THREE
The journey from the shooting range to the ARU headquarters took just over twenty minutes. The black 4x4 Ford carrying the four officers passed pavements and street corners busy with bustling, purposeful commuters heading to the office, cups of coffee and briefcases everywhere you looked. Cutting and weaving an intricate path through the London streets, Porter did his best to avoid the heavy traffic wherever he could and get them over to their headquarters in good time. Eventually, he turned left and pulled the car into the police station car park. He tucked the vehicle into an empty spot near the entrance, alongside two other black 4x4 Fords, the other official Unit police cars. He applied the handbrake and killed the engine, and together the four officers stepped out and shut the doors of the vehicle.
Dressed in blue jeans and a black sweater, Archer took a deep breath of fresh air and looked up at the ARU's headquarters in front of him. The building was a simple design, two floors, a long, rectangular operations room above and a series of locker rooms, holding and interrogation cells and a gun-cage below. They were in the heart of the city, surrounded by glass buildings and with the echoes of traffic in the air all around them, but without knowing that this was a counter-terrorist police station one would think it was just another office building. Looking up at the roof and shielding his eyes from the sun, Archer caught a quick glimpse of the end of a black helicopter rotor.
Then again, the chopper was kind of a giveaway.
Along with the recent inclusion of the two PSG1A1 sniper rifles at the end of last year, Cobb had also been allocated a helicopter, funded by the Met's budget much to the envy of some of his colleagues. Fox and another officer called Mason had qualified for piloting the vessel, and although it had only been used a couple of times since its arrival in January, it had proved invaluable on both occasions. It was a Eurocopter EC135, a twin-engine helicopter popularly used across the UK by police and ambulance services. Weighing just over three thousand pounds, the helicopter could carry a pilot and seven passengers, and gave both air-support and essential visual aid for any crisis or emergency where they needed an aerial vantage point. Sturdy and compact, it was painted black with yellow lining and had ARU printed in bold white letters across the doors.
Down below, Fox opened the back of the Ford and pulled out the rifle in its case. Once he shut the door, Porter locked the car and the four men walked across the tarmac towards the entrance.
A young officer called Clark was sitting behind the front desk, a metal barrier preventing them from moving further into the building. He was a nice guy, just twenty six, and had replaced Archer as the youngest officer in the building. He’d recently passed the rigorous selection process, completing his training with flying colours, but given that there were no spots available Cobb had offered him the desk job until one freed up. The young policeman looked up as he saw them coming and nodded.
‘Morning,’ he said, as the four men walked in.
‘Morning, Clarky,’ Archer said. ‘How’s things?’
‘Good, Arch. Yourself?’
‘Can’t complain.’
The four officers took it in turns to sign a pad on the front desk, checking the time on a clock on the wall above Clark's head.
‘Staying out of trouble, Chalk?’ Clark asked.
‘Doing my best,’ Chalky replied, squiggling his signature.
After Chalky dropped the pen back on the desk, Clark pushed a button under the counter and the metal barrier in front of them was released. The four men walked through into the police station, nodding thanks to the young officer. Fox headed along the lower corridor with the sniper-rifle to return it to the gun-cage whilst the other three men moved upstairs.
When they reached the second floor, the trio were surprised to see a large group of people standing around in the operations area ahead of them. Normally the task force were all in the briefing room to the left, staying out of the intelligence team’s way.
Such a gathering normally spelt trouble.
‘Hang on,’ Chalky said. ‘This looks interesting.’
‘What the hell?’ Archer said.
Each man had a mobile phone he was required to carry with him at all times, but none of them had been notified of any crisis or emergency. However by the looks of things, something was going on. The trio moved down the corridor quickly and entered the operations room. It was a square shaped area, lots of screens, computers and keyboards, and to the right the three newcomers saw that the entire six-man tech team had paused in their work at their stations. Behind them was a cluster of task-force officers who had filtered out of the briefing room to the left, and all of them were watching a large screen mounted on the wall across the room. The officers already standing there sensed the trio arrive, turning quickly and nodding greetings, but the whole level was silent. Archer turned to one of the officers, the leader of Second Team, a big man in his late-thirties called Deakins.
‘What’s going on?’ Archer asked.
Deakins didn’t reply.
He just pointed to the television screen.
A female news reporter was standing on the South Bank by the Thames. They had caught it in just in time. She was about to deliver her report.
