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

The one mistake Tom was still cursing himself for was lifting Randall’s mask in front of the couple. The woman he didn’t think would be a problem, but the mouthy boyfriend … He just had to hope that the Official Secrets Act would do its job and keep his gob shut.

What troubled Tom far more, though, was whether Randall had had help. Was this a one-off or part of something more? And what had been his motive? Questions that couldn’t go unanswered. Meanwhile, a whole new chapter in the extraordinary political rise of Vernon Rolt was about to open, and who knew what that would lead to? His train of thought was hijacked by a rapid volley of thuds against the door.

‘Stop wanking and get out of my bathroom.’

Tom opened the door to find Jez outside in a pair of unnecessarily ample boxers, absently clutching the contents. ‘You’re the one who’ll be abusing yourself for the rest of your life unless you get some decent underwear.’ Tom stepped out of the bathroom and into the narrow corridor.

Jez raised an eyebrow at him. ‘Rough night?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Your man got in, then.’

Tom nodded.

Jez continued to gaze at him, evidently expecting more.

Tom obliged: ‘A victory for common sense. He’ll do what needs to be done.’ He felt Jez’s pitying gaze. If he’d guessed that Tom was under cover in Rolt’s organization he’d had the decency not to mention it. Nonetheless Tom sensed that his parroting of the party line fell wide of the mark, an insult to their friendship. Not for the first time he wondered how much longer he could go on with this charade.

Right on cue, a volley of sirens erupted from a fleet of emergency vehicles rushing up Piccadilly. Jez sighed. ‘Well, I suppose it can’t get any worse.’

Don’t bank on it
, thought Tom. But he didn’t say it. Instead he gave a half-hearted and decidedly noncommittal shrug, and caught a look of renewed curiosity on Jez’s face. ‘What?’

‘What happens to Rolt’s private army now?’

Invicta was supposedly just a support network for ex-servicemen struggling to come to terms with life outside the forces, so it was a good question, all the more so after last night’s incident. But Jez couldn’t know that. Tom gave another shrug. ‘More of the same, I guess.’

‘And what will it mean for you?’

‘Dunno.’ A lame answer. But he really didn’t know.

Jez opened his mouth to continue, then shut it again. Tom knew what he was thinking:
I thought you had more sense than to fall for that prick Rolt and his sad band of brothers.

They went way back, the two of them. After school, while Tom enlisted in the ranks, Jez had taken the high road: Sandhurst, then the Guards. Tom knew Jez always regarded his choice to forgo officer training as a two-fingers to all the privilege he had grown up with. But it was Tom who made it into the SAS, while Jez had chucked it in after three years, succumbing to the infinitely better wedge from a private security firm started by another of their mates.

‘Weather’s not letting up.’

It was a good line to fill an awkward silence.

‘You’d think it would calm things down.’

‘Yeah.’

The spare room in Jez’s ridiculously well-located third-floor flat off Piccadilly had seemed like a good idea at the time. The view of some extremely well-appointed drainage pipes crawling up an airshaft at the back of Brown’s Hotel left something to be desired, but it was five minutes from the tube, and a pleasant twenty-minute stroll across the park to Rolt’s headquarters in St James’s. But Tom couldn’t help feeling he was starting to outstay his welcome. He knew that if he didn’t want to fuck the job up – not to mention get himself killed – no one could know his real purpose inside Rolt’s organization, and that included Jez, who was practically in the same business. His cover had to be one hundred per cent solid. But all the secrecy had taken its toll on their friendship. One day he might be able to come clean – but when?

Tom straightened his tie. Jez half closed the bathroom door, then opened it again. ‘Mind your back out there.’

‘Thanks.’

‘And, well, if you fancy a change of scene, let me know.’

‘Thanks, mate. I appreciate it.’

The bathroom door closed. He knew his friend meant well. Tom’s sudden departure from the SAS had been a surprise to Jez, even more so his emergence at Invicta, by Vernon Rolt’s side. He would have liked to be honest and tell him what he was really up to, but going under cover was just that: no one could know.

Another volley of sirens brought him back into focus: a new day and new trouble.

