State Of Emergency: (Tom Buckingham Thriller 3) (4 page)

It was a line his mother sometimes used, which had always irritated him, but seemed right for filling another discomforting hole in the conversation. But that was enough. Down to business. ‘So, about last night.’

Rolt groaned like a teenager and glanced at his watch. ‘God, do we have to?’

Tom fixed him with a look that said, yes, they did. ‘It’s all pretty much sorted. I called the Security Service first. They had the whole area sealed off before the Met arrived. The spooks’ own team will have dealt with the body, and in your new position you’ll be able to see to it that it’s all swept under the carpet. The two who were in the room are being looked after. They’ve been told the consequences if they utter so much as one syllable. The girl didn’t see the face and the boy’s been read the Riot Act.’

Rolt was visibly relieved. ‘Well, that should be an end to it. Good work.’ He started to collect together some papers on his desk.

‘Thanks. All the same, you’ll need to figure out what to say, in case it gets out.’

Rolt glared. ‘So what if it does? It just confirms everything I’ve been saying. We have to face up to the Islamist threat here in our streets, and we have to act now – and fast.’

He sounded like one of his own sound bites. Tom had guessed he would assume the obvious. He watched Rolt’s face carefully as he set him straight. ‘He was one of ours.’

‘Who?’

‘Fez Randall.’

He watched Rolt closely as he delivered the bombshell. The look, a mixture of disbelief and disgust, that spread over his face seemed like a lot of Rolt’s expressions, manufactured rather than spontaneous. Had he known this was coming? Could he have known? ‘For God’s sake! The man was my driver only a few months ago.’

Tom kept his eyes on him. ‘One of the original recruits, number five or six.’

‘Who left abruptly three months ago. Packed it all in.’

‘Why was that?’

Rolt shrugged. ‘No idea.’

Now his face reddened with indignation. ‘And after all I did for him! He was on his way to Hell in a bloody handcart when we picked him up. Would have dropped dead long ago either from drink or drugs if it wasn’t for us. What was his problem?’

Tom wasn’t surprised by his show of amazement and dismay. Since the day Rolt had received the call inviting him to stand for Parliament, it was as if he had forgotten all about the men on whom his reputation had been built. Sure, he’d done good work by ploughing his fortune into helping servicemen who had fallen foul of civilian life. Many of them owed their rehabilitation to him. But he always assumed they would repay their debt to him by standing with him shoulder to shoulder, no matter where that led.

‘Always was a mouthy bastard. That’s why I stopped him driving for me. Bad attitude. And he’d lapsed, you know – couldn’t risk having him behind the wheel.’

That didn’t fit with what Tom knew. Randall had a reputation for being a man of few words, who kept it all in. As for drink, Invicta had zero tolerance of alcohol. Rolt was passionately teetotal and key to the rehab programme was getting – and staying – dry. He would have to find out if Randall had in fact slipped off the wagon. ‘Was that why he left?’

‘How should I know?’

What had made him so popular with those who he had helped was the structure he provided, an orderly routine around which they could rebuild themselves and take control of their lives outside the forces. In the past he had shown compassion only for those he thought of as ‘his’ men, many of whom had come to Invicta when they had reached rock bottom.

The most visible enemies Rolt had made were among Britain’s Muslims, whom he had torn into indiscriminately, casting them all as the propagators of terror and death. And yet this would-be assassin had been one of his own, a previously dedicated Invicta member.

‘Is there anything you can think of that might have given Randall cause? Maybe when he was your driver?’

Rolt looked away for less than a second, as if something had occurred to him, but he swiftly covered it with a show of indignation and glared at Tom. ‘I said no.’

‘Let me know if anything occurs to you.’

‘Well, he’s gone so there’s nothing to worry about.’

Tom’s expression showed he didn’t agree.

‘What?’

‘He may not have acted alone. There may be more.’

Rolt sighed, as if he was already tiring of the subject. ‘Aren’t you being a bit melodramatic?’

Tom ignored the comment. ‘And we have to be realistic about the details of his demise leaking out.’

‘Well, don’t worry about it. Not your problem.’

He was wrong. It was very much Tom’s problem.

