Fortress (38 page)

‘Okeydokes, friend. Ready and waiting. Do your stuff, like we agreed.’

Rolt leaned towards Tom as if this were an everyday occurrence. ‘See? Stutz has his people embedded all over. He had them track Qazi down. They lifted him in Kabul yesterday. He’s in one of their secure compounds.’

The American prodded Qazi. ‘Let’s get this show on the road.’

The image was monochrome but it was clear that blood was all over Qazi’s chin, his eyes were bloodshot, his face was battered and swollen, and when he opened his mouth his front teeth were gone.

‘I—’ He erupted into a series of choking coughs. The American stepped forward and slapped him hard on the side of his head. He started to fall sideways out of the chair. Another man appeared and pushed him upright.

‘… Second Lieutenant Amhamid Qazi, committed the …’

‘C’mon, spit it out.’

‘… murder of Sergeant David Whitehead of the …’

He doubled over and vomited.

Tom glanced at Rolt, whose face wore an expression of triumph.

‘No court, no drawn-out inquiry, no compromise, no plea bargaining. This is how to get things done.’

Tom said nothing. Inside he was revolted. He could see Qazi had had the shit beaten out of him so the confession was worthless. Those men would never put him back on the streets. He knew he was looking at a dead man. This was no kind of justice that he subscribed to, but the intensity of Rolt’s gaze told him that what happened in the next seconds would decide his own future with Invicta. And he figured that another five thousand miles away, in Houston, Stutz was watching – most probably with Lederer sucking a popsicle. Another day, another test. Tom drew some grim satisfaction out of stringing them along.

‘This is your opportunity. You say the word. What happened in Bastion was wrong. These guys’ll see that justice is done for your friend.’

The American with the stick now had a pistol in his hand. He turned and looked down the lens. Tom turned towards Rolt. He was holding open a door. All he had to do was step through. Tom leaned forward so his command would be loud and clear.

‘Do it.’

Qazi’s head snapped back as half his skull blew away with the blast. The force sent the man and the chair slamming onto the floor. It was all over.

The shooter turned to the lens and gave a small salute. Job done. The screen went black.

Rolt reached over to Tom and shook his hand. ‘Welcome to the next level.’

‘Thank you. I’m honoured.’ Tom swallowed. ‘What does it entail, the next level?’

Rolt got to his feet and strode over to the fireplace, then stood in front of it, as if he was about to recite a prepared speech. ‘Invicta is becoming a force to be reckoned with in the country. Politicians are beating a path to my door. The public are listening. We’ve warmed up the climate of fear. Yes, we’ve had to make our own sacrifices to get there. The hostel was one of those. But gestures like that speak louder than words.’

Tom noted the admission – or as close to one as Rolt had got – of his complicity in the carnage Vestey had arranged. He carried on listening as if he was hanging on his every word.

‘There may have to be others but this is a fact of war, and we are waging a war we are going to win. Not in some far-off desert but right here in British towns and cities. Invicta needs to be ready – it has support, in the Army, the police, from friends all the way up the Establishment – ready to rid the country of the cancer that’s eating us from within. We’ve started a fire and we need to let it burn just a little longer before we put it out for good.’

‘More “gestures”, you mean.’

‘To bring things to the boil.’

‘And where do I fit into this?’

‘We need to be more visible. We need to look the part.’

‘And what’s in it for me, exactly?’

‘You’re the model, Tom. You have the skills, the experience, you’ve proved your worth, and you’re as comfortable in the gentlemen’s clubs of Pall Mall as on the battlefield. But your story will also resonate with the servicemen and -women who’ve risked their lives for their country in unwinnable wars overseas, only to be dumped back on the high street with barely a thank-you. I need your help to mobilize them.’

Tom said nothing. Rolt was in his stride: he didn’t need encouraging.

‘We don’t need to deploy the rhetoric of racism, we don’t need to scare off law-abiding people of other faiths and backgrounds, if they accept the rule of law. We don’t need paramilitary paraphernalia. We want to look – aspirational. And promote ourselves as the only sane alternative to chaos.’

Rolt came back towards him and sat down, his face close to Tom’s. ‘So, to cut to the chase, Tom, I want you to be my number two, by my side, speaking for us and planning our future with me, handling operations, setting an example.’

