State Of Emergency: (Tom Buckingham Thriller 3) (37 page)

79

23.45

Jamal’s moment of tranquillity was short-lived. He watched the exchange from the shadows of the corridor outside his room. He couldn’t hear what was being said but the man was unmistakable. His picture had been in Isham’s dossier of intelligence about Vernon Rolt. Jamal even remembered the name: Tom Buckingham, Rolt’s right-hand man.

This woman was too good to be true. For a brief few hours he had thought he was no longer on his own, that there were people who believed him. But why should anyone help him after what he had done? No, this was an elaborate trap and he had walked right into it. Latimer and this woman had conspired together to deliver him into Rolt’s hands via one of his henchmen. But why?

Not that Jamal cared why. Despair mixed with disgust had taken over any rational thoughts he might have had. This was a humiliation too far. This time he wasn’t going to let himself be hoodwinked. He returned to the room, unpacked his bag and laid the suicide vest on the bed.

80

Xenia deserved a proper explanation of what had happened, Tom thought, but right now all his concentration was focused on reaching his father. He knew now that behind the mask of reclusive newspaper magnate she was a tragic figure, a prisoner of her own past, whose misfortune had been to cross paths with one of the most ruthless oligarchs ever to emerge from the former Soviet Union. Through his past association with the British Security Service, he had a free pass to do whatever he liked – even, it seemed, to change the government.

But Umarov wasn’t the priority. In his heart, Tom didn’t care about him or Rolt. He had done what he had done and it had fucked up. All that mattered to him now was what happened to his father.

He kept his speech to Xenia short and sweet, but in order to build a bridge to her he explained the real reason for his being involved with Rolt: as a spy for the Security Service. ‘Somehow we failed to discover the connection with your stepfather.’

Her whole demeanour had changed since their last meeting, as if some of her spirit had been sucked out of her.

‘That’s a shame. But I appreciate he has a special status with your masters, so perhaps it was naïve to think he could be stopped.’ There was more than a hint of bitterness in her tone. She gestured at the floor. ‘They have changed the codes so I can’t get onto the executive floor any more.’

‘Your own building. Isn’t this all humiliating for you?’

She gave him an empty look. ‘I was stupid to think he might leave me alone. He wants everything I have. He thinks it’s his by right. I know that even if I try to run he will pursue me. His resources are limitless and his obsession is overwhelming.’

She stood up, moved towards the window and leaned her head against the glass. ‘I was such a fool. I built this place to protect me from him and here he is, right inside, like a parasite. Even after he had my father killed, that wasn’t enough. He had to have everything that had been his, including my mother and now me.’

Tom saw this could take some time. Much as it helped to have her on his side, time was ticking on. ‘I need you to get me down there.’

‘There are the service stairs. But the codes on those doors will have been changed as well.’

‘Show me.’

He followed her through a kitchen to a door by the rubbish chute. The precast concrete stairs, with a simple steel tube banister, were in stark contrast to the luxurious surroundings of the apartment. ‘Let me look at the key pad. Maybe there’s something I can do.’

‘Are you armed?’

He nodded. ‘But only for when I’ve exhausted all the other options.’

He examined the key pad. He didn’t want to break the door down and set off an alarm. All he needed was to go in, find his father, tell him he had to come with him, help him on with his coat and leave. Unless anyone tried to stop them …

He felt anger rising again at the thought of Hugh held hostage in this concrete mausoleum. But emotion was the last thing he needed right now. He needed focus.

He could hear a muffled conversation, a clinking sound. A party? In the circumstances, it seemed bizarre. He turned to Xenia. ‘Why don’t we just knock?’

After a few seconds the door opened. It was Rolt.

81

Rolt took one look at Tom and spread his arms. ‘Here he is – the hero of the hour! Come in!’ Tom stepped into the room as Rolt tried to embrace him. ‘My God. We thought you’d been taken away by the heavy mob!’

There was a manic gleam in his eye. For someone who took such pride in his appearance he looked distinctly dog-eared. But, then, it had been a long day. Tom scanned the room: desks and screens that looked as if they had been hastily erected, and several men in striped shirtsleeves, City types, two of whom Tom recognized from the fundraiser.