Rolt shook his head again, apparently still stung by Randall’s disloyalty. ‘Takes your breath away, doesn’t it? I mean, why did I bother?’

Tom didn’t respond. During his time inside Invicta he had found he understood far more about its members than Rolt – a non-soldier – ever would. Yet most of them regarded Rolt as their saviour and he in turn made a great show of compassion for them, though now Tom suspected it was just that – a show.

Rolt’s uncompromising views about Muslims had been no secret, but his sudden shift into politics had taken everyone by surprise. The whirlwind election campaign meant he had neglected Invicta. But was that the extent of Randall’s grievance? Had he and others felt abandoned for a while? Was that enough to make him want to kill?

Rolt gathered up the last few papers from his desk. ‘Well, I’m disappointed, but what can you do? You extend the helping hand and …’ His voice trailed away. There had been more than a hint of self-pity in it. But it was revealing that he didn’t seem to care much that a once loyal associate had attempted to take his life.

Tom took a slightly different tack. ‘You used to cast yourself as a bit of an outsider, like them. Randall probably wasn’t expecting you to throw in your lot with one of the mainstream parties. Maybe he felt – left behind.’

Rolt was clearly mystified. ‘But I can be so much more effective now, instead of shouting from the sidelines. Besides, we’ve got bigger problems, with the country imploding.’

‘I know that, but he may not have seen it that way.’

Rolt had once confided in Tom that deep down he thought of his supporters as damaged goods, looking for an outlet for their bitterness about the wars they’d fought and the lack of recognition they had received. The idea that
he
might owe
them
anything for their loyalty had been obliterated by his overweening vanity and hubris.

‘But even to
think
of such a thing! The man must have completely lost it. Must have been the drink.’

Tom couldn’t help himself. ‘Well, it wasn’t an impulsive choice. He came prepared. As well as the gas and the Glock, there was a loop of wire in his pocket
and
a Bowie knife. So he was well and truly bombed up.’

Rolt was starting to look bored, the full reality of what Tom was saying just bouncing off him. Suddenly he beamed. ‘You tell it straight, no matter how uncomfortable it is, Tom. I’ve always liked that in you. Now, to business.’

He wasn’t about to let anything get in the way of his appointment with destiny.

Tom shrugged. ‘Well, that’s just the way I am.’ And because he couldn’t resist it, he added, ‘Good job you
didn’t
stay at the hotel.’

Rolt bit his lip – Tom’s comment seemed to spark off another worrying thought. Then he shrugged. ‘Well, at least he’s out of the way. One less problem to worry about, thanks to you.’ He grinned. ‘Good work, man.’

It wasn’t good at all. It was shit work, not that Rolt would ever understand that. Tom felt like decking him. The strain of all the months he’d spent working under cover inside this snake pit had started to wear him down. He had been hoping to get out, but Randall’s actions had changed that. Which made him wonder if the Security Service would continue to spy on the man who was about to become its political master.

‘At least I’m in a position now to see it’ll never get into the news. Imagine the headline!
Veteran’s Bid to Kill Home Secretary.
’ He let out a short laugh. Then his brow furrowed. ‘No one must know, Tom. Ever.’

Yes, that would be unfortunate, wouldn’t it?
Tom thought, remembering Helen from
Newsday
. He glanced at his watch. ‘You’re due at Number Ten in twenty minutes,
Home Secretary
.’

Tom watched as Rolt gazed round the room that had been his HQ for the last five years, then up at his treasured Turner above the fireplace. It was an awesome rendering of a volcanic eruption in dusty reds and oranges, the night sky lit up by lava. This morning it merely reminded Tom of the fires he had seen burning all over Britain.

‘I guess this is it.’ Rolt sounded wistful.

Surely he wasn’t having a sliver of doubt about crossing the political Rubicon? For a moment Tom was propelled back to their schooldays and his very first encounter with the teenage Rolt, an awkward loner who always looked as if he’d strayed into enemy territory. Now the former outsider was inside. Perhaps it would civilize him, curb his more … irrational tendencies. After all, one of Britain’s defining features had always been an ability to neutralize extremists. They got into government from time to time, but never made it to where they could do permanent harm. But this era was different: cracks in the fabric of society had yawned open. Rolt had been talked up as some kind of saviour, yet all he had done was widen those cracks even further with his inflammatory rhetoric.

