State Of Emergency: (Tom Buckingham Thriller 3)

by Andy McNab

  He pressed the bell on number forty-nine. A voice from inside asked him to identify himself.

  ‘Buckingham.’

  The door was opened by a man in a white disposable coverall. ‘Go on up. Sherlock’s in the bedroom sniffing the sheets.’ He ushered Tom in and shut the door behind him.

  ‘Want me to suit up?’

  ‘Nah, we’re pretty much done here. It’s clean.’

  After the chill outside, the house felt stiflingly hot. It smelt of stale sweat and fried food. Tom glanced into the kitchen-diner. A single reclining chair was positioned in front of a large old cathode-ray TV, plugged into a VHS recorder. Randall wasn’t exactly your up-to-the-minute internet-enabled assassin. The remains of his last meal were on a tray on the floor. Tom bent down, picked up a tumbler and sniffed. Sour milk.

  Two more plumbers, packing up their kit, nodded at him.

  ‘Any signs of booze?’

  They shook their heads. ‘Not so much as a sherry trifle.’

  He mounted the stairs and pushed open the nearest door on the landing. Woolf was sitting on the unmade single bed, staring into space.

  ‘Found anything?’

  Woolf’s face was ashen. ‘Mandler’s gone. He’s been kicked upstairs.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  Woolf slowly shook his head. ‘SIC. Security and intelligence co-ordinator, based in the Cabinet Office. Right where Clements can keep an eye on him.’

  Despite the heavy bags under his eyes from years of sleeping in cars and at desks, there was still something vulnerably boyish about Woolf. Right now he looked as if he’d just been told he had to resit his Latin exam. Tom sat beside him on the bed and stared at the same blank wall. Their operation had always been off-book, Mandler’s pet project. What Mandler’s move meant for Woolf was written all over his face. ‘He was your mentor.’

  Woolf nodded slowly. ‘More than that. I’d have been out on my ear long ago if it wasn’t for him …’ He trailed off as he sank into his own thoughts.

  The machinations of Whitehall didn’t interest Tom much. He knew about Clements and his part in Rolt’s elevation to the corridors of power, but beyond that the ferrets-fighting-in-a-sack element didn’t seem to change, no matter who was in power. He tried to think of something useful to say.

  ‘I suppose it’s a sign of how things are going to be. You know Rolt – he doesn’t like to hang around.’

  ‘No, this is all Clements, cleaning the stables in preparation. He always had it in for Mandler, and with Garvey gone he was a sitting duck.’

  ‘If Clements wanted rid of Mandler, why didn’t he just give him the boot?’

  Woolf smiled grimly. ‘It’s not his style. He likes to keep his enemies close. Mandler loose on the streets, bitter and twisted, is a lot more dangerous than Mandler parked somewhere he can keep a close eye on him.’

  ‘And his friends?’

  ‘Clements doesn’t do friends.’

  This snapshot of Whitehall intrigue served one purpose for Tom: it was a reminder of how much more carefully he would have to watch his own back. But for now he erased all thoughts of Clements and looked round the sparse surroundings. No pictures, no trophies, just a pile of dirty washing tossed in a corner; a solitary ex-soldier’s billet, with no one else’s standards to live up to.

  ‘Did Randall have anyone in his life? Any family?’

  ‘They’d all cut him off. There’s a woman in Thailand he was chatting to online. She thought he was going to marry her, but he pulled the plug about three months ago. And there’s a stash of letters from another old girlfriend downstairs – unopened.’

  He passed Tom a handwritten note in an evidence bag. ‘It’s to his son. They’ve not spoken for eight years.’

  Craig,

  Be a good lad and watch out for your mum. She’s a fine woman, whatever she says about me. See you on the other side, maybe, one day.

  Dad

  Tom gazed at it. So, he hadn’t expected to come out of the hotel alive. ‘What else? What about his mates?’

  ‘Zip. He took himself offline about three months ago. Had everything scrubbed.’ Woolf smiled. ‘Normally people can’t stand it after a few weeks and go back online in another guise, but he junked everything, even his phone. There’s not even a landline in here. No cards. He’s been drawing cash from his local bank branch. All the trademarks of a lone operator, I’d say. You agree?’

