State Of Emergency: (Tom Buckingham Thriller 3)

by Andy McNab

  Farmer, who had remained uncharacteristically quiet so far, knew it was time to give the PM a gentle prod and remind him on which side his bread was buttered. He leaned forward and reached into the pile of newspapers stacked on the end of the coffee-table. ‘In his Newsday interview, Rolt points to those particular individuals who have made it clear enough that they’re at odds with British society and British values, that they’ve effectively exiled themselves already. “Patriation” is simply a logical next step for those individuals – even a lifestyle choice.’

  There was a nervous silence. He knew, as they all knew, that the scope of what could be said out loud had just widened.

  ‘It’s what a lot of the public want. It’s why they voted for us.’ He tapped the Newsday front page. Two photographs dominated: one of Rolt on a podium punching the air, the other a screen grab of a masked jihadi. Above the picture of Rolt was one word, ‘IN’, and above the masked Islamist, ‘OUT’. Farmer grinned. ‘I couldn’t have put it better myself.’

  He watched as the PM inevitably turned to Alec Clements, the cabinet secretary. It was to him that the premier always looked for the final word, as if he was the ultimate barometer of what could and couldn’t be done. As always, Clements had bagged himself the only upright chair and sat, as he preferred, slightly apart from the rest of the group, his eyeline a few inches above those on the sofas. He appeared to be both presiding and remaining aloof. He had unbuttoned his waistcoat to give his ample belly some ventilation and was closely examining something under the nail of his forefinger, giving the entirely false impression that he wasn’t paying full attention.

  ‘I rather think, Geoff, if I may come in here, that since there’s no going back, we might as well concentrate on finessing the small print so we can whisk this through Parliament. At least then we can say, “Job done,” and the Home Office can get on with executing the policy.’

  They could always rely on Clements to home in on the main point. Farmer regarded him with a mixture of awe and fear, for his ability to glide along in a swan-like fashion, unflustered by the battles either out on the streets or inside the room. It had been Clements’s idea to get Rolt to stand in the first place, but he had deftly contrived to manoeuvre the PM into voicing it. But now, rather late in the day, the PM was struggling with what was left of his conscience, his face reddening as he started to splutter.

  ‘I don’t think I like the word “execute” in this context. And I still don’t see how the hell it’s going to work! Are we talking about squads of police picking these guys off the street and putting them on the next plane to Syria? Bursting into mosques to round them up? Oh, yes, that should calm things down.’

  Clements glanced up from his manicure. There was a hint of weariness in his tone. ‘Yemen have already indicated they’re quite keen. Lebanon’s showing interest.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Anyway, the new man will be downstairs. Why don’t we have him up and we can find out?’

  You couldn’t help but admire the way Clements manoeuvred himself away from direct conflict while at the same time goading them on. The PM stood up. ‘I’m going to see him on my own for a few minutes. You lot can come back in when we’re done.’

  Clements stretched like a cat and got to his feet. ‘He’s booked himself a press conference at eleven so you’d better be quick.’

  Farmer’s enjoyment of the meeting came to an abrupt halt. What the fuck? He struggled to contain his dismay lest anyone think he wasn’t on top of things. Still, there was nothing to be done but admit it. ‘He just went ahead, I’m afraid, Prime Minister.’

  ‘But he hasn’t even been assigned a media handler yet.’

  ‘I don’t think he’s the sort of chap who’s going to wait for one, do you?’

  The PM shifted awkwardly. The frantic election schedule had taken its toll on his back. ‘Okay – everybody out. Send him in.’

  There was a marathon gathering-up of papers and the room emptied until it was just the PM, with Clements and Farmer.

  Farmer felt it was his turn to chip in with some supportive words. ‘Really, Geoff, you should be celebrating. You’re back. You’ve won.’

  He offered the PM a winning grin. Clements beamed as well, though his smile was bereft of any warmth. Farmer could see the poor old PM’s problem. He looked like a man who had been pushed into something. Farmer gazed at Clements. How did the man not only seem to thrive on crises but also accumulate ever more power and influence?

