State Of Emergency: (Tom Buckingham Thriller 3) (27 page)

Tom frowned. He didn’t see why at all, but he said nothing and let Ashton talk.

‘I would have thought that, from your viewpoint, at the elbow of our new home secretary, you would be in a pretty good position to see the big picture.’

Tom wolfed the rest of the sandwich.

‘Let’s not fool ourselves. This country is sliding towards anarchy. People are going to have to choose sides. It’s already happening.’

‘Happening where?’

‘On the streets, in the corridors of power: people thinking the unthinkable.’

‘But Rolt’s got the right job to be able to sort it out, hasn’t he?’

‘And you think he will?’

‘He won the election for them, that’s for sure. He won’t like it if they try to get in his way.’

Ashton went silent for a moment, sifting Tom’s words. Then he started to shake his head. ‘You always did have a streak of idealism.’

Tom felt faintly indignant. But Ashton’s comment was an indication that his cover was still working. ‘So you really think they’re going to rush through his programme?’

Ashton prodded the table with a forefinger. ‘The PM will put the brakes on, try to water it down, slow the legislative process. Meanwhile the country slides into chaos. And who wants that?’ He leaned forward. ‘Look, Tom, I know we’ve had our differences but that’s all in the past. You and I, we’re both on the same side.’

Don’t make this too easy
, Tom reminded himself. ‘And you had to waterboard me first to decide that, yeah?’

Ashton put his hands up. ‘As I said, just taking precautions. Your man Rolt, what do you think of him, honestly?’ He lowered his voice: ‘It’s all right. Whatever you say here stays in the room.’

Tom considered the question. He needed Ashton to open up. He needed to feed him enough to get him in the mood. ‘I think he’s a good man. He’s done great work for ex-services blokes who’ve been dumped on the street.’ He paused. ‘He speaks a language that a lot of people understand and he likes to cut to the chase where others beat around the bush.’

Ashton sat back in his chair. ‘Is there a “but”?’

‘But politics is another matter. He’s an entrepreneur, used to getting his way, running his own show and not having to justify himself.’

‘Go on.’

Ashton seemed to like what he was hearing, but Tom didn’t want him to get the impression he was being fed a line. The wall behind had a frosted window. There were people moving about behind it. ‘Who are the goons?’

Ashton waved the question away. ‘Contractors.’

‘Where are they from?’

‘Ukraine. Go on with your take on Rolt.’

‘He’s only where he is because of the votes he brought with him. You’re right to be asking whether the rest of the cabinet have got the balls to allow him to follow through.’

Ashton’s eyes were drilling into his. ‘And where does that leave you?’

‘I don’t know yet. We didn’t talk about what next. I’m not sure if he actually thought he’d make it.’

Ashton spread his hands on the table. ‘I think your analysis is correct. And, as we speak, I suspect the prime minister is probably going into overdrive trying to stall him on the runway.’

He was waiting for Tom to respond. Time for another tack. ‘There was an attempt on me. They got Jez instead.’

Ashton nodded. ‘I heard.’

‘It wasn’t meant to be public.’

‘I keep my ear to the ground. I heard you also stopped someone who was after Rolt.’

‘Invicta’s not the big happy family people think.’

Ashton shrugged. ‘Just a few bad apples left over from when it started. My impression is the rest are all right.’

‘You seem to know a lot about what goes on inside Invicta.’

Ashton studied him, evidently considering his reply. ‘I ran into some of them down on Dartmoor. Just this week.’

Dartmoor and the Lakes: he had been getting around. Tom hid his surprise. ‘And?’

‘Good blokes. Itching to make a difference, give something back to society. That’s the impression I got.’

Tom absorbed this as he balled up the sandwich wrapper. ‘I’m free to go, right? No more fucking around?’

Ashton raised his hands. ‘Of course, whenever you want.’

‘You
are
working for the government?’

Ashton winced at the question as if it was ridiculous. ‘
People
in the government.’

‘What’s that mean?’