  This wasn’t like Woolf. He was usually obsessive about detail, the more obscure the better, the last to jump to conclusions. Tom sensed he was already detaching himself.

  Woolf got up and rubbed his neck. ‘Sorry I dragged you down here – bit of a fool’s errand.’

  Tom didn’t respond. He looked out of the window. The snow had stopped. A youth was kicking half-heartedly at the side of a bus shelter. A post van was inching its way down the street, its driver, unused to ice, letting the wheels spin so it fishtailed on the freezing snow, hunting for traction.

  ‘Randall was one of the Freikorps,’ Tom said.

  ‘The who?’

  ‘My nickname for the original recruits to Invicta, when it wasn’t much more than a shelter for homeless ex-squaddies who’d been spat out by the army, in debt and trying to get off the booze.’

  Woolf frowned. ‘Why that name?’

  ‘German First World War ex-servicemen, enraged by the Armistice. They’d given their all in the trenches, only to be sold out by the lot that came in after the Kaiser. Or that was how they saw it. They banded together into paramilitary groups called Freikorps.’

  ‘Embittered nationalists experienced with weapons. And was Hitler one of them?’

  ‘He shared their belief that the German Army had not been truly defeated in the field, and that the politicians had sold them down the river.’

  Woolf raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re full of surprises, Buckingham. I didn’t have you down as a historian.’

  ‘Some things stick in the mind. At the start, people like Randall were the bedrock of Invicta, lost souls with nothing left to live for and in need of rehab. As the organization took off it started to attract a wider constituency, officers, men with more of an eye for the sort of advancement that Rolt seemed to offer. The Freikorps were a bit marginalized.’

  Woolf was evidently unconvinced. ‘How can you be so sure it’s a matter of “they”? This is just speculation.’

  Tom turned to face him. ‘Guys like Randall view themselves as outcasts. Ironically, it’s the sense of alienation that binds them together. We need to take a closer look at the others. Find out if it is just speculation.’

  Woolf met his gaze, his earnest face on. ‘Or give them a wide berth. If word gets out that you stopped Randall, if anyone was in it with him, it’ll give them a pretty good reason to come after you. Maybe you should tell your friend the new home secretary to have the Met organize you some security.’

  Tom gave Woolf a stony look. He couldn’t think of anything more ridiculous than being watched over by cops. Besides, Woolf despised the Met. Was this a sign that he was cutting him loose?

  ‘You could take a holiday – get right away. Restart your life,’ Woolf added, with a bland smile.

  Tom could almost hear the cogs engaging in his brain. Without Mandler’s protection, he would have to press the reset button on his career. And snooping on the new home secretary wouldn’t look too good on his CV. Had Tom become a liability to him?

  Woolf yawned, displaying a fine set of slightly yellowed teeth. Clearly, in his mind, he was already moving on. Case closed.

  ‘Have you talked to Phoebe?’

  Woolf finished his yawn. ‘She’s staying in place.’

  Tom’s eyes widened. ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘Nope, we just talked. I’m leaving her there in case we need her later.’

  ‘She agreed?’

  ‘Fact is, she doesn’t get a vote. She’s always been graded UNK, a contractor who doesn’t show up on the books. Whoever comes in Mandler’s place won
’t even know she exists.’ The gleam of mischief had returned to his eyes. The idea of a spy in their boss’s camp still amused him. ‘Anyway, she’s fine about it.’

  ‘For a spook you’re a fucking terrible liar. What do you make of Rolt’s mystery visitor?’

  Woolf shrugged. ‘Perhaps he was just what Rolt said, an old business buddy.’

  It was striking how quickly his curiosity had waned.

  One of the plumbers appeared in the doorway. ‘We’re all done.’

  ‘Thanks, Joe.’ Woolf looked relieved to be interrupted. He got up, ready to take his leave.

  Tom stopped him. ‘What about Randall’s movements? Did he have any transport?’

