Blackout (Sam Archer 3) (16 page)

The CIA kept immaculate and up
-
to
-
date records on anyone who had ever been involved with the Agency’s dealings over the years. Some tight, high-level security protocols had been in place with this file, but the information Shaw had rushed home with on the memory stick had been exactly what they were after, ten names and addresses of the men from that operation all those years ago. Only one man was missing from the list, but they already knew his name. Once the dominos were falling, one after the other, they would find him soon enough.

Back at the command post in London, watching the screen, the man saw police tape pulled up around the house in McLean, an ambulance team dressed in white working alongside a forensics team. He saw two large black body-bags wheeled out on two gurneys. Mr and Mrs Shaw respectively.

The commanding officer was a man of honour, but he was also ruthless. The safety and security of his men was his foremost priority and he knew sooner or later the Shaw’s would tell someone what had happened and could describe what each member of the group looked like. So once the fat man had returned with the information, the group had killed him and his wife. It had been relatively quick. They’d gagged the couple, taken them upstairs, then used two knives from the kitchen so as not to alert the neighbours. Knife-work was always messy. The pair of them had both bled like stuck pigs as Worm and Bug cut their throats, blood soaking into the white bed-sheets of their double bed. Each was around two hundred and fifty pounds, and blood had pulsed and pulsed out of their obese bodies onto the sheets and the carpet. The bedroom looked like a horror film by the time the team had left.

Watching the fresh report, a lime-green light suddenly started flashing on the desk beside the television, lighting up the room like a large firefly. It was the screen of his mobile phone. The big man picked it up from the desk and answered it.

'Yes.'

'Sir, I have news
,' a voice said
.
It was Worm.'
Jackson is with Cobb. They just left the police station. I don't know where they’re going, but it must be important. They’re not hanging around. I’m following.
'

‘You didn’t get a shot?'

'No, sir. I was parked down the street, and they drove too fast when they pulled out
of
the gates. They also have four cops with them. They're all armed.'

‘Don’t lose them. Report back when you know where the hell they are going. And don’t screw up.’

He ended the call without waiting for a response.

He placed the phone back on the desk and looked down at the list of names in front of him.
Tim Cobb
,
ARU
it said there, in dark letters.
Ryan Jackson, CIA
just below it. Judging from Worm's report, these two now had an armed escort everywhere they went. The original plan for Jackson was to take him out during a meeting he had scheduled at noon. He thought it was going to be with
the
Syrian ambassador, but in reality he would have arrived at the meeting place, an empty conference room, and found himself walking on plastic sheets, a silenced pistol put to the back of his head.

But it was now past midday and his assistant had called earlier to cancel the meeting, so the plan had been aborted. And now Jackson was with Cobb. Both would have made the connection by now and realised from the list of the dead what this was about. That explained the armed escort.

Alone in the dark command post, the big man cursed.

Killing Jackson and Cobb was going to be harder than he’d thought.

THIRTEEN

The journey to the hospice took just over forty five minutes. Cobb drove fast, but the midday city traffic was bad and they were delayed by queues and red lights. Nevertheless, they got there in pretty good time, just as the clock on the dashboard of the Mercedes ticked to 1:00 pm. In Jackson's car not a word was spoken between the CIA agent, Archer and Fox on the journey. They were hoping to get some answers from Corporal Fletcher himself. Also, like loyal men, they didn't much feel like conversing with the man who had withheld information from their boss.

As they turned into the parking lot behind the lead car, Archer looked out of the window from the front passenger seat and examined the hospice from the outside.

It was a long, single storey building and looked newly built. Once the two cars parked side by side and the six men climbed out, Archer spotted a welcome sign with a map layout of the hospice a few feet away. He walked over to take a closer look.

Judging from the map there was a three-acre garden the other side of the building, fenced off from the public where residents, if they were physically able, could enjoy some fresh air and some privacy. He scanned it quickly, looking for all entry and access points. He wasn’t expecting trouble inside, but he heard his father’s voice, a former Sergeant in the NYPD, echo in his mind.
Make sure you know every way in and out of a place.

It had been his dad’s credo back in the 80’s when he and his partner were after gang members and drug-addicts plaguing the city. If you were a landlord, you’d have to point a gun at some of those people to get them to move, but one knock on the door from a cop was enough to clear out an entire apartment like cockroaches when the lights were turned on. Archer had rolled his eyes as a kid when his dad told him about that stuff, bored, but as a man he’d remembered it and that advice had got him out of trouble more than once. Cobb stepped forward, joining Archer, and glanced at the map. After a moment, he nodded and motioned for everyone to follow him inside.

Given the poor health and physical frailty of the residents of the building, the few people who happened to be near the entrance were extremely surprised to see six men, four of them armed police officers, walking towards the double-door entrance to the hospice. Not the usual sort of visitors.

All conversation in the reception area abruptly ceased as everyone watched the purposeful group enter. As Cobb approached the lady behind the front desk to explain why they were here, Fox and Porter remained by the entrance, checking the car park
behind them to make sure they hadn’t been tailed. Standing in the middle of the
Reception area, Archer and Chalky looked around the interior of the building.

The place was clean
with a lot of
polished
wood
, shaped like a long bungalow
and reminded Archer of a log cabin. It looked Scandinavian. Archer had spent time in a hospice before. His mother had spent her last few days in one a few years ago but much to his surprise, then as now, he had found that the building didn’t give him the yips in the way hospitals did. There was no smell of bleach or disinfectant, no crowding in the corridors, no drunken injured or people shouting, no impersonal staff. It was very calm and very quiet. Everyone who came here knew that their days on Earth were drawing to a close. But instead of being a desperately sad place, it felt peaceful. A pleasant environment which frequently took people who’d never visited a hospice before by surprise.

