Fortress (21 page)

‘As in “Houston we have a problem”?’

Tom could tell he was trying to stifle his disappointment.

‘I’d hoped you’d come around, you know, to giving us a hand.’

‘It’s not quite a vacation. I’m here for Rolt, standing in for him, sort of.’

Woolf sounded genuinely alarmed. ‘Look, you do realize we’ve got no backup for you out there?’

‘I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself. This isn’t exactly Kandahar. The biggest danger is dying from a surfeit of enthusiasm.’

Woolf sounded like he was on the move, running up some stairs. ‘Well, I’m late, as usual. But, if anything, this business about the bomber has made me even more suspicious of Rolt. Keep your eyes and ears open, will you? Something really isn’t right about this.’

‘I will,’ Tom found himself saying.

There was a gust of relief from Woolf’s end. ‘So you are with us. Thank fuck for that.’

‘Don’t push your luck.’

There was a cheery knock on his door: Beth.

‘Gotta go.’

44

Victoria, London

Sam wanted the first impressions to be the right ones. Earlier in the day, he had put new sheets on the beds, and bought a large bouquet, which he laid on the coffee-table in the living room. He had drawn the curtains, which were heavy and plush. He had then spent some time fussing around, turning up the lights, then dimming them and moving them around to create the most welcoming atmosphere. Eventually he settled for just the single table lamp, which gave off the cosiest glow. The low light and the enclosed feeling, with the outside world and its distractions now excluded, made the place feel much more intimate. Even as he was denying it to himself, he was hoping this would create the right conditions for what he wanted, which was to shut out the rest of the world and be alone with her. The rest of the night lay ahead, full of possibility.

At last they were alone.

The big flat-screen TV faced them across the sofa. Nasima, remote in hand, was flicking between BBC News and CNN. He looked at her luggage, a small wheelie case collected on the way there from Victoria station.

‘Is that all you have?’

‘I don’t need much.’

He was starting to notice how deftly she rebuffed any questions she evidently construed as intrusive. Fair enough, he thought. Take your time. But where was the rest of her life?

‘Would you like to see the … rooms?’ He couldn’t quite say ‘bedrooms’.

‘Sure,’ she said, as if she didn’t much care either way.

‘Obviously, you should have the double, the bigger one, I mean. If you prefer.’

He showed her the small room as well – ‘for comparison’. The more he said, the more he sounded like an estate agent. In his fantasy, which he had already replayed many times, she would be so intoxicated by the excitement of the evening, of having mingled with so many powerful, famous people, that she’d be desperate to leap into bed with him. But he knew that was what it was, no more than a fantasy. All the same, he ached to see her naked skin, and to touch her.

‘You choose. I don’t mind,’ he said needlessly. His heart thumped against his chest.

She put her bag down on the double bed and smiled. Should he make his move? As he hesitated, she moved towards the door to get her case, and he realized she was waiting for him to leave.

He went into the living room and sat on the sofa. Was she coming back? He put on the TV to drown out the sound of his blood pumping round his body.

He was still in a state of excitement from the evening at Downing Street. He had had a whole two minutes with the prime minister, with Nasima looking on.

‘You’re very good on camera – you’ve got the knack,’ the PM had told him. ‘So I rather fear we’re going to be ruthlessly exploiting you over the coming weeks. Are you getting everything you need?’

‘Oh, yes, thanks.’ He had started to describe the flat, then quickly stopped when he saw the PM wasn’t paying any attention: his eyes had flicked to Nasima.

‘And what do you do?’

‘Oh, I’ve put everything on hold to support Sahim.’

Her well-chosen answer pleased the PM, and Sam even more.

‘Well, then, he’s very lucky – and so are we that he’s got you. You know what they say, behind every great man and all that …’

But by then someone was at his ear and he was gone.

Sam turned to her and grinned, delighted by the PM’s reaction, but her face had gone blank, just as it had when he’d first set eyes on her. She shrugged. ‘Well, I guessed it was what he wanted to hear.’

In the car back to the flat she had hardly said a word. To fill the silence he thanked her for being there, twice, to which she had merely nodded acknowledgement. Perhaps she was tired. He was exhausted too, but the adrenalin rush from the evening – rubbing shoulders with the mighty, her by his side – was almost overpowering. He had never felt like this before.