  Joe the plumber glanced at Woolf, who gave him a nod.

  ‘Nothing we can find that’s actually registered to him. There’s a burned-out Skoda in a disused warehouse a few miles away. The local cops assumed it was joy-riders. It belonged to an old lady in this street who died a couple of months ago. Randall used to do odd jobs for her. We’ve run a plate check and all it’s come up with is a sighting somewhere near Carlisle two days ago.’

  ‘Where near Carlisle?’

  ‘Deep in the wilds of Cumbria,’ said Woolf. ‘But the numberplate recognition software’s crap – full of errors and duplicates. I wouldn’t get too excited about it.’

  16

  16.30 local time

  Turkish-Syrian border

  Hakim was right. His eyes would adjust. Jamal had only gone a few hundred metres when he saw the group coming up the track. His first thought was to hide, but where? The mountainside was barren. He could flatten himself on the ground and hope they didn’t notice him. He pulled Hakim’s blanket closer round him. His hands felt as if they were on fire now, and starting to swell.

  There was nothing to do but stay in plain sight. Not to react, but behave as if this was his hillside more than theirs. The group stopped when they saw him. Young men his age, with small packs on their backs and ski jackets, staring at him, mouths open. He must have looked strange to them wrapped in the blanket. He envied them their padded coats. Everything about them said new arrivals – even from this distance he could smell their deodorant. He was propelled back to his first days in Syria: how he was made to give up everything he had brought with him until there was nothing left of where he had come from; how he had blocked out all doubt, smothering it with zeal. There was a terrifying innocence about them, just as he must once have shown.

  One turned to the others. ‘What do we do?’

  They were speaking English.

  ‘Dunno. Keep going?’

  They started to move towards him. One waved.

  ‘Al salaam’ aleikum. We’re friends. Come to help.’

  The others sniggered at their comrade’s attempt at a greeting. Jamal stared at their trainers – they had luminous streaks. One wore earbuds.

  ‘Wa alaykom el salam,’ Jamal replied.

  ‘Fuckin’ ’eck,’ said the one who had uttered the greeting. ‘How about that, then?’

  They had distinct northern accents.

  ‘Don’t swear,’ someone hissed.

  ‘Have you come from the border?’

  ‘Wow, you English, then?’

  ‘Dutch.’ Jamal wasn’t taking any risks so close to freedom. ‘How far is the frontier?’

  ‘About a mile. You goin’ home?’

  Jamal nodded.

  Another piped up: ‘So you been fighting, then? How is it?’

  How is it? How could he begin to answer that? They reminded him of how he was just five months ago, ready to sacrifice everything, convinced that the only true way was jihad. He wanted to tell them to turn round now, that everything they had heard from preachers or read or watched online was bollocks. That this wasn’t about religion or freedom fighting. It was all about tribal violence, corruption and extreme brutality against women. They were staring at him, waiting for an answer.

  Jamal shrugged. ‘It’s hard.’

  ‘It’s hard back home. We’re not welcome no more.’

  One of the others chipped in: ‘Yeah, right, bro. The shit happening to us in Britain, this is gonna be home for us now.’

  They all nodded, as if that helped them believe in the decision they had made.

  One more mile.

  ‘Ma al salamah,’ said one. Peace be with you. Some hope. Jamal walked on.

  17

  14.00

  Home Secretary’s Office, Westminster

  Henry stepped into the room. The PA had cleared the last bits and pieces from the previous occupant’s tenure. He noted that the glasses and the decanter had been removed. That was good. The new man was teetotal. All that was left of Sarah Garvey was her scent, which clung to the air. It would soon fade.

  He smiled. Good riddance. He was glad she was gone. It amazed him that she had lasted so long. She seemed to pride herself on being a rebel, winding people up, making enemies of other cabinet members and the police. The Met commissioner loathed her, would go to any lengths not to be in the same room as her. No wonder the country was in such a state. And the way she spoke to the prime minister! He opened each drawer of her desk. Nothing incriminating, no secret documents, just unused stationery. He straightened a few items, closed the drawers and put the chair in its rightful place at the desk. Only then did he notice the small envelope that had slipped into the gap between the cushion and the arm. He was about to drop it into the shredder by the desk, when he paused. It was the letter he had brought in that morning, from the girl who was her constituent, the one with the brother trying to get back from Syria. He weighed it in his hand, opened it again, reread the contents and put it back into its envelope.