Archer realised the building was having a calming effect on him already. It had been a tumultuous morning, but the quiet atmosphere was definitely soothing. He remembered Katic had mentioned that she had spent a lot of time in one of these places when her husband was in the final stages of his cancer. He felt his throat tighten as he thought of her, but instantly banished any thought of her from his mind.

He couldn't afford to be distracted today.

If he was, it could get him killed.

Cobb showed his ID to the receptionist behind the desk, explaining who he was. She was a middle-aged woman, slightly frumpy, but with a pleasant face that right then looked pretty worried. Although Nikki had called ahead and told her
Cobb and his team
were coming, Archer realised she was a bit overwhelmed, and couldn't take her eyes off the four black MP5 sub-machine guns the officers were carrying. He guessed most people brought flowers.

After explaining why they were here and the pressing nature of their business, Cobb paused and looked down at the woman behind the desk,

'Is that OK?' he asked her.

'Yes,' she said, still staring at the weapons. 'Of course you can see Mr Fletcher. But could I ask you to leave those here please?'

She pointed uncertainly at the guns as if they would bite her.

‘I don’t want you to give our patients a heart attack. I have a secure room here where you can store them until you leave. I have the only key.’

None of the officers moved. The events of the morning had left them unwilling to relinquish their weapons.

Cobb thought for a moment.

‘Can my men keep their side-arms?’

She frowned at him, about to say
no
.

‘They will keep them holstered, out of sight,' he added, reading her expression. 'You have my word. I promise. But trust me, it's better for us all that they have them within reach.’

‘OK,’ she said after a brief hesitation, still reluctant but finally giving in. 'I suppose so.'

Cobb turned and nodded. The four officers checked the safety catch was on, then racked the cocking handle back and pulled each magazine from each weapon, ensuring the chambers were empty, much to the fascination of the few residents in the area watching them. The receptionist pulled a key from a drawer and opened up a room behind the reception, and one by one the men stowed their weapons neatly inside, taking the magazines and tucking them into spare pouches on their uniform. They wouldn't leave the weapons with any ammunition, just in case someone managed to get inside the room. Archer stepped back, relieved he still had his Glock 17 pistol in the holster on his thigh. It didn't matter where they were today, at their Unit, a hospice or even a church, they needed to be armed at all times. Some men had come to kill Cobb, and others were still out there somewhere. And there was nothing that would stop them from trying again.

As satisfied as their compromise on the weapons would allow, the receptionist made sure the room was locked by trying to twist the handle. It wouldn’t budge. She dropped the key in her pocket, turned and then looked across the desk at the six waiting men.

‘Come with me,’ she said.

Stepping into the lobby, she keyed in a six digit number on a keypad attached to an internal door, and pulled it open, passing through and holding it for the group. They followed and moved down the corridor into the building
after her
. They passed rooms on either side occupied by patients, some of the doors were open and Archer could see people lying in the beds, some alone, others with families. He even saw one man with a dog curled up on the bed beside him, both of them asleep. Despite the circumstances, the sight of the two of them made him smile briefly. He remembered at the place his mum had stayed in that one patient had owned some racing stables, and she had one of her favourite horses brought to the hospice and led into the garden so she could be wheeled out of her room to pet and stroke him one last time. Archer had been in the room next
door with his mother, and thought he was dreaming when the huge racehorse strolled past the window.

They passed a couple of elderly patients being helped to their rooms by a nurse, both walking slowly, using frames, the officers taking care to step past them carefully and respectfully. The two patients ignored the group, focusing on each footstep they were taking, but Archer saw the two nurses’ look of surprise when they saw them. Leading the way, the receptionist turned to the left, walking briskly down another corridor. She came to an abrupt stop outside a closed wooden door.

Number 32.

‘This is it,’ she said. She knocked softly.

‘Come in,’ a voice said, quietly.

She opened the door and the men followed her into the room. As he walked in, Archer saw a blond-haired patient lying in the bed and managed to hide his surprise when he saw the man's frailty. Fletcher was pale and gaunt, his cheeks sunken. He was wearing pyjamas but they were hanging off him, his two pointy shoulders serving merely as a bony coat-hanger.

Archer looked around the room and saw a television on the BBC News channel, standing on a table in the corner. They had caught it during a re-run of the bulletins, the screen showing the damage to the outside of
the
ARU's headquarters from the gunfight. The sound was muted, but the shot flicked to Cobb delivering his report to the waiting press. From the bed, Fletcher coughed, clearing his throat, staring in confusion at the sudden influx of strangers who had entered his room. He looked totally bewildered.

‘What’s going on?’ he asked.

*

‘So we finally meet,’ Fletcher said to Cobb and Jackson, after Cobb had explained to him who they were. 'I never had a chance to thank you two gentlemen for what you did for me.'

As he spoke, Fox and Chalky checked out of the windows which looked out over the rear of the building. They could see a large garden with a duck pond not far away from the building, surrounded by benches. The outskirts of the garden was lined with trees and shrubbery, providing a natural screen of privacy for the residents and their visitors. There were a few people out there walking around, several elderly patients, a young, tall, dark-haired man moving slowly beside an older grey-haired man, probably his father, looking
around and enjoying the sunshine. The receptionist had just departed, both to leave the policemen alone with Fletcher and also
to
get back to her desk.