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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