  Then he slipped it into his pocket and left the room.

  18

  14.30

  Invicta Campus, Basingstoke

  A fresh fall of snow and thick grey cloud glowering overhead gave the Invicta campus more than a hint of Siberian gulag. A heavier-than-usual security presence at the gate made the atmosphere all the more oppressive. Tom waited in the Range Rover while two guards in the booth examined his pass. It was designed for only one occupant, so the other had to come out while they handed the document back and forth.

  Do I look like a suicide bomber? Tom wondered, but then he reminded himself of Randall’s own suicidal mission.

  ‘Can’t be too careful these days, sir. Extra checking ’cos of all the trouble.’ The guard gave back his pass and signalled to the men on the gate to open up.

  Tom nodded at him. ‘Yep, you never know what’s coming round the corner.’

  Inside the gate, the drives and paths had all been cleared of snow and the sense of order that had impressed Tom on his first visit still prevailed. Apparently Rolt had ploughed the best part of the fortune he had made from his software businesses into creating this place out of an old army base, a haven for ex-service people to get cleaned up and prepare to re-enter civilian life. But a large number had grown to like life on the campus so much that they had managed to prolong their stay, like perpetual students. Perhaps some had even relapsed on purpose to avoid facing the outside world. Rolt hadn’t objected: he had told Tom he liked the idea of his men being housed together in one place, enjoying the support of each other’s camaraderie, even though it had stretched resources and put pressure on his seemingly limitless funds.

  Tom left his car by the admin block and went into Reception. There was no one at the desk so he walked down the corridor towards the senior management offices.

  The warden’s office was empty, as were those of the field directors. He reached the last room and peered through the glass. Carter, the bursar, was at his desk, hunched over a screen. Tom knocked.

  ‘Fuck off, I’m busy.’ Carter, a paraplegic Basra veteran, was famously miserable.

  He didn’t look up as Tom stepped into the room. ‘Sorry to disturb you.’

  ‘Well, don’t then.’ Carter glared at him briefly then returned to the screen.

  Tom kne
w it wasn’t personal. And in a world of false courtesy and meaningless ‘Have a nice day’ platitudes, the brusqueness came as a relief. And there were no favourites where Carter was concerned: he treated everyone with the same contempt. He was good at the job and his memory for fine detail was legendary. When Tom had sat in on board meetings in Rolt’s absence, he had watched with amusement as Carter tore into everyone round the table over various financial misdemeanours, all of which he seemed to recite without notes and with terrifying, surgical accuracy. You might have survived the insurgents, his tone seemed to say, but woe betide you if you can’t produce a receipt for that new pen.

  Tom gestured at an empty desk. ‘Could I log on to one of these? Need to look something up.’

  ‘You can try. Only the whole fucking mainframe’s down.’

  A wasted journey. He’d wanted to give Randall’s personal file a really good going-over.

  ‘Where is everybody?’

  ‘Hanson’s taken them all off to Dartmoor.’

  Hanson was the chief warden, a former Marine and one of the few Ruperts to have joined Invicta.

  ‘What’s that in aid of?’

  Carter rolled his eyes. ‘He’s been giving them all hell about keeping in shape.’

  ‘What – all of them?’

  ‘Just the leadership and some of the long-termers.’

  ‘First I heard of it.’

  Carter’s withering gaze settled on him. ‘There’s a lot you people don’t hear about in the London office.’

  Tom parked himself on the corner of an adjacent desk. He knew better than to ask for a chair. ‘Did Rolt sanction it?’

  ‘Fucked if I know. His lordship gave the warden carte blanche on spending when this election business blew up.’

  He referred to it as if it were an unwelcome irritation in Rolt’s schedule, rather than an unprecedented turning point in the fortunes of the nation.