by Andy McNab
‘Well, I’m probably going to have a bit of time out, regroup.’
Hugh’s face came alive. ‘Well, that’s wonderful news, terrific. Mum will be delighted too – I can’t wait to tell her. I assume that means you’ll come and spend some time with us in the country.’
‘Could we change the subject now, please?’
Silence descended. It was a full minute before Tom spoke. ‘You still have any dealings with any of your oligarchs?’
‘My oligarchs?’ Hugh bridled. Several years ago he had advised on some very lucrative Russian-backed deals. But one had ended badly and Tom had warned him off doing any more, or thought he had. ‘Why on earth are you asking?’
Tom knew it wasn’t something he would want to be reminded of, but it was just possible that he might know something about Rolt’s shadowy visitor. ‘Bear with me, okay? I’ve got a first name – Oleg. He may be from the Crimea, a Tartar, perhaps. Goes around with a couple of heavies in tow.’
Hugh frowned, then leaned back and let out a snort. ‘Well, that’s not exactly narrowing it down! Have you any idea how many rich former Soviets are rattling around the nation’s capital, let alone how many are probably called Oleg?’
It had been worth a shot. His father’s connections with the City and high finance were second to none.
But Hugh’s face now reddened with anger. ‘And I resent the implication that I’m hobnobbing with gangsters. The people I deal with are all kosher.’
‘Okay, chill, Dad. It was just a question.’
Hugh’s forehead furrowed. ‘Anyway, why do you want to know?’
Tom decided there was no reason to be evasive. ‘Some contact of Rolt’s. Don’t think he wanted anyone to meet him, though.’
Hugh’s face remained blank.
‘It was only a thought. Forget it.’
‘My dear boy. I have to be discreet where clients are concerned. It doesn’t do to go around fishing and it would make me sound ignorant.’
Tom put his hands up in mock surrender. ‘I never mentioned it, okay?’
This wasn’t going well. His father stared at him. ‘Tom, what’s happening to you? You grill me about this man, asking all sorts of questions, but you’re never open with me about what you’re up to. You’ve said nothing about your time with Invicta when it must have been jolly interesting being at the shoulder of Britain’s most talked-about politician. And—Well, I just don’t understand it.’
Tom looked at his father with regret. He would have liked nothing more than to confide in him. It would go a long way to repairing the rift that had opened up between them, and it would be a relief to unburden himself with someone he loved and trusted … He leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘I’m sorry, Dad. You’re totally right. That’s part of what’s made it such a strain these last few months. Rolt’s obsession with secrecy and security when, to tell you the truth, it’s all been pretty bloody boring. Moving into politics has completely consumed him. He’s obsessed with the Muslim threat. He’s won popularity by whipping up fears about Islamist fighters coming back to blow up Britain, and once he gets his hands on some real power I think the rest of the government will have trouble restraining him.’
Hugh’s eyes were sparkling again. A bit of honesty, not to mention intrigue, and they were back on track.
‘So he’s not going to “save us from civil war”?’ Hugh made quotation marks with his fingers.
‘He’s more likely to cause it, if someone doesn’t put the brakes on him. Plus he’s got no empathy with his own men, the ones he’s built his reputation on.’
It was rash, but he felt he owed his father something.
Hugh’s eyebrows rose dramatically. ‘Ah, I see. Well, I admit I’m relieved to hear the sun no longer shines out of his backside, but it does beg the question, why have you chosen to put so much of your energy behind him?’
It pained Tom that his father never missed an opportunity to question his judgement. He gave the older man a hard look.
‘Sorry, sorry, I know, sensitive area. But, really, why not just leave? Jack it in, as you would say.’
Tom told himself not to rise to this and give his father a hard time. As much as he loved him, he had always resented any attempt to influence him. Even if he was able to come clean about what he was really doing inside Invicta, the worry alone would probably kill Hugh – never mind Tom’s mother. Anyway, it wasn’t an option.
‘Okay, Dad, Rolt got me on the rebound from the Regiment. I was impressed with his organization and what it was doing for ex-service blokes. Maybe my head was in a different place then – and, anyway, I didn’t know as much about him as I do now.’