‘I hope you don’t mind that everyone thought we were – you know.’

‘No, it was fine.’

Again, the slightly unnerving lack of response. At least if she’d been bothered by it that would have been something. He got the impression she didn’t want to discuss it, but wasn’t hugely moved one way or the other, as if the idea of being with him, like that, didn’t engender any emotion at all. That was the ultimate failure, to provoke indifference in a woman. Maybe she was conscious of the driver’s presence. It was one of the Party’s regulars, a Polish guy with whom Sam had already had one touchy discussion about the current situation.

The bedroom door opened. He turned, he hoped not too quickly. She had removed her makeup and was wearing a long dressing-gown, buttoned up to the neck, and slippers.

Never mind, he told himself. There will be other opportunities.

And now here they were in front of the TV, still not talking. Every now and then his eyes flicked away from the screen to her, in the passion-killer garment. His desire hadn’t been quelled at all. She could have been wearing a black sack for all he cared.

Eventually she switched off the TV and turned to him. His whole body glowed under her gaze. ‘I have some news about your brother.’

He felt the atmosphere in the room change. It was as if they were back in Doncaster, in that kitchen, the first time they’d met.

‘It’s not good.’

The coverage of the hostel bomber had already reminded him about Karza and, to his alarm, Sam realized he hadn’t lately been giving his brother much thought. Her words brought him back to earth with a bump.

‘Is he still alive?’

‘Yes. He was wounded and is being treated. But it’s complicated.’

‘You know for sure he’s all right?’

‘All I know is what I’m telling you.’

‘How did you find out?’

‘They have representatives here.’

‘Returnees?’

‘Since the bombing of the hostel they have to be very careful. Surveillance is being stepped up on them so communication is hard. They are also very angry with Britain.’

‘Because of the targeting of returnees?’

She shook her head. ‘Not just that. The rebel army council, which was funnelling help through Turkey, has been disbanded. The supplies promised by the West haven’t materialized so they’ve lost all credibility with their fighters on the ground, who were desperate for ammunition. Those groups like the one your brother was with had no option but to side with the more militant ones. It was that or die. They feel very bitter, very let down. They feel the West has betrayed them.’

‘But they are looking after him? Karza.’

Her look was quite cold. Was it selfish to be so concerned about one man when the whole struggle was at stake?

‘They are, now they know who his brother is. They’ve been told to keep him alive.’

What did she mean? He opened his mouth to speak but so many thoughts were crowding in that he couldn’t think what to say.

‘They want something back.’

The conversation seemed to be veering into alien territory. Less than an hour ago they had been mistaken for a couple; now she was becoming more business-like, more distant. He battled to manage the torrent of confused emotions swirling inside him.

‘What exactly?’

‘Their people here want to meet you.’

This was a world he had never had any contact or rapport with. He felt as though he was being pulled along on a conveyor-belt, outside his control. ‘Why?’

‘As I said, they know who you are, what you do.’

‘What difference does that make?’

‘They want to deal with you direct. There is only so much I can do, Sahim.’

He sensed her exasperation. He felt his face heating with embarrassment. ‘Of course – how stupid of me. I’m so grateful to you for doing this. How can I ever repay you?’

She allowed him a small smile. ‘Well, you are giving me a roof over my head.’

He felt the warmth come back a little, as if she had just flipped a switch.

‘So we are in each other’s debt.’

He seized the moment to take her hand. She didn’t resist, just let it lie there. Should he go further? He didn’t get to find out.

‘They want to see you tonight.’

‘But it’s—’ He looked at his watch: 01:12. ‘Now? Really?’

‘Yes.’

She released his hand and got up.

‘They will text me when they are near. And you mustn’t be alarmed: they will have to take some precautions, for security. I suggest you get some sleep until I need to wake you.’

45

Crown Plaza Hotel, Houston

There was a long line outside the reception room. To get in, the guests had to pass through a full security check and give up their phones to meaty, dark-suited guards in shades straight out of
Men in Black
.