‘Where’s my father?’

‘He’s here, don’t worry. Let me get you a drink.’ Rolt was urging him forward. He saw Xenia. ‘And won’t you join us too?’

‘Why aren’t you at Number Ten?’ Tom asked him.

‘Just waiting for the all-clear. Should be any minute now.’ He raised a tumbler of orange juice to them. ‘I can’t join you in case I have to broadcast to the nation.’

He spoke in a jovial tone, as if he’d done the whole thing for a joke. But Tom ignored him because his attention was caught by the appearance of another man, with silver hair, stooping very slightly as he moved slowly towards a desk in one corner: his father. Not far behind him was Umarov who, when he saw Xenia, stopped dead.

Tom marched across the room to his father. Hugh looked up. There was a heartstopping delay before he focused. ‘Oh, hello, dear boy. What on earth are you doing here?’ A wan smile appeared on his face. ‘Just putting the finishing touches …’

Tom stepped up to him and embraced him. ‘It’s okay, Dad. I’m going to take you home.’

‘Well, I …’ Hugh looked into his son’s eyes, uncomprehending.

Tom’s pent-up rage roared to the surface. He could feel his restraint slipping. He needed to hold on, just get away, but here was Umarov.
Forget him. Leave it, just go
, he told himself
. Keep focused, don’t lose it.

Umarov caught his glare and smirked. ‘It seems you’ve proved yourself. Ashton wasn’t sure you’d come through in the end. Your father is very proud of you, aren’t you, Hugh?’

Umarov’s eyes swivelled towards Hugh as Tom moved forward.

But before Tom could react he was distracted by a shout from across the room – and the figure standing at the door to the service stairs he had just come through.

He didn’t immediately recognize the face, but that was because all his attention was concentrated on the device strapped to the young man’s chest.

82

What Woolf had been telling Tom now all slotted into place. This was Jamal al Masri, the so-called Butcher of Aleppo, the man who had supposedly busted out of Belmarsh, whom Rolt had made into the poster boy to help whip up hysteria for his campaign, the man Sarah Garvey had been trying to help.

Tom made eye contact with Jamal immediately, hoping it would create a window, an interval he could work in. All his concentration was on him. It was as if Rolt, Umarov, Xenia and even his father had been vaporized and it was just the two of them. In return, he needed Jamal to focus only on him and not be distracted. The device on Jamal’s chest looked very convincing. Tom had no reason to doubt it, since it was being worn by a man who had just blown his way out of prison. And the fact that he had not attempted to conceal it must have been to make the point: he wanted them all to know what he was about to do. Rolt was now cowering behind a screen: much good that would do him when the moment came for Jamal to enter Heaven. If anything, it would probably slice his head off.

Tom took a couple of steps forward, hands down, palms open, facing out so Jamal could see they were empty. ‘Hello, Jamal. I’ve heard a lot about you. Sounds like you’ve been on quite a journey. I like your timing. You couldn’t have picked a better place to show your face.’

Jamal said nothing. Tom could see his forehead was glistening with sweat and his features twisted with anger. One hand twitched. A wire attached to the device dangled from the remote switch in his palm.

‘For God’s sake, Tom, take him down!’ Rolt’s strangled cry rang out across the room.

Tom replied slowly, without taking his eyes off Jamal, ‘Actually, Vernon, whatever I do won’t make any difference. As I’m sure Jamal knows only too well, from his time in Syria, he has the advantage. By the time I draw my weapon, before it’s even out of its holster, he can have activated the device. He holds all the cards. What happens next is Jamal’s decision. Right now he controls the room. Our lives are in his hands. There’s nothing any of us can do. Isn’t that right, Jamal?’

Out of the corner of his eye, Tom saw Rolt’s mouth open and close a couple of times as if he had found the words he was never short of – but then realized they weren’t right and discarded them. He was shaking; he looked at Umarov as if he might find something there. But Umarov’s concentration was on Jamal, as was everyone else’s. Tom caught sight of his father looking even more haggard, now a frail, vulnerable man, who had done nothing to deserve any of this. He banished all thought of Hugh as he focused back on Jamal.