5

06.30

The walk to Rolt’s office was usually Tom’s favourite part of the day, but this morning, as he crossed into Green Park, all it offered was a stark reminder of what a tense and brittle place London had become. The snow had smoothed them over, but Tom could make out deep tyre tracks from what must have been a hijacked HGV gouged into the grass. There was no sign of the vehicle that had made them, but the row of saplings planted just a few months ago lay broken, and beside the southern entrance to the tube, the kiosk where he sometimes bought a paper had been completely demolished. He strode on, looking for something positive to focus on.

Although it was morning, the few cars still had their headlights on, streaking the road with puddles of light. Above, gunmetal clouds hung low over the rooftops of Westminster, threatening yet more snow. The last fall had quickly gained a dull grey crust from the slush thrown up by the traffic, which had then frozen. As he reached the Mall, he saw Buckingham Palace, unlit, its occupants evacuated to Sandringham, a measure of how low things had sunk. Where once a constant stream of tourists had come to gawp, now all that stood in front of the gates were a couple of Army Land Rover Wolf TULs and a few guards milling about, their bearskins and red tunics swapped for Kevlar and live ammunition.

He crossed the road and slipped into St James’s Park. There he saw the aftermath of another of the night’s battles: overturned benches and a riot shield amid a pile of charred wood from what had been the tourist information booth. Despite this, the park still clung to its austere winter beauty, a monochrome scene of black, leafless trees on an expanse of grey snow. On the frozen lake, cans, bottles and takeaway cups rolled about, blown by a sharp Siberian wind that tugged at his coat. Towards the southern side of the park a tow-truck was winching an overturned police Land Rover back onto its wheels. Crowd-control barriers lay scattered about, as if a giant child had scooped them up and chucked them around. Already stretched to breaking point, and having been repeatedly warned off getting too tough, the police had been overwhelmed by angry and determined protesters.

Meanwhile the government had been torn between keeping order and not alienating potential voters while the election campaign was on. But all that was about to change – if Vernon Rolt got his way.

Outside the building, in addition to the usual police presence, there were several reinforcements in full riot gear, visors and body armour, plumes of vapour rising from their breath in the chill of the morning. They stiffened as he approached but one of the regulars waved him forward. In recognition of the need for heightened security, Tom reached for his pass and held it out, then opened his coat. They were only doing their job. He waited while the police officer passed her wand over him, taking a little longer than she needed to. She was blonde and petite under her stab vest and other kit. In the past he would have said something, but not today: the events of last night still cast their shadow over him.

She smiled. ‘Nice threads.’

He smiled back, but that was all. Under the Hugo Boss suit and freshly laundered Harvie & Hudson shirt he felt uneasy. Four hours ago he had shot a man dead. It had had to be done to stop two more getting killed, but why had Randall been there? What exactly was his beef with Rolt?

‘Hey, Tom.’

He turned as he mounted the steps and saw the reporter, Helen something from
Newsday
, the paper that had done the most to put Rolt in power. He didn’t know how she knew his name, but that was reporters for you, if they were any good at their job. He was in no mood for a conversation with anyone right now and especially not the press. He had seen her before, at events Rolt was speaking at, and had noted her genuine charm, as well as an appealing mane of darkish blonde hair, which, judging by her eyebrows, was real.

‘Could you give us a couple of words?’

‘Which ones?’

‘How about “home secretary” for starters?’

He liked her directness and she had a perky, winning way about her that amused him. Rolt’s appointment had yet to be formally announced. He gave her his poker face.

‘Are you able to confirm?’

He knew that was the deal, the post Rolt had demanded in return for standing. He gave her a mock-indignant look. ‘I couldn’t possibly comment.’

She rolled her eyes. He always made a point of being civil to journalists. Rolt loathed every one of them, tore into them whenever they caught him off guard, saw them as the enemy, even those at
Newsday
, who wrote about him as if he was the Second Coming and had helped put him where he was today.

She wasn’t giving up yet. ‘How about a drink later?’

He stopped. By noon the announcement would have been made. Britain would have a new home secretary, a man with no previous political experience who, only months ago, had been dismissed as an extremist and a racist.