Ashton leaned forward again. ‘The country’s breaking apart, Tom. Someone’s going to have to pick up the pieces and put it back together. That’s not going to be about building consensus, weighing up the pros and cons. We’re sleepwalking into chaos. The government’s authority is slipping. People are taking things into their own hands. We have to do something before mob rule takes hold.’

‘Some people think Rolt’s partly to blame for that, stoking the flames.’

‘Well, that’s as may be. But we are where we are.’

‘So what do you want with me? Why all this rendition-style bollocks?’

‘I may have a proposition for you.’

‘I’m still on the Invicta payroll, remember.’

‘All the better.’ Ashton got to his feet. ‘The question for you, Tom, is this. When the shit hits the fan, are you going to be upwind or downwind?’

‘So what is it, this proposition?’

Ashton was moving him towards the door. ‘Keep your phone on and wait out.’

55

14.00
Woolwich, South-east London

Adila waited for the bus outside Woolwich Arsenal station. She looked at the others in the shelter. Were any of them going to Belmarsh as well? There was a woman with white-blonde hair whose two toddlers were whining. She handed them each a bag of crisps and silence fell. Adila smiled at her, reminded of a couple of women she had encountered on her work experience as a midwife. But the woman just looked away. That was how it was now.

Another woman in a hijab came towards them, very pregnant, with a limp. She didn’t look old, but her face was haggard. Two men were with her. One steadied her. When she was safely perched on the narrow bench in the bus shelter they moved a few metres away from her and lit cigarettes. Adila smiled at her and the woman smiled back. She felt a little less alone.

When the bus arrived she helped the hijab woman on board. ‘Thank you so much – you are most kind.’

‘It’s a pleasure.’ Adila felt her heart warming and, for the first time in several days, allowed herself to think there was hope in the world after all. The two men put out their cigarettes and joined them on the bus.

She looked again at the instructions for visitors:
Give yourself plenty of time to get to HMP Belmarsh; please aim to arrive at least 45 minutes before the visit time. You must book in no more than 20 minutes after the start of the visits session, or you will not be allowed entry to the prison.

She checked the identification she had brought: her passport and her hospital intern’s ID card. She checked that she had remembered a pound coin for the locker.
No change is provided at the visitor centre
, the website had warned. She looked at what she was wearing and remembered the list of clothing that could ‘breach security guidelines’: hooded sweaters, ripped jeans, football shirts or anything with a national crest, low-cut tops or short skirts. How those could raise security concerns she couldn’t imagine, not that she owned any such clothes. She had been warned that there was a biometric ID system where visitors’ fingerprints and photos would be taken on the first visit, to be used as proof of ID for any later visits. She would also get an ultraviolet stamp on her hand to validate entry into the visits hall.

She had emptied out all the contents of her handbag that morning and removed anything that she thought might be a problem, even her pens, spiral notebook and makeup. She saw to her horror that she had left a nail file inside. She took it out and laid it on the seat. She would have to leave everything in the locker. She’d wanted so much to bring something from home, just a small memento, but because of her father’s behaviour that hadn’t been possible. She had had to spend last night with a friend. She believed she would be allowed home because her father usually relented with her. He favoured her over the boys – sometimes she resented it and wished he was as harsh with her as he was with them. Then they would be equal. But nothing was equal any more.

She noticed the blonde woman had a big transparent bag, containing nappies and bottles, and concluded she must also be a visitor. The few items that could be taken in included baby paraphernalia so long as it was all packed in a clear plastic bag.

She felt she knew what to expect. All visitors to HMP Belmarsh would be searched on their way to the visits hall with a metal detector, and what was ominously called a ‘rub-down’. Shoes and coats were X-rayed.

When the bus stopped, the blonde woman yanked the toddlers onto their feet and steered them to the exit. Adila followed and, when she got to the door, noticed the hijab woman behind her, one of the men helping her off the bus. Her pregnancy wouldn’t be the cause of her limp: it might well be rickets, Adila diagnosed, common in cultures where women were covered up from childhood, depriving them of vitamin D from sunlight.