‘So, Jamal, I’m sure Vernon Rolt needs no introduction. He’s the man who’s made it his personal mission to destroy your name, no matter who he’s had to silence along the way. He’s your man, your target – but you’re in double luck tonight, because the real power in the room isn’t him at all. It’s the man standing just to his right, the short one, Dr Oleg Umarov. He’s the one who bankrolled Vernon Rolt’s grab for power and who’s looking forward to cashing in his winnings.’

Tom paused, but only to take a breath.

‘As for the other people in the room, Xenia is the one who holds your interests closest to her heart. She’s been a lonely and tireless supporter of people like Emma Warner, who gave their lives trying to bring the truth out of Syria. Xenia knows about the courage you showed there, and what you’ve sacrificed to tell the world the truth, only to have your brave exploits criminally misinterpreted.’

Tom then pointed at Hugh. ‘And over there, Jamal, is my father, Hugh Buckingham. Yes, my own dad is right here, a hostage. Without any doubt the most important man in my life.’

Tom had no idea where the words were coming from, but he kept going. All the time he was maintaining eye contact with Jamal.

‘Jamal, I know you’ve had your differences with your father. And I know he has misunderstood what you’ve done, but only because he has been fed a bunch of lies by people like Rolt. Me and my dad, we’ve had our differences. He’ll tell you that he neither knows nor understands what I’ve been up to, won’t you, Dad?’

Hugh nodded tentatively, probably thinking his son really
had
gone mad now. Jamal was quite still, just the device moving as his chest rose and fell rapidly with his quick breaths, a small wire hanging from a cuff that disappeared into his right fist. Well, at least I have his attention, thought Tom. Though whether any of this guff was getting through to him … He just had to keep going and hope.

‘What does your dad really know about you and your courage, Jamal? What’s he ever going to know about how you risked your life to get those pictures? Detonate your device now and, yes, you rid the country of the man who’s doing the most to break our society apart. But, then, your father’s never going to know what you sacrificed. You know why? Because if you choose to do that, for the rest of his life and for generations to come you will be the Butcher of Aleppo who supposedly massacred those poor girls, then blew himself up in a fit of revenge. That lie will outlive you.’

Jamal was shaking now, struggling to control the rage and anticipation boiling inside him. Tom saw his hand twitch again.

‘You went to Syria to show your father what you were made of. You wanted him to be proud of you, to understand you. And it didn’t turn out that way. But you can change that, Jamal. If we were to explain to him what you did, your courage in Syria, how you risked everything to get those pictures, then he would not only understand, he would be proud.’

Was this working? Tom could only hold on to the fact that they were all still breathing. But how long could he keep it up? He needed an outcome. And as he pressed on with his speech, he started to craft one.

‘And your sister, Jamal. Adila, God rest her soul.’

Jamal flinched at the mention of her name as Tom took a step towards him, still speaking, his hands passive.

‘What would Adila want most for you now? Vengeance? I don’t think so. She died for you, died wanting to clear your name, because she believed in you, knew the truth in your heart.’

Tom pointed at Rolt. ‘But because of all the noise coming from this man, no one could hear it.’

The genie was out of the bottle now, Tom’s own feelings laid bare after all the months of dissembling. The brakes were off. The relief was immense, mixed into a toxic fuel of raw anger on behalf of the man facing him who now held their lives in his hands.

Tom saw on Rolt’s face a mixture of indignation and terror as the full reality of his predicament became clear to him. He glanced back at Jamal, who was still standing there, tense and sweating. All this time one compartment of his brain had been evaluating the other option, whether as a last desperate measure he could get a head shot in time, if he could distract Jamal long enough to draw down. It had to be a head shot because for all Tom knew the explosives could be detonated by a high-velocity round passing through it. He would have to get closer to guarantee one round one kill. But he also knew that the person he felt closest to in the room right now was Jamal. They’d both tried to do the right thing, both been fucked around, abandoned and left out in the cold. Tears were running down Jamal’s face now. At least Tom knew his words were getting through. But it wasn’t a guarantee that he could save the day.

It was as if nothing else existed outside what Tom could see in front of him. If there were any noises coming from anyone to either side of him he couldn’t hear them. The only thing registering in his brain was Jamal.