  Farmer moved to the door just in time to see Rolt stride in, like a man in a hurry, by which time the PM had adjusted his features to his trademark wide grin. He watched as Rolt, also beaming, marched up to the PM, who shook his hand vigorously. ‘Vernon. Welcome.’

  ‘Prime Minister.’ Rolt almost genuflected.

  ‘Call me Geoff.’

  They clasped hands and the PM laid a hand on Rolt’s shoulder to remind him who was boss. Maybe he had made a pact with the devil. Maybe they would all go down in flames. He recalled Rolt’s predecessor, Sarah Garvey, one person on his team who wouldn’t compromise, wouldn’t shut up, wouldn’t spin her words for anyone. It was she who had warned Farmer that the PM’s capacity for compromise would one day be his undoing.

  Rolt took the chair Clements had just vacated and looked around approvingly, rather like a prospective tenant, Farmer thought, alarmed. ‘What a very lovely room.’

  Farmer noticed the sweat marks gathering on the PM’s slightly flabby chest. Cartoonists had long ago spotted this unattractive tendency and were still drawing him grotesquely caricatured with huge man-boobs in a wet T-shirt competition. He flashed a warning look. The PM got the message and took the precaution of slipping his suit jacket back on. ‘I feel a slight chill,’ he said, with his best grin.

  You and me both, thought Farmer, as he closed the door.

  13

  11.00

  Invicta HQ, St James’s Park

  The operations manager for the building had a hunted look about him. ‘I don’t know how it happened, sir. It was all in order when I left last night.’

  He and Tom were standing in front of a bank of monitors. At six a.m., it seemed, all the building’s security cameras had been manually switched off and the barrier to the underground garage left open.

  ‘I mean what with everything going on, who would do that?’

  ‘Thanks.’ He gave the manager a reassuring smile. ‘I’m sure there’s a perfectly simple explanation.’

  There was: Rolt must have done it himself. He had been alone in the building, when Tom had arrived earlier, expecting a very particular visitor and wanting to make sure there was no record of him.

  Tom went back to his desk and spent half an hour Googling Crimean Tartars, Ordynka swords, Ukrainians called Oleg – there were literally millions – and wealthy resident émigrés from Russia and the former eastern bloc. He even considered calling Helen, the reporter who had been outside when he arrived in case she had seen anyone, but as the visitor had evidently come in via the garage there was no point: the entrance was in the mews at the back of the building. Besides, he didn’t want to tip her off to anything that might turn out to be important. Meanwhile, he’d come across something else that intrigued him. Trawling a website for Crimeans based in London, he was distracted by a picture of a woman, pale and severe but striking, clearly not enjoying having her photograph taken. What also caught his attention was the caption: ‘Xenia Dalton, proprietor of Newsday’.

  A search produced very few entries – surprising, given her position. Her Wikipedia entry was sparse: she was born in Sebastopol, but there was no reference to a maiden name. Dalton was her late husband, whom she had met and married over there shortly before he’d brought her, his much younger bride, to the UK. Maybe Dalton was where she’d got the money to buy a newspaper, but it seemed unlikely: he turned out to have been an English language teacher from Margate, who had died after being mugged near their home.

  He went and found Phoebe, who was pulling on her coat. ‘Seen
her before?’

  She shook her head without really taking in the page.

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure. I’d remember – she’s stunning. Do you want me to do some digging?’ Her tone was less than enthusiastic.

  ‘No, go and get some rest.’

  The office was almost deserted. Rolt had given everyone the day off. There was nothing to be gained from hanging around.

  Tom hunched his shoulders against a fresh flurry of snow as he made his way to Trafalgar Square. It was deserted, except for a few Chinese tourists photographing each other in front of the lions. He took out his phone.

  ‘Ah, Buckingham, good of you to call.’ Woolf sounded disturbingly upbeat.

  ‘What are you so happy about?’

  ‘Oh, you know, another day, another adventure. I’m just sitting on the late Fez Randall’s sofa about to go through his hard drive. Care to join me?’