After the first gate they moved down a covered walkway to a second door, which had been unlocked. They formed a queue with several other visitors, most of them women, waiting to be searched. Adila wondered how they would deal with the woman in the hijab, who was alone now. Something about her demeanour, the look of studied resignation, suggested that this was not her first visit. Nor was it the blonde woman’s. She was greeted like an old friend by a female guard, who conducted a perfunctory search and ruffled the children’s hair. Adila noticed a second female guard in a headscarf. That was something. The headscarf guard scowled as she beckoned the hijab woman, who scowled back. Certainly no love lost there. She waved Adila forward as well, looking her up and down. Adila was suddenly conscious of how smartly dressed she was compared to the other visitors.

‘First time?’ asked the guard.

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘Welcome to the monkey house.’

She passed a detector wand over the hijab woman. It made a loud beep. Several people looked round. The woman angrily pulled up the side of her garment to reveal a leg brace so all of them could see. ‘Happy now?’

The guard sighed. ‘Just doin’ my job, darlin’. On you go.’

She beckoned Adila forward. After she had conducted the ‘rub-down’ and waved the wand over her, the guard pointed out the lockers. ‘Bag in there, nothing with you in the hall, just your sweet selves.’

Adila locked up her bag and coat. Through thick wire-mesh glass she could see the visits hall. It reminded her of an exam room with rows of small tables, but with chairs on both sides.

Beyond a set of barred doors with frosted glass she could see blurred figures moving. She was about to see her brother.

56

Jamal waited in the line, his head down, hoping no one would recognize him from his photo in the papers. He felt a small tug on his sleeve and looked round. It was Isham. ‘How are you doing?’

Jamal shrugged. ‘I just want to see my sister. I just hope she’s there.’

‘If she wasn’t you wouldn’t be in this line. Only inmates with a signed-in visitor go through.’

‘Who’s coming to see you?’

Isham grinned. ‘My wife.’

Jamal sank back into his thoughts. He didn’t want to make idle conversation just now. He wanted to go over all the things he had prepared to say to Adila, that he was resigned to imprisonment for going to Syria and would freely admit his membership of what the British government classed a terrorist organization. But he emphatically denied even touching the murdered girls. He would explain to her how the camera worked and how they had also been filmed in training. She would believe him. He had never lied to her and never would. How lucky he was to have just one person left in his life like her.

The door opened and they filed in. Each of them was led to a table. Jamal saw Isham move towards a woman in a headscarf – she didn’t look very pleased to see him. Then there was Adila smiling and waving across the room at a table near the back. He felt his heart almost burst with delight. He waved frantically. She started to rise out of her seat but a guard shouted to her to sit. Even from that distance Jamal could see her eyes were filled with tears of joy. He went towards her, his arms outstretched. He was no more than ten feet from her when he saw Isham’s wife leap up from her seat and run shrieking towards the entrance where the visitors had come in. Two guards rushed towards her as she reached the barred door and grabbed her, just a few feet from Adila.

Before he had even consciously absorbed what he was seeing, Jamal’s brain and muscles engaged. He knew what was about to happen: he had witnessed it many times in Syria. In a reflex action, he threw himself down and hid his face with his hands. He saw the flash between his fingers, felt the blast lift him, then all the sound in the room seemed to fade as everything went dark. His face slammed against the floor as he came to rest several metres away with debris raining down on him. The blast had knocked all the air out of him and when he tried to inhale he choked on dust. That was why, as soon as he saw the woman run, he had dropped down.

But where was Adila? Sounds were reaching him now. Wild, echoing screams. He felt hands on his back, pulling him to his knees and then his feet, a muffled voice in his ear. ‘Come
now
.’

It was Isham, his arms wrapped round him.

‘Adila. My sister!’

Jamal struggled out of Isham’s grip and staggered in the direction of where Adila had been, but his path was blocked by bodies and debris, and it was impossible to see through the fog of smoke and dust.

‘She’s gone, brother, she’s gone. This is your chance. Don’t waste it.’

57

Jamal’s legs felt like rubber. He couldn’t stand properly, as if his balance had completely deserted him. The horror of his sister’s death would be seared into his memory for ever.

‘See? There’s nothing you can do for her except save yourself.’