Tom glanced at the clock above the fireplace. ‘The car will be on its way.’

Rolt strode over to his desk, pulled his tablet case towards him and zipped it shut. He was clearly nervous. ‘Sorry I can’t take you with me to Number Ten.’

‘This is your moment. It wouldn’t be appropriate.’

He nodded. ‘You’re right.’

‘In a matter of hours you’ll have a whole new team.’ Tom offered his hand.

Rolt took it and gripped it hard, perhaps to conjure up some of the steel he had shown on the campaign trail. ‘Thanks for everything.’

And thank you for fuck all
. Tom let go of Rolt’s hand and gave him a farewell wave.

And with that Rolt swept out of the room.

Tom turned and stared out of the window at the grey-white expanse of the park. He had served his country in the most unlikely way as a spy on the man who, in a few minutes, would be anointed Her Majesty’s Principal Secretary of State for the Home Department. Yesterday he had been starting to think about where Fate would take him next. Back to his ex, Delphine, in France? Or somewhere much further away from all this shit? A stint at home with his folks, whom he’d barely spoken to in three months? Or, and he had suppressed this idea from the moment it had surfaced, back to the SAS? But that possibility was so fraught with emotional turmoil that pride wouldn’t even let him say the words silently in his head.

Rolt’s elevation should have been the end of his assignment. The Security Service had recruited him to get as close as he could to the man. Now that he was effectively their political master, Tom would be spying on his own ultimate boss. Surely in such circumstances he couldn’t go on.

But the assassination attempt had changed everything. Just as he should have been getting out, he was suddenly in much deeper. And who was Rolt’s mystery visitor? His gaze had settled on the small burn mark by the rug. It wasn’t the smell of any old tobacco he had noticed when he came in, it was intensely foreign. Who drops his cigarette butt on Rolt’s expensive flooring on the morning of his installation as home secretary yet hugs him in farewell? After all those months of shadowing, listening, monitoring the man’s every move, two mysteries had come at once.

He cast his eye over the desk, as he always did when their meetings ended, in case there was anything useful Rolt had left behind, but he had cleared it. The drawers, as usual, had been locked. But on a small table tucked behind the door, there was an oblong wooden case he hadn’t seen before. It was inlaid with intricately carved veneers depicting highly stylized crossed swords. The hinges were equally ornate and looked gold-plated, or even solid gold. He turned it over –
Heron
, it said on the bottom – and carefully unlatched the lid.

Lying on a bed of quilted purple silk was a sabre, the scabbard leather-covered, with gold markings. He lifted it from the box and drew out the blade. He recognized it, a Tartar Ordynka, not an original but newly forged, high-carbon steel with what looked like a solid gold guard and pommel, the wooden grip covered with deep brown hide. It was impressive yet hideously kitsch. A dedication was engraved on the blade:
To Vernon, for the next battle. Your friend, Oleg.

6

09.30 (07.30 GMT)
Aleppo, northern Syria

The temperature hovered around zero but Jamal could feel the sweat trickling down from his armpits all the way to his waistband. He gripped the strap of his AK with both hands and tried to keep his breathing steady by counting: in – one, two, three, four; out – one, two, three, four. Something he remembered from choir practice in Croydon, but that seemed a very long time ago, and a very long way from where he was now.

The wind whipped his face and made his eyes water. Eight of them were crammed into the back of the Toyota Hilux, in two rows of four, facing each other. Another three pick-ups followed in the convoy as it bounced through the shattered suburb towards the square where the executions were to take place, lurching and snaking across the roads in a vain attempt to avoid the numerous craters. None of his ‘brothers’ exchanged eye contact, which was just as well for Jamal. They had been told nothing, just to grab their weapons and some rations, get into the trucks and off. But they all knew. The whole district knew. And soon, if Jamal didn’t screw up, so would the whole world.

Dearest sister Adila
, he had texted,
God willing I will see you very soon. I have found a way.
It was a risk but telling her had made it more real. He was going home. All he had to do was get through the next three hours, keep his side of the bargain. And if he was found out? He shut the thought out of his mind.