Fortress (29 page)

‘Looks familiar.’

‘May twelve, 1861. Wouldn’t mean anything to a Brit.’

‘Start of the Civil War, when the Confederates fired on Fort Sumter.’

‘You know your history.’

‘I know the battles.’

The lift opened and they stepped in. The inside was leather, studded with matching buttons.

‘Like a padded cell.’

‘That’s where I’ll be when this ends.’

‘You and me both.’

‘Well, maybe they’ll let us share.’

The lift stopped. The lobby was deep-pile cream carpet.

‘Let me go in first: I need to put in the code.’

She opened the door. Inside it was pitch dark except for one tiny red light that might have been the TV. She disappeared into the murk. He waited for his eyes to adjust. A dull orange glow from the streets far below filtered through the gaps in the heavy curtains.

They moved down the hall. She had sketched the layout for him: master bedroom to the right, living room and kitchen next door on the left. The doors to the living room and bedroom were opposite each other. The kitchen had two, one onto the hall, the other to the living room. Tom followed her in there. She switched on the light, revealing a wood-floored room with leather sofas arranged round a vast glass and granite coffee-table, a roll-top desk and two walls covered with bookshelves. Above a fake fireplace hung a pair of Civil War Harpers Ferry rifle muskets.

Tom couldn’t help admiring them.

‘The Confederates captured the Harpers Ferry Armory and took the whole shebang, weapons, tools, back to Richmond where these were made.’ She pointed at the letters carved in the stocks. ‘See those initials, AS? These were made for one of his ancestors.’

Tom scanned the room. He tried the drawers in the desk and the lid: all locked. He could have forced them but that would alert Stutz to intruders and quite possibly blow his cover, hers too.

‘Tom.’

She picked up a framed photograph and handed it to him.

It had been taken at the Invicta campus. A group shot: fifteen men. He recognized Philips, Vestey and Jackman. Rolt was at the centre with Stutz, looking faintly awkward in a US Marines APECS parka. He flipped over the clear plastic frame. The date showed it had been taken four months ago.

‘Keep looking. I’ll check the bedroom.’

It was a faint hope that the purple folder of résumés would still be there. Stutz was the last man to leave anything significant lying around but perhaps there might be something tangential that shed a light on his connection with Zuabi, some clue as to how their interests could have converged. He was pondering all this when he heard the lift approaching. It came to a stop.

He switched off the light and stepped back into shadow just as the door opened.

It was Stutz.

64

‘What the fuck you doing here?’ His voice was quiet but full of rage: a disconcerting combination.

Beth sprang back into cheerleader mode. ‘It’s a surprise, honey – I thought that maybe tonight, you know, it’s been a while.’

From the shadow in which he hid, Tom could see it all. Beth stepped towards Stutz and placed a hand gently on his chest. He grabbed her wrist and pulled it away.

‘You know I don’t do
surprises
.’ He still had his hand round her wrist.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she cooed.

Ignoring the grip she leaned towards him, giving him the full force of her magnetism. He pushed her hand away. ‘Get in the bedroom.’

He didn’t look the sort who would take his time or spend too long on foreplay, more the ‘wham bam, thank you, ma’am’ type, and that probably without the last bit. So time was short.

There was only the glow from the night sky of the city and a greasy yellow moon. Tom took out his phone and used the light on that. He embarked on a shelf-by-shelf search of the books, a comprehensive library of American history and political biography. In one space there were a couple of photographs, a young Stutz in his Marine dress blues and in a combat desert jacket from the first Gulf War. He moved on to more books, all neatly stacked. He returned to the coffee-table. There were sounds coming from the bedroom, all Beth, working hard for her country.

The coffee-table had three large books on it: a glossy catalogue of weapons of the Civil War, an album of Residences of the United States Foreign Service and a thick, embossed tome of photographs of London. The last had something sticking out of it – the corner of a piece of paper. It was a compliments slip with the British coat of arms printed across the top: ‘From the Office of the Cabinet Secretary’. On it was a hand-written message.

A memento of your visit. With all good wishes, Alec.

Alec? Cabinet secretary? Stutz’s London connections ran deep. He lowered the book to put it back, then noticed a file that had been lying underneath.