  ‘Phoebe’s imploding. She can’t take much more of him. It’s doing her head in. She’ll become a liability.’

  The silence at the other end of the line said it all. Tom pressed on: ‘We agreed there would be an exit strategy in place for her if Rolt made home secretary.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Just got to tie up a few ends first.’

  Tom was being fobbed off. He didn’t like it. ‘What the fuck does that mean?’

  ‘Twenty-four hours is a long time in our world, Tom. You let me worry about Phoebe.’

  Over the months that Woolf had been his handler, Tom had developed a grudging respect for him, but he knew it would be naïve ever to let it develop into anything remotely like trust.

  ‘The police want to talk to you about the shooting.’

  ‘Well, tell them to fuck off.’

  ‘They’re getting ready to welcome the new home secretary. It would be a bit remiss of them if they were seen to be ignoring an attempt on his life.’

  ‘When the fuck did you give a shit about protocol? And the last thing he wants is the Met crawling all over it. Make it go away. What’s more important is whether or not Randall acted alone.’

  ‘Indeed. That’s why I’m here, going through his stuff.’

  ‘There’s something else.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Rolt had a visitor this morning.’ Tom described what little he could of the man he had seen, including the flattened cigarette butt and the Tartar sword in its fancy box.

  ‘Intriguing. What does it say to you?’

  ‘He gives Rolt expensive presents but chucks his fag ends on the floor, then demands a goodbye hug. The guy has something on him.’

  ‘I like it.’

  You could always count on Woolf’s enthusiasm for a mystery.

  ‘Look, I’ve got the DG on the other line. Why don’t you join me at Randall’s? I could do with your eyes on this place. Come on, you’re bound to spot something we’ve overlooked.’

  14

  15.30 local time

  North-west Syria

  They had been on the bike for more than two hours. The aching pain from the ride over rutted and cratered roads had been numbed by the cold wind that battered Jamal’s face, and his ungloved hands, wrapped round Hakim’s waist, felt raw.

  For the first part of the run they had kept to the main highways where they had encountered streams of refugees heading the same way, a few in heavily laden minibuses but most on bicycles or foot, who looked enviously at them as they shot past. As they neared the border, Hakim had branched off onto increasingly narrow and more heavily cratered roads that wound up into the hills. Jamal had lost all sense of where he was. He knew they were headed roughly north-east, but Hakim had told him they would have to take a route that avoided patrols and not to be surprised by sudden turns. He smiled a lot as he spoke and his calm self-assurance gave Jamal some comfort, though when he tried to make casual conversation about where he was from, Hakim shook his head. ‘The less you know about me the better.’

  He was right. Jamal understood that if he was caught on the wrong side of the border, he would be questioned about how he had got there.

  When they reached the foothills of the mountains the traffic thinned. As they neared the border Jamal’s spirits lifted, until he reminded himself that even assuming he made it back to Britain, he was likely to face yet more hurdles, even with the video uploaded. He thought about Emma, how grateful he was to her for giving him a chance to redeem himself. He was desperate to know if the footage he’d shot was okay. When he asked Hakim, he just smiled and said, ‘I don’t know anything about that. I just take you to the border.’ He was laughing when he told Jamal where he had to hide the memory card. ‘Wrap it in a condom if you have one. If not, a bit of plastic bag. But not until after the bike.’

  He clutched his buttocks and made a face. But Jamal knew what to do. A few weeks earlier they had captured an elder in a village they had overrun who insisted he had been robbed of all his possessions. Abukhan didn’t believe him, and a full body search revealed a gold bracelet wrapped in cling film stuffed up his rectum. The copy of the film would be his insurance, in case anything had gone wrong with the upload. That and the two telephone numbers in London that Emma had given him.

  Jamal’s thoughts drifted to his family, above all Adila, the only one he had dared communicate with all the time he had been away. He was going to ask Hakim if he would text her when they parted, but something stopped him. A glimmer of worry. He had learned to be less trusting during his time in Syria.

