tucked under an FBI baseball cap which he wore back to front, his dark eyes glowing with excitement.
‘The Sheriff’s men have put road blocks here and here –’ he indicated two roads on the map spread out in front of them – ‘blocking all routes in and out of the compound.’ ‘I want SWAT teams here, here and here, in the trees on the high ground to cover the windows. First sign of any hostile activity once my guys are inside the compound, they put down covering fire while we fall back to the RV point here.’
‘You got it,’ said Viggiano.
‘The two HRT teams will come in from the front and the rear. Based on the blueprints, we estimate we’ll have the main building secured in about three minutes. Then it’s over to you.’
‘Good,’ said Viggiano as Vasquez sat down. ‘Now remember, when this thing goes down, I want it done by the numbers. No exceptions. There are families in there – women, kids.’ He pointed at the pile of manila folders containing photos and profiles of all the people the FBI had identified as living in the building. ‘So we knock on the door nice and easy. We ask to come inside. Any sign that this is more than a plain vanilla secure-and-search operation, we pull back. The last thing I – the Bureau can afford right now is another high-profile hostage situation. Besides, if it gets hot, the DC brass will want to handle it themselves. They always do.’
Vasquez nodded his agreement.
‘You got it.’
‘Okay then.’ Viggiano slapped the table. ‘Let’s move out. There’s a shit-load to do, and I want to hit this place after lunch.’
Borough Market, Southwark, London
5th January – 12.47 p.m.
‘Followed? You sure?’ Archie asked.
‘Tracksuit, bomber jacket and white trainers. Noticed him glancing over at us five minutes ago. Just saw his reflection in that van’s rear window about thirty yards back.’
‘We’re nearly at the motor. We could make a run for it.’
Tom followed Archie’s gaze to his DB9 about thirty yards down the road. It was a recent purchase and, for Archie – who had always said that the cardinal rule of being a criminal was not to attract undue attention by living beyond your means – an uncharacteristic indulgence. When he had handed over the cheque, twenty years of pent-up spending frustration had been released with one cathartic swish of his pen.
‘Oh shit!’ Archie swore. A wheel clamp glowed bright yellow against the gunmetal grey bodywork. ‘They’ve only gone and bloody clamped me.’
He quickened his pace, but Tom laid a restraining hand on his arm. Something felt wrong. Behind them a man who had followed them from the market; ahead, a street sweeper whose shoes looked a little too new; parked in front of Archie’s car, a van with its windows blacked out; and the car itself conveniently immobilised. It was textbook.
‘This isn’t right,’ he breathed.
‘I see them too,’ hissed Archie. ‘What do you want to do?’
‘Get out of here. Now!’
As Tom shouted, the rear doors of the van flew open and three men jumped to the ground. At the same time the street sweeper threw his broom away and swung a semi-automatic out from under his coat. Tom heard the heavy thud of fast-approaching feet from behind.
Before the sweeper could get a shot off, Archie peeled away to the left, while Tom darted right, down a small alleyway that emerged on to a narrow lane bordered by a wire fence. Grabbing the galvanised mesh, he hauled himself up its shuddering face, the metal clanging noisily. He was on the point of vaulting over to the other side when he felt a hand close around his left ankle.
The man who had followed them from the market had somehow managed to catch up with him and was now hanging off his leg, trying to drag him to the ground. Instead of trying to shake him off, Tom lowered himself slightly until his feet were level with the man’s head and then kicked out, freeing his foot from the man’s grasp and striking him across the chin. With a strangled gasp, the man fell to the ground.
Tom swung himself over the fence into a strip of wasteland that had been turned into a temporary car park for the market. He heard the clang of metal behind him and saw that two of the men from the van had arrived at the fence and were clambering up it.
At least they hadn’t shot him, Tom thought as he sprinted out of the car park, narrowly avoiding a car that was turning in, and headed back towards the market. If they’d wanted him dead, whoever they were, they could have taken him right there, through the fence. Clearly they had other plans.
At that moment a fork-lift truck loaded with market produce swung out of a hidden turning ahead of him. Tom jinked round it, the driver slamming on his brakes just in time to avoid hitting him.
‘Watch it, moron!’ the driver yelled, leaning on the horn to emphasise his point.
Tom ignored him, leaping over the spilled vegetable crates and then plunging back into the market. As soon as he was inside, he slowed to a walk, snaking in and out of the lines of shoppers. He knew that he would be safer in a busy place and hoped that Archie had had the good sense to come to the same conclusion. When he judged he was far enough inside, he stopped next to a wine stall and glanced back over his shoulder. His pursuers had reached the market entrance and were scanning the crowd for him. Both had their right hands tucked inside their coats where each was presumably concealing a gun.
Tom turned abruptly and slammed into a man carrying a case of red wine, knocking it out of his hands. The box landed with a crash, the bottles shattering noisily. Tom glanced back towards the entrance and saw that the men, alerted by the noise, were already fighting their way over to him.
‘I’m sorry,’ Tom said, pushing past.
‘Hey!’ the man shouted after him. ‘Get back here!’
But Tom didn’t stop. Dropping to his knees, he crawled under a stall, then ducked under two more until he was a couple of aisles away from the site of the collision. From the cover of a pyramid of olive oil drums, he checked the progress of the two men. They were standing by the box of shattered wine bottles, gesturing frantically. They’d lost him.
He cautiously made his way towards the north exit, attaching himself to a group of tourists who were chattering excitedly about the whole deer they’d seen strung up on one of the stalls. As they left the market, he broke away, heading for the main road and the river.
With a screech of brakes, a large black Range Rover pulled up alongside him. Tom turned on his heel but slipped, the road surface rendered treacherous by the wet cardboard boxes, lettuce leaves and plastic bags that had been generated by the morning’s trading. Before he could scramble back to his feet, the rear passenger door flew open and he caught a glimpse of who was sitting in the back seat.
Archie.
The front passenger window retracted a few inches and a pale hand appeared in the crack clutching a government identity badge.
‘Enough