‘Thank you, Fiona,' she said. 'I'm afraid it has been a shocking and deeply unsettling start to the day, as up-and-coming politician Charlie Adams committed suicide on a bench facing the Thames early this morning. Found with a revolver in his hand, he was killed by a single self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. With elections fast approaching and Mr Adams with a strong following, people from his constituency have been left in complete shock by the apparent suicide. Mr Adams was well-known for being a former soldier, a man who served in the British Army for eighteen years and was a real inspiration and success story in his surprise move into politics. An investigation is already underway to try and understand why this tragedy has happened. We will keep you updated on this situation. He leaves a wife and six year old son. Back to you, Fiona.’
As the group watched the screen, Archer became aware of some movement to his right. Looking through the transparent glass of an office, he saw Director Cobb, head of the ARU, standing whilst watching the report on a television on the wall in his office. Unusually, Cobb looked slightly agitated, running his hand through his dark hair and with a worried look on his face. Normally cool and collected, his anxious expression was a surprise.
‘Is Cobb alright?’ he asked, to no one in particular.
‘Apparently he knew the guy,’ Deakins said.
Archer looked up at the screen again, then shrugged. He didn't know anything about politics and had never heard of Charlie Adams before. Sad news for sure, but not a headline he would remember. Turning, he walked over into the briefing room to the drinks stand inside and poured himself a cup of tea. Seeing the news report had finished, the other officers started to join him and slowly but surely, the place returned to normal, like a cassette that had been paused but with the play button pushed again.
But whilst everyone else across the floor shifted their attention from the television back to their workplace, Director Tim Cobb kept watching the screen mounted inside his office.
He was feeling a mixture of shock and total disbelief.
He'd arrived for work an hour ago, feeling good. It had been a marquee year for his Unit so far, two successful operations already in the bag. He was just turned forty one, but felt like thirty one, and had a beautiful wife and two sons he adored. His team, the Armed Response Unit, had become the premier counter-terrorist police force in the city, the particular favourite of the Prime Minister, and just last week the detail had demolished a drug-dealing ring that had been plaguing the city for months. From intelligence his tech team had gathered over months of wire-taps and bugs, his task force had performed four early-morning raids and seized over three quarters of a million pounds in cash and heroin, arresting seven men in the process with enough evidence to put them away for some time.
However, watching the television screen, Cobb was starting to realise that the ship was never steady for long. A storm was always brewing. And that morning lightning had struck the moment he'd turned on the television to catch the headlines.
Standing there in his office watching the news report, Cobb felt bereft. The news of the suicide was brutal and shocking. A wife left a widow, a six year old boy without a father. He hadn’t spoken to Adams in over ten years, but he'd seen a great deal of him on the television recently and had watched his unexpected rise as a politician with great pleasure. He had become the surprise candidate, his name on everyone’s lips, and there was an ever-growing public belief that one day he would make Prime Minister. He was building an impressive following around the country and everyone liked him, something which was often hard to say about a politician.
He’d been a refreshing change and had effortlessly captured the public's support and belief in a way that his competitors could only dream of. As a handsome, charismatic war hero, Charlie Adams had definitely bucked the trend and had been a true breath of fresh air. He would have had Cobb’s vote, no question. The man had been as strong as he was dependable, one of the finest men Cobb had ever worked with, and given the ARU's close working relationship with 10 Downing Street, Cobb had secretly been hoping that Adams would one day in the not too distant future, become the new PM so he could have the opportunity to work with him again.
Watching the television, Cobb saw the screen change to a bullet-pointed summary of Adams’ life. He sighed. Away from all the politics, Cobb had liked him as a person. Charlie had been a good man and an excellent soldier. He knew there would be a lot of former comrades and servicemen watching the report who would feel just as sad as he did at that moment, wishing Charlie had said something or asked for help instead of putting that gun in his mouth and leaving so many questions unanswered.
Turning, Cobb sat down behind his desk and watched the report shift back to the studio newsroom.
Something must have got to Charlie. Who knew what inner demons he was fighting. After all, he’d served all over the place with the army and been in some hellacious places in the darkest corners of the world. He’d been to Bosnia, Kosovo, Iraq and Afghanistan, right in the middle of all of the conflicts. God only knew the things he must have seen and the way they might have affected him. Cobb had only had a brief interaction with him just before the turn of the millennium, but he couldn't have done his job better, a true leader of men. Definitely not the kind of man who would blow his own head off with a handgun.