It was similar to the one Beth had described: purple with a small castle-like logo in the top left-hand corner and beneath it the word FORTRESS. He flipped it open and came face to face with his own photograph.

It was a copy of his military record.

The bedroom door opened. He put the file back under the book and darted for the kitchen, which was nearer the lift.

But that couldn’t be his exit. He couldn’t risk the noise. And she had told him the only way to the emergency stairs was through the bedroom. Stutz crossed the landing to the lounge where Tom had just been. There was the small ‘snap’ of a box being shut, a lighter flicking on and off, and the smell of a cigar, then two feet coming towards the kitchen.

Tom stepped behind the door. Stutz was in a dressing-gown, the fat Cuban clenched in his teeth and an ashtray in his hand. He put down the ashtray, took a glass out of a cabinet and filled it with iced water from the refrigerator. Then he took a small tube for pills from his pocket – it was empty. He cursed, put down the water, placed the cigar in the ashtray and left the room. He would be back any second. Tom was trapped.

He had already clocked a hinged panel in the wall, about a metre square: the rubbish chute. Madness, obviously. But leaning beside it was some cardboard packaging, a large piece, about two metres by one. He bent it into a large U, opened the chute, stuffed in the cardboard and got in after it as if it was the finger of a giant glove. It was a desperate measure, but staying in the kitchen wasn’t an option. The lid sprang closed behind him and he was in total darkness, sliding earthwards in near freefall, buffeted and hammered by the sides of the chute. The card protected his legs head and face from the worst of the friction, but the clothing round his shoulders and hips was soon shredded. He prayed that the Dumpster below was full, that there would be something to cushion his fall.

Everything went black.

The Dumpster was not full. But there was just enough rotting refuse to prevent him breaking a leg. The smell of it all around him brought him back to consciousness. His whole body ached, but nothing was sprained. He still had to extricate himself from under the mouth of the chute and climb out of the enormous, fetid container. He heaved himself out and caught his breath, taking lungfuls of the comparatively fresh air in the underground parking lot, before dropping behind the Dumpster to evade the cameras.

He hadn’t bargained on leaving the penthouse alone. From his limited vantage-point he spent some time recceing the cameras and the layout of the space. There was no pedestrian exit. The gate – operated by the card he didn’t have – was shut, but it didn’t look particularly strong. It could almost certainly be rammed. Beth’s pick-up was right in front of him. It wasn’t locked but, of course, she had the key. He opened the driver’s door and, still in a crouching position, tore off the plastic cowling round the steering column and examined the ignition assembly. No chance. That was the problem with modern cars: too thief-proof. He looked round at the others.

Then his eye fell on the E-Type Jaguar. His father had had one, in British racing green, fast but serially unreliable – though easy to hot-wire if the battery wasn’t flat.

He rooted around in the rubbish till he found what he was looking for: a mesh vegetable bag. Perfect. He put it over his head. Then he hunted some more until he found a coat-hanger, which he bent into a hook. This would have to be done fast. He dashed round to the driver’s door, inserted it between the window and the canvas hood and fished for the lock, which clicked open satisfyingly.

He was in. Now there was just the small matter of getting it started. He yanked the wires out from under the dash, and several came away in his hand. He worked his way through them one by one. Testing each against another. The starter whirred, slowly at first. Nothing. He found the choke, pulled it out, pumped the throttle a couple of times. Then the wires again. There was a splutter and a cough and the old big six barked into life: a shattering sound in the cramped confines of the parking lot. He moved the choke in but not too far: he couldn’t risk it stalling. Now there was just the matter of getting through the gate. With enough of a run at it, he could hit it at about thirty. It ought to do it. He put on the waist-only seatbelt. He revved the engine, found first, let the clutch bite and shot forward, then reversed to get as far from the gate as he could. Then he shoved it back into first and floored it, his arms now extended and locked to push him back against the seat.

There was an explosion of grinding metal and glass. Despite his locked arms, his head hit the windscreen, which exploded over him, and for a few seconds he was gone. When he looked up, he was still on the wrong side of the gate, but had forced it open a few inches. He extricated himself from the driver’s seat, stepped over the crumpled bonnet and tried to squeeze himself through the narrow space the Jag had prised open. To whoever was watching through the cameras, it would look like a not at all grand theft auto.