Rolt outlined the ‘package’: triple what he’d been getting in the Regiment, plus allowances, car and accommodation. ‘Well?’

‘I’m very flattered. I need to think about it.’

Rolt looked put out. He’d clearly been expecting an instant yes. Tom stood up.

‘Tomorrow, okay?’

87

Winfield House, Regent’s Park
Residence of the US Ambassador to the Court of St James

As he approached, Tom scanned the building and smiled at the thought of the pained expression it would provoke on his mother’s face. This neo-Georgian – not real Georgian – edifice had been the 1930s creation of the hugely wealthy Woolworth’s heiress and socialite Barbara Hutton. With its huge central door flanked by Ancient Greek-style columns and a parapet featuring a relief of the seal of the USA, it was a classic example of an American’s idea of a British stately home. Perhaps she had been seduced by the fact that Henry VIII had hunted wild boar in the forest that had become Regent’s Park. When the Second World War broke out, it was commandeered by the RAF, and after it had fallen into disrepair Hutton had sold it to the US government for a token dollar. It had been the residence of the American ambassador ever since.

A covered walkway had been erected on the drive that reminded Tom of the hasty arrangements after the security panic following 9/11. The Americans weren’t taking any chances. Teams of men and women in black overalls were at the ready to pat, prod, probe and inspect the guests. He joined the queue and, as he waited to be cleared, listened to the two Americans in front of him as they complained about the heightened security. They agreed, however, that with all these measures in place because of the current troubles, this was probably the safest place in Britain right now, especially with American security being run by US personnel. A Brit said defensively that they had been dealing with terrorist threats for forty years, since the bad old days of the Northern Irish Troubles and the IRA. The two Americans seemed somewhat baffled.
Come on, they were funded by you lot
, Tom felt like reminding them. Sure the Brits were old hands at this, but even at the height of the IRA’s bombing campaign here, a typical security check mostly amounted to no more than a cursory glance into bags and briefcases. Now, the War on Terror had provoked a massive boom in private security, with entirely new industries generated. Would that be his future too, Tom wondered, as the line edged slowly forward.

His eye was caught by a striking young woman in a deep blue dress further up the line, leaning close to her partner. Immediately he thought of Delphine, and how she would have appreciated an event like this, something impressive and glamorous to make up for all they had been through. There was no point in dwelling on how their last encounter had ended: he must put it out of his mind and focus on tonight. To pass the time he did a mental audit of recent events.

With the bomb factory now history, he felt some comfort that his efforts with Invicta had been worth the grief, but ringing in his ears was Rolt’s talk of further ‘gestures’, to stoke the fires of public anxiety. All through his last meeting he had been conscious of Stutz’s shadow looming over Rolt, with his global connections, his people positioned in all the corridors of power. It gave credence to Woolf’s fear of more and bigger things to come. Mandler needed to understand that the bomb-factory discovery wasn’t the end of something but an opening chapter, if Rolt was to be believed. It was Woolf’s suspicions about Rolt that had kicked all this off. Tom had moved from irritation to respect for Woolf and his cussed determination to follow his instincts.

So much was unresolved. Rolt had admitted his collusion in the hostel bombing but no more than that. Stutz’s connection to Zuabi, and indeed Zuabi’s significance, was also still a mystery. Mandler had even cast doubt on his existence. And what was Clements’s connection with Stutz all about? Or was there nothing more to it than the photograph and the Cabinet Office compliments slip?

Tom imagined Clements presiding over all of it, a visit with Stutz here, a dinner with Rolt there, but keeping a safe distance when anything unseemly occurred, then slipping back into his lair in Whitehall, uncontaminated by whatever fallout followed. Perhaps that was where the real power lay, with people like Clements, who controlled much of the fate of the country: unelected, unaccountable and ultimately unassailable.

The sight of an Oryxis logo on the security staff’s epaulettes confirmed his sense of how far Stutz’s tentacles reached: a measure of his influence that was plain for all to see. No better place to hide than in plain view. What bugged Tom most was knowing that the dots they had joined up fell short of Stutz himself. And echoing in his head were Stutz’s words about change coming, Rolt’s coy hints about what lay ahead, and Woolf’s fears about a ‘spectacular’. Whatever Mandler said, all of this led Tom to suspect – to know – that the job was far from done.