Rising and feeling agitated, Cobb moved across the room to his coffee machine and poured himself a thick espresso, no milk, no sugar. He took it back to his desk and let the drink cool, looking back up at the television screen. The Breaking News banner across the bottom of the screen was running the headline on a loop, but the screen had changed, now showing a picture of Captain Adams in some faded combat fatigues, kneeling and smiling up to the camera, his SA 80 rifle cradled over his thigh, squinting in the sunlight. He was in a dusty courtyard, somewhere in Iraq probably, and his skin was tanned, his dark hair untidy, the beginnings of a beard on his face.
Nevertheless his broad smile and whole persona demonstrated that raw charisma he’d always had, the quality that drew people to him and made him such a good leader of men. Staring at the image on the screen, Cobb shook his head in disbelief.
Charlie Adams had killed himself.
Why?
Just over three thousand miles to the west, across the Atlantic, a forty year old man stepped out of a dark strip-club in a Washington DC outer suburb and walked wearily across the empty parking lot towards his car. His seven hour shift had just ended and he was wiped out.
He worked the door at the joint four nights a week, making sure the girls weren’t harassed and that the guys who came in paid the eight dollar cover and didn't cause any trouble. It was a shitty job with a shitty wage, but it was all he could get. He needed the money because he needed to eat. He couldn’t survive without it, but he hated coming to work here. The place was seedy and grimy and he couldn't remember the last time he'd seen someone run a mop over the floor. The lights on the sign outside didn't fully work, constantly buzzing and flickering, and it was depressing as hell inside.
The man hawked and spat on the ground as he walked, his footsteps echoing in the empty parking lot as he made his way towards his car, the only other sound the electronic buzz of the blue neon sign above the door of the club. It was called Mermaids, a run-down place out of the centre of the city towards the projects, far away from the political glamour of the Beltway and the college red-bricked cleanliness of Georgetown. It had been a quiet night, typical midweek stuff, only a few customers, losers still in shirt and tie from the office catching a quick sleazy view or maybe a private dance before they went home to their wives and told them they’d been forced to stay late at work. The sad thing was those guys were probably earning more in one day than he made in a month. He was supposed to be working the door till four, but business was so quiet they'd locked up just before three. It was his only job and he needed the money, so that hour’s less pay had put him in a foul mood.
He walked over to his car, an unreliable piece of shit that didn’t run like it should anymore, and pulled out his keys. He pushed the button but the car didn’t beep.
It was already unlocked.
He cursed, pissed at himself that he’d left the car open all night. It was a miracle it was still here, given how close the strip-club was to the projects. If it had been stolen, he'd have been well and truly screwed.
Shaking his head at his stupidity, he climbed inside and shut the door.
He never even saw the man hidden in the back seat.
The stranger was small, dressed all in black, and had been lying in the shadows so he was close to invisible from the outside. In a flash, he lifted a piece of wire over the doorman’s head and pulled it back hard around the man's throat, locking his arms tight. The guy in the front seat's eyes widened and he started thrashing in panic, scrabbling at his neck as the wire garrotted him. Behind him the small man cinched it tighter, the wire slicing into the doorman's neck, cutting off his oxygen, the sharp wire splitting the skin.
The guy in the front fought vainly for about ten seconds, the blood vessels in his eyes bursting, his head turning the colour of boysenberry, his fingers grasping at the wire frantically as he was strangled. Behind him, the small man pulled it tighter still.
The doorman gave a final wheeze and then died.
The small man held the wire tight for a few moments longer, ensuring the guy was dead. Then he pulled it free, gathering it up into a ball and tucked it back into his pocket. Up front, released from the wire, the dead man slumped forward, his forehead coming to rest against the steering wheel, his arms limp, like he was drunk and had passed out while trying to start the engine. The smaller man checked the guy's pulse with a gloved hand, making sure he was gone, then slipped out of the rear door of the car quietly, clicking the door shut behind him.
The parking lot was deserted, the city asleep around him. No witnesses. No one around.
Popping his collar, the small man put his head down and moved off into the shadows. Four minutes later, the wire and gloves gone, the man was in a taxi heading straight for Dulles International Airport and his 5:05 am direct flight to London Heathrow.