‘Well, perhaps your next decision will be a better one.’
Tom gritted his teeth, willing himself not to react.
‘Speaking of which, I knew I had something to tell you. Your old CO turned up the other day, completely unannounced.’
‘Ashton?’
Hugh nodded. ‘It was a bit awkward, really. But we made a fuss of him. He was actually quite a nice chap.’
Tom’s eyes narrowed. That was strange. The last time he had seen Ashton was at Brize, when he’d told him he was out of the Regiment. Not surprisingly, they hadn’t spoken since. ‘What did he want?’
Hugh shrugged. ‘He didn’t say exactly. Wanted to know how you were getting on out there in the big bad world. Said he’d like to see you some time. Though he didn’t actually come out with it, I think he wants you to get in touch. You know, mend some fences.’
That was a surprise: Ashton had shown very little concern when he’d slung Tom out. ‘You sure that was all?’
‘Why not? He seemed genuine – didn’t strike me as the sort to go in for light banter. Anyway, you’ll be glad to hear I didn’t give anything away. I know from bitter experience that you don’t like me talking about you behind your back.’
Tom glanced at his watch. He’d had his fill of his father, but he didn’t want to leave on another sour note. ‘Look, Dad, it’s been really good to see you.’
‘Indeed it has, my boy. Do come and see your mother. She does miss you so.’
‘I will, I promise.’
‘And I’ll keep my ear to the ground. If I hear of any strange men called Oleg bearing gifts I’ll be sure to let you know.’ He tapped the side of his nose theatrically.
Tom paused, the memory of the Ordynka on its garish purple bed fresh in his mind. ‘I didn’t mention anything about gifts.’
Hugh shook his head in mock despair. ‘It’s a saying – surely you know that. “Foes’ gifts are no gifts: profit bring they none.”’
‘Yeah, yeah. Sophocles.’
‘So you did learn something at school!’ Hugh beamed. But even as they shook hands, Tom detected something in his father’s manner that troubled him.
22
17.00
Millbank, Westminster
The press conference was packed. Rolt’s triumph hadn’t just got the attention of the British press, it was an international story. Reporters and TV news crews from every country with a free press – or otherwise – were crammed into the room and the halls beyond.
Derek Farmer and his deputy press strategist, Pippa Stevens, were late, having abandoned their cab in the freezing, grid-locked streets and struggled the rest of the way on foot. Walking was his least favourite mode of transport. His cab account, appetite for beer and lunch on expenses – always ‘in the interests of putting the Party in a good light’ or for a magazine ‘gagging to do a flattering profile’ of some MP or other – had taken their toll. If he had to hurry, his gut wobbled pendulously and his carb-inflated thighs chafed together. Pippa had no such problem, her long, slim legs hardened by years of hockey on the playing fields of Roedean. With fifteen years fewer on the clock than Farmer, and a genuine enthusiasm for the gym, she had a seemingly inexhaustible supply of stamina and looked young enough to be his daughter. Despite the freezing wind, by the time they arrived he was mopping the sweat off h
is face with the tissue she had handed him with ill-disguised revulsion.
They squeezed into the back behind a phalanx of cameras. Dick Allard from the Telegraph, a seasoned hack who’d seen eight home secretaries come and go, swivelled towards them as if his top half operated independently of the rest. ‘Shouldn’t you be up there, keeping him on a tight leash? Or any leash …’
Farmer gave him a bland, confident smile, hoping he looked as if he was in control and not like a child who’d been asked to walk a snarling bull terrier and accidentally let it loose in the playground. Allard’s infallible radar would almost certainly have detected that Rolt was uncontrollable, but Farmer did his best. ‘We’ve decided to let him have his head while he finds his feet.’
The journo gave him a withering look – Is that the best you can come up with? Still breathing heavily from the walk, Farmer knew that his excuse was crap but he was too knackered to think of anything better.
Beside him, Pippa glowed as if she’d just come from a spa. ‘Yes, that’s right, Dick. Not everyone constantly needs their hand holding. He’s the Real Thing, not some manufactured PR product.’ She smiled at Farmer.