The gates weren’t giving but Tom pushed and squeezed, eventually twisting himself through the narrow gap.

‘Freeze, you fuck. Don’t move!’

Two guards were standing at the top of the ramp, their big old Colts trained on him. He raised his hands. He still had the mask on. They mustn’t hear his voice.

Cautiously they approached, one a chubster, the other skinny with bow legs. ‘Okay, we’re calling this in. You stay right there.’

Tom gestured at his chest and mouth.

‘Hey, Sal, maybe he ain’t breathin’.’

Sal wasn’t so sympathetic. ‘Fuck him. Wait till the cops get here.’

The skinny one had his doubts.

‘He stops breathin’, we’ll get it in the neck. He can see we’re carrying. He ain’t goin’ nowhere.’

‘Okay, okay.’

Sal swiped a card on the reader and the gates lurched open.

Tom collapsed onto his knees, clutching his chest.

‘Jeez, will you look at what he done to the Jag-war?’

The skinny one stood over him and reached down with his left hand to pull off the vegetable bag.

Tom grabbed the weapon barrel and simply twisted. The shock the guy got when this happened so quickly made it easy to yank it out of his hands. The hard bit was then making use of the weapon fast and in such a way that the other one knew he had a problem. Shooting them was the ideal option, but that wasn’t going to happen and Tom jammed hard between his skinny legs. That always grabbed people’s attention.

Tom put on his best and worst American accent. ‘Tell him to throw me his weapon – now!’

The command was quickly shouted out and ended with a ‘Jesus, Sal, just do it.’

Tom took off on foot, not looking back, just making distance as he wiped the weapon and dumped it as soon as he could. It was maybe a kilometre of hard-sweat running before he spotted a cab and flagged it down. The driver began to pull away.

‘No way – you’re fucking rank, man!’

‘There’s an extra hundred in it if you take me.’

‘Okay, get in.’

65

The phone woke Tom from a brief but incredibly deep sleep.

‘You find anything?’ Beth was on the move, walking quickly. He heard the sound of a car unlocking.

‘Yeah, maybe. We should talk.’

‘I’ve got a crash meeting with Carter, my contact agent. He’s flying in from DC.’

‘How come?’

‘I called him about Zuabi, asked him to run a check. I guess he has something big, so we should meet after that. I’ll give you the address.’

It was a motel out on an exit from the Loop to the south-west.

‘Why there?’

‘His choice. We should be done by noon. Text me when you’re near.’

He picked up the keys to his hire car at the desk and headed out into the hot, smoggy morning. A silver Toyota Camry was about as anonymous as you could get, the automotive equivalent of a Styrofoam cup. He took out his iPad and tapped in his destination, the Tijuana Motel, then searched for the location of Zuabi’s mosque and put that in as well. He had some time to kill before meeting Beth; a good opportunity to check it out.

Before he set off he called Phoebe again on his throwaway phone. She sounded stressed: phones were ringing and beeping in the background. ‘Tom, have you talked to Rolt?’

‘Why?’

‘He’s over the moon about something, but hasn’t said what. He’s keeping his composure in public but when he’s in the office it’s as though Christmas has come early. And everyone wants to talk to him, government, media – even more than before. It’s gone mental.’

‘Well, he’s got some new investment. Another name for you: Aaron Stutz. That one ever come up there?’

‘Can you give me more of a steer on it?’

‘Big shot. Chairs a software company called Oryxis. He’s the guy Invicta’s getting new funding from. Rolt and Stutz are close. Also anything that cross-references the name “Fortress” with either of them.’

‘Doesn’t mean anything but, as you know, there are whole channels of his activity we don’t have eyes on.’

‘Well, you need to get eyes on them. Woolf needs to raise his game. You need to go a lot deeper.’

‘Why the change of heart?’

‘Because I don’t like what I’m finding out.’

66

Tom slowed the Camry and pulled into the parking lot of a dry-cleaner’s where he stopped, facing the building site of the mosque. Maybe Stutz’s interest in Zuabi had nothing to do with the construction. None of it made sense.