  He was still lost in thought when the bike suddenly slowed. The road ahead had levelled out but two pick-up trucks were parked broadside across the road forming a chicane. One had a grenade launcher on the back. There were several men, all with AKs, their faces masked.

  ‘Say nothing. I will do all the talking.’

  Hakim stopped and dismounted about ten metres from the roadblock. ‘Stay with the bike.’

  Jamal dreaded being recognized. What if they were from one of the militias his had fought with? He watched as Hakim walked confidently up to them, his palms forward. As he did, two men walked past him straight towards Jamal, their weapons trained on him. He had abandoned his weapon in Aleppo. Hakim had told him to. He was so used to it for his security, like the knives he and his brothers used to carry back home, that without it he felt naked. They came up close so the muzzles of their AKs were just a few inches from his chest, their fingers poised on the triggers. He could see the blaze of suspicion in their eyes. He felt his face flush with guilt for his betrayal of Abukhan, and of all his comrades. If they took him prisoner, returned him to his platoon … Better to die now.

  Out of the corner of his eye he could see the other four gathered round Hakim, bent over something he had produced from his jacket. Emma had promised him he would be okay, but what was going on? The men round Hakim lowered their weapons but they continued to glare at Jamal.

  Hakim walked up to the bike, waved at the group he had been speaking to, and they were off again.

  ‘You made that look so easy.’

  Hakim shrugged. ‘Just lucky.’

  ‘How did you do it? Did you bribe them?’

  ‘Documentation.’ His look told Jamal not to enquire any further. ‘Not far now.’

  Ten more minutes and Hakim came to a stop. The road curved sharply round and there was a big drop beyond.

  ‘This is where we part.’

  ‘What do I do from here? Where are we?’

  ‘The rest of the route is on foot. You’re nearly there.’ Hakim pointed at a track that wound along a ridge. ‘Only about five miles to the border.’ He motioned for him to dismount, then reached back, unlocked one of the panniers on the side of the bike and pressed some kind of rough fabric into his hands. ‘Take this. It should help a bit with the cold. You should have come better dressed but what’s a little chill when there’s freedom just over the mountain?’ Hakim grinned.

  Jamal marvelled at his calm. He wrapped the blanket around him. It smelt of petrol. ‘How do I find
my way?’

  It was starting to get dark.

  ‘Your eyes will adjust after a while. There is a track. It goes north-west. You haven’t got the stars tonight so you’ll just have to keep your eyes open for markers. There are wooden posts and some piles of stones. Don’t be surprised if you come across others on the way. This is quite a popular route for those who know.’

  ‘What about militias?’

  ‘You won’t be bothered up here. They don’t control this area. Just make sure you keep moving – that’s the best way of ensuring the cold doesn’t get to you. You have your passport, cash?’

  Jamal nodded. Hakim pointed into the failing light. ‘Stay on the track. It will take you to a dry river bed. Follow it. You will see the frontier, mostly coils of razor wire. This section is seldom patrolled. Keep to the left of the river bed and you will be able to crawl underneath the wire. The first road you come to, go left. After three K there’s a garage with a café next to it. Wait in there. Someone will come for you and take you to the airport.’

  Jamal marvelled at this organization. Emma had come through for him, it seemed.

  Hakim held out his hand. ‘Good luck. You might even be famous after this.’

  It was the only time Hakim had referred to his deed. Jamal took his hand. ‘Thank you for all you’ve done for me. I’m in your debt.’

  Hakim laughed. ‘May God go with you.’

  The bike burst into life with a roar, and he was gone.

  Jamal was alone.

  15

  13.00

  Acton, West London

  Tom parked the Range Rover in a parallel street and walked round to the address Woolf had given him. Randall’s house was at the end of a terrace of mid-nineteenth-century two-up-two-downs. He spotted Woolf’s Mondeo, already entombed in a couple of inches of snow. He had clearly been there a while. Further down the street there was a white Transit, rusty, with a hubcap missing and a big scrape down the side but a noticeably fresh set of cold-weather tyres: transport for an MI5 plumbers’ unit.