Eventually he reached the front of the queue.

As the man patted him down Tom nodded at the epaulettes. ‘This a good gig, with Oryxis?’

He said nothing. Tom noted he also sported an 82nd Airborne tie pin. ‘You still in Fayetteville? When I was there I spent all my money at the Mash House and Hooters.’

The eyes lit up, an instant connection between the two ex-servicemen. Fayetteville was the hometown of Fort Bragg and the 82nd Airborne. Bragg was a city in itself and not only housed the 82nd but also Delta Force. Tom had spent many months with them over the years.

‘Yeah, still there.’

‘I came over and did your jump course. Happy days.’

‘Good as it gets, sure.’

A voice piped up behind them: ‘Hey, can you hurry it up along there? We want to get in before midnight.’

The guard waved him on. ‘Thank you, sir. Enjoy your evening.’

Tom moved up the stone steps and, once inside, instinctively scrutinized the layout. The hall was dominated by a grand, sweeping staircase, with a balustrade of wrought iron. The vast reception room ran the depth of the house to the french windows that opened onto another terrace and garden at the rear. The drawing room was to the right, the state dining room to the left, the kitchen and staff offices evidently beyond.

The strains of some Bach wound their way through the crowd from a chamber orchestra. A greeter swooped down on him. ‘Hi, my name’s Charlie. Can I help you with anything tonight, sir?’

‘You could tell me the order of ceremony.’

‘Sure. So, in about a half-hour the President will be joining us for a few minutes’ walkabout. Then, with your prime minister, he’ll do a short welcome speech and there’ll be a line-up for a few handshakes with selected guests.’

‘How do I get on the list for that?’ Tom wasn’t too fussed about meeting the prime minister, but it wasn’t every day you got to shake hands with the President of the USA.

‘Aw, I’m real sorry. That won’t be possible this time.’ Charlie looked genuinely disappointed on his behalf. ‘The President and prime minister’s staff do the list. It’s prepared well in advance.’

‘Of course. As long as I get to see them, I’ll be happy.’

A waiter with a tray of drinks swept towards him. ‘We have a Californian champagne from Sonoma County.’

Tom knew that wines from outside that region of France weren’t called champagne, but let it pass.

‘And a very fine 2007 rosé from Gloria Ferrer.’

Tom declined. He needed to keep his head clear. ‘I’ll take a Coke, please.’

But he could sample the food: orange morsels of Alaskan salmon – so said the woman in the Stars-and-Stripes waistcoat serving it – with pickled ginger on ‘wild rice blinis’, seemingly some kind of tiny pancake. Another was carrying a tray of dates stuffed with almond, wrapped in bacon. Pass on that one. He swallowed two of the salmon things, then took a mini steak sandwich with a little American flag on a cocktail stick in it. Not bad.

‘They’re steak and Stilton,’ explained the waitress, ‘to represent the Special Relationship between Britain and the United States.’

And sure enough, after the delicious steak, an unwelcome lump of cheese dissolved on his tongue. Special Relationship – perhaps, in an unsubtle, blundering way.

He sipped the Coke as his gaze swept the crowd. A couple of retired generals he recognized were deep in discussion with a former British ambassador to Kabul, now an academic. And the home secretary who had a crowd of suits round her, was looking as if she wished she was somewhere else. He caught sight of Mandler, who raised an eyebrow a millimetre.

Tom decided to let his guard down and came up alongside him. ‘Rolt’s not coming. He was pissed off about not getting a one-to-one with the PM.’ He nodded in the direction of the home secretary. ‘You briefed her yet?’

A gale of laughter exploded around Sarah Garvey. She managed a wan smile.

‘Somewhat,’ Mandler replied, with a guarded look. ‘We got an A-plus for the garage, but I chose not to spell out all the loose ends. She’s got enough on her plate as it is.’

‘Did you mention Clements?’

‘Mm. She didn’t react. They’re not exactly each other’s greatest admirers. If we were to start poking around in
his
dark corners, it might look as though she’d put us up to it. Westminster’s a very small village.’

He deposited his empty glass on the tray of a passing waiter. ‘Anyway, I can’t hang around. It doesn’t do for Madam to think I’m bunking off at this hour of need.’