Beth steered Tom past the line and straight through, where she broke away and went into full meeting-greeting-laughing mode as she guided people to their seats. Tom scanned the crowd: mostly male, almost uniformly middle-aged and white. A lot of the men had the square-jawed, whitewall haircut look of former military personnel. Others were clones of Stutz – grey men in grey suits. But there was another contingent somewhat less formally dressed, with beards and ponytails, who looked as if they had just ridden in on their bikes from the desert. What kind of big idea would unite these disparate factions?

Stutz clambered onto the stage. ‘For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Aaron Stutz.’

There was a ripple of laughter – as if to acknowledge how ridiculous it would be not to know who he was.

‘And I want to thank you most sincerely for joining us tonight. You’re about to experience an evening to remember. But you don’t want to listen to me. Without further ado, let me introduce you to the brains behind this project, the reason you all have come here tonight – Skip Lederer!’

To wild applause and whooping, Skip ambled in, sucking a popsicle. Beth had evidently not persuaded him to change: he was still in the Beavis and Butt-Head T-shirt, his only concession to the occasion a small radio mic. Instead of standing at the autocue, he chose to sit on the edge of the podium, his legs swinging like a toddler’s. He didn’t bother with an introduction. Instead, he took out the popsicle and examined it, then reached into his jeans pocket and held up a smart phone and an American Express card. ‘Most folks think these are what freedom is all about.’ He waved them in the air so everyone could see them.

‘Uh-uh. Not so. In fact they’re quite the opposite. These babies are the spy in your pocket, channels through which we can discover everything we need to know about an individual: what he buys, where he goes, who he meets, who he screws, what he reads, who his friends are, his enemies – and what they’re saying about him. We can find out more about a guy than he knows about himself. Great, huh? So, what’s the problem?’

He waited, ostensibly for someone to answer, but really for dramatic effect. They were hanging on his every word.

‘The problem, girls and boys, is not the collection of the intelligence, it’s what happens to that information. That’s the NSA’s problem number one. Their other problem, of course, is that they think they’re hot shit.’

He shook his head. ‘Know what? In actuality they are
full
of shit.’

A few of the audience whooped.

‘I mean literally. Their server capacity is maxed out. They got so much data on us they don’t know what to do with it all. Like, they’ve built the world’s biggest vacuum-cleaner to suck up all the intel, and it’s gummin’ up the works. They can’t process it. It’s too freakin’ much for them.’

He paused briefly to finish the popsicle, then gestured with the stick.

‘All that precious intel is mountains of information they don’t have the resources to begin to mine. Thar’s gold in tham thar mountains, but where’s the manpower to go panhandling for it? Sure it’s fine if you know who you’re looking for, which bad guys you’re on to. But what happens when you don’t know who the hell they are?’

He paused and surveyed the sea of rapt faces. Then he turned to the giant screen behind him and aimed a remote. ‘I’ll tell you what happens. The Boston Marathon happens … Fort Hood happens … Times Square happens. No warning. No intelligence.’

The faces of the perpetrators of each attack flashed up, followed by the burning Twin Towers.

‘Another problem. Nine/Eleven. Some of those guys were in the system. They had a few names, but no one joined up the dots.’

The screen changed to an image of a huge football crowd: faces of all types, all ages, all colours.

‘Where’s Waldo? Where’s the next guy on
no one
’s radar who comes out of
nowhere
and goes bang? Does the NSA know about
him
? The hell it does. Even though he’s in their system somewhere.’

Skip was rewarded with a volley of evangelical
Right ons
and
You said its
. Evidently his appearance and mode of delivery had done nothing to dampen the audience’s enthusiasm for his pitch. He shook his head mournfully and jumped up into a standing position.

‘Here’s the thing. The NSA’s retrieval technology is supposed to be state-of-the-art. Their programmes have cool names like “Prism” but they suck. Why? Because their systems can only tell you the
past
, what the bad guys have
done
. And if they haven’t done anything bad
yet
? Who’s watching out for them? The freaks who blew up the Boston Marathon. Who knew? How long are we in America gonna have to go around looking at the guy next to us on the street, at the bus station, on the subway, wondering what’s in his backpack, what’s under his vest? Well, let me tell you, the wait is almost over.’