Rolt made no secret of what he perceived as Britain’s self-inflicted impotence in the face of escalating Islamist terror. As tensions between the opposing communities boiled over and the country went to war with itself, Rolt’s calls for what some denounced as nothing short of ethnic cleansing had started to win support. Suddenly, with an election looming, he was in demand, his inflammatory views finding favour with an increasingly scared public. No longer the outsider, he had found himself holding the balance of power, and when the governing party came calling he could dictate his terms.

‘Or dinner?’

She gave him a look that implied more than that. The thought flitted across his mind that he badly needed a night off and some distraction. As he went towards the double doors she pressed her card into his hand.

The lights were off in the foyer: no receptionists in yet. Good – he’d have the place to himself for a while. But as he mounted the polished wooden stairs, two figures emerged out of the gloom and blocked his path, a pair of thick-necked bodyguards with matching black suits and blank faces. Tom had never seen them before. Had they been sent from Whitehall? They didn’t look like government issue: too steroidal.

‘Morning, gents.’ He gave them a cheery grin and kept moving towards them.

One – he resembled a young Arnold Schwarzenegger – raised his hand. ‘Please – you stop.’

A strange guttural accent: possibly Russian, but not quite.

This was Tom’s place of work. He had every right to be there. He wasn’t going to stop for anyone, even if they did ask nicely. He was about to barge through them when the door to Rolt’s office at the end of the corridor opened and the pair immediately turned and set off towards the person who had just emerged.

It was too dark for Tom to make out anything more than a silhouette, a short, stocky figure, a man well into his sixties, judging by the stiff movements and stoop. Now Rolt was standing in the doorway. The silhouette turned and gave him a bear hug. Tom had never seen anyone hug Rolt – he wasn’t the hugging kind. It was an awkward sight, not least because Rolt towered over his visitor.

The steroidal duo came alongside their man and the three stepped into the lift, which led straight down to the private garage beneath. Rolt watched them go, then went back into his office.

Tom reached the door, waited a few seconds, then entered without knocking. There was a smell that he had never encountered before in that room: tobacco. Rolt spun round, a look of complete shock on his face. He had on a three-piece Prince of Wales check suit, and a dark red silk handkerchief in the breast pocket that matched his tie. But his face was haggard.

‘Sorry, am I interrupting?’

Rolt flushed. He didn’t look at all pleased to see Tom, which was interesting. For a moment nothing came out of his mouth, as if his new outfit had constricted his breathing. Then his face sprang to life. He was beaming at Tom now, the same forced grin that he had produced on the campaign trail when he had been mobbed by an adoring public, with whom he never looked at ease. Even with the grin, his eyes still seemed narrowed by some lingering worry.

‘No, no, you’re just – very early.’

Tom beamed back as though he hadn’t registered the awkwardness. He gestured at the door. ‘One of your fan club?’

Fear flashed across Rolt’s face again.

‘I heard the lift.’

As Tom’s words sank in, Rolt’s face relaxed. He rolled his eyes. ‘Yeah, just an old acquaintance from my business days. Looking forward to me getting to work, kicking some
ass
.’ He mimed a kicking motion with his foot and laughed at his own feeble joke.

Tom’s eye fell on a cigarette butt that had been dropped onto the floor, perilously close to one of Rolt’s precious Persian rugs. Strange, since he was a fanatical anti-smoker.

Rolt followed his gaze. ‘Fucking cleaners.’

He reached down, pinched the butt between thumb and forefinger nails and dropped it into the bin, then wiped his fingers on a tissue.

Another awkward silence. Tom rescued him from it. ‘Well, congratulations, chief. You nailed it.’

Rolt never tired of compliments and Tom dished them out regularly, to keep the man sweet.

‘Thank you. Yes, I think I rather did.’

Tom added one more for good measure: ‘The Party would have been screwed without you. You totally saved their bacon.’

The awkwardness gone, Rolt nodded in acknowledgement, then put his head on one side. ‘I rather thought you’d be having a lie-in.’

Tom felt a flash of contempt – Rolt had no idea what it was like to kill – but he didn’t let it show. Instead he shook his head mock-mournfully. ‘No rest for the wicked.’