the UK the two 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, silently cursing at Simmons’ carelessness.

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. The 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 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. You remember the Madrid terror attacks a few years ago?’

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. Hybrid organisations are now
emerging; 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, the DEA, 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.

‘So, slowly but surely we’re winning the war,’ he said, draining the last of his coffee.

There was a pause.

‘Well I’m very pleased to hear that,’ Cobb said. ‘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 here?’ Crawford asked quietly.

Cobb nodded. ‘Of course.’

‘The reason I was in Paris was 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 an advance 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?’

‘The boss 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 for a moment.

‘Because Dominick Farha is Henry’s nephew.’

NINE

‘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.

‘But let me guess. If Farha somehow gets in contact with Henry in Paris, you want us to hold back until your operation is over,’ Cobb replied, putting two and two together. ‘If we move in, your cartel boss will realise he’s compromised and will disappear. And you don’t get 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.

After a brief silence, the blond DEA agent spoke again.

‘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 chipped back in the US. It’s a transponder, tiny, small enough to fit in a syringe. 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. ‘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 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.’

He paused as something else came into his mind.

‘By the way, has anyone discussed a motive with you yet?’

‘For the planned attacks?’

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

‘No. I figured it was just fanaticism.’

Crawford shook his head.

‘A year ago to the day, Dominick was actually high up in Henry’s organisation,’ he said. ‘Their relationship wasn’t always this fractured. Farha, as a trusted family member, had been sent to New York on a business run that we were tracking. 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.’

‘How so?’

‘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 didn’t reply.

‘Now this put him in some seriously deep shit. One of the guys he whacked was a lieutenant within the other organisation and those are men that you do not want to mess with. Once details of what had happened spread, the New York crew 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 was. 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, a year ago tomorrow, and he hasn’t contacted his uncle since.’

‘But where’s the motive for planning these attacks?’ Cobb asked.

‘Henry harbours a deep hatred for the United Kingdom. His parents were killed during the Gulf War when a British missile hit their home.’

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

He leaned back in his chair and nodded.

‘Dominick thinks these attacks will make up for what happened in New York and please his uncle enough to let him back into his organisation. And keep him alive and protected.’

Crawford nodded. ‘And his screw-up at the Four Seasons will stay there.’

Cobb frowned. ‘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 are cartel hit-men scouring the world searching for Dominick and they have a long reach. With the protection of his uncle and his men, Dominick could 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 gang ever took him alive. They’d make his death last weeks.’

With that, Crawford fell silent; he’d finished his report and showed his hand. The rest was up to Cobb.

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

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 approached the office and 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 ARU HQ 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 which 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.

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,
Cobb thought 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 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, as if he was made of stone.

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 woman 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 in the gun-cage down the corridor. The woman was smartly dressed in a grey suit and trouser combo over a white shirt, professional yet feminine. Her name was Jill Sawyer, a lawyer attached to the detail.

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

Cobb turned.

‘How’s the case, Jill?’ 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, and 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. Deakins and Fox are in there with him next door, trying to get something out of him.’

Mac swore.

‘I also spoke to Nikki outside,’ Porter continued. ‘She just received a call from a lady named Kim Collins
from Forensics. Apparently she wanted to pass on a message to you.’

‘Concerning?’

‘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 exit, 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.