Allard ignored her. He looked like a dog with a fresh bone. ‘You’re not going to get this genie back in the bottle – you do know that, don’t you, Derek?’ He looked at Farmer gleefully.
Farmer swallowed uncomfortably. The PM had wanted him to move over to Rolt’s office and keep a close eye, but he wasn’t about to give up his cushy place at Number Ten, not after all the work he’d put in to keep the bloody man in power. In any case, although he knew Rolt had saved their bacon, he had a nagging feeling that he was not only toxic but would soon have become a liability. He’d been in the game too long to fall for these populist ‘Trust me, I’m not a politician’ types, who always had to be paid off – or sacked, when they inevitably revealed their true nature. So he had offered the post to Pippa, sugaring the proposition with a juicy uplift in pay, but she’d reminded him wearily that she was going on maternity leave in a couple of months. That explained the tummy he’d been so careful not to mention. Bloody women – should have their eggs frozen before they came into these jobs, he thought. Or, better still, go back to the good old days when they could quite legally be let go. But his thoughts on that, like more and more of his thoughts these days, were best kept to himself. That was the difference between him and the likes of Rolt. He knew when to button it. And thus he would outlast them all.
So here they were, hurtling towards a live press conference, the country’s most controversial new politician on stage, unspun. Allard was sickeningly right. They had not only had no control over him but, given his popularity, they might never get him to sing from the same hymn sheet. Hell, he wasn’t even in the same church.
Rolt strode into the room to loud applause, waving and pointing at people in the crowd, like an American.
‘Who the fuck does he think he is? Bill Clinton?’ Farmer whispered.
‘And who are they?’ Pippa whispered back, nodding at a pair of heavy-set men with shaved heads who seemed to be with him.
Farmer peered at them. ‘Probably some muscle from Invicta.’
Not far behind, the precocious intern, Henry Mead, was looking very pleased with himself. Farmer nudged Pippa. ‘He’s thrilled, the poncy little prick.’
There was a ripple of applause, which Rolt silenced with a sweep of his hand. Now he seemed to think he was the Pope. Farmer was also dismayed at the way the man seemed never to show the tiniest trace of fatigue. What the hell was he on? He hopped onto the podium. He had no notes with him and there was no autocue.
Rolt waited for the crowd to fall silent. Then he began, his voice low. ‘First of all I want to thank the British public for giving me this opportunity to serve them.’ He turned and looked straight at the cameras. ‘From the bottom of my heart, I thank you. I will not let you down.’
‘Fucking hell,’ said Farmer, under his breath. ‘It’s like he thinks the entire bloody nation voted him in.’
‘They might as well have done. He knows we wouldn’t be back in if it wasn’t for him.’
‘And he’s not going to let us forget it.’ Farmer shifted his considerable weight onto his other foot; his shoes hurt and he was desperate to sit down.
‘“The world is a dangerous place to live in, not because of the people who are evil but because of the people who don’t do anything about it.” Albert Einstein said that, a Jewish refugee from Nazi Germany.’
Farmer leaned closer, brushing her ear with his mouth and causing her to back away a little. ‘In case he’s about to be accused of being a Nazi, that’s what that’s for,’ he whispered. But her attention was fixed on Rolt, along with the rest of the crowd’s.
‘There have been attempts to explain away the strife that has torn our country apart as the work of just a few extremists. Excuses have been made in the name of multiculturalism, calls for tolerance of different values, for broader minds. And where has it got us? That tolerance has merely allowed the open preaching of hatred. Words that are in direct conflict with democracy. Tolerance has not worked. And it stops here. Intolerance must be met with intolerance.’
His voice had risen several decibels, as if he was addressing a gang of tattooed men in the back room of a pub in Essex, not the world’s press.
‘They won’t like being preached at,’ whispered Farmer.
‘He doesn’t care about the press. He’s talking straight to the people at home.’
Farmer knew that, as was so often the case, she was right.
Rolt gripped the lectern, then moved dramatically to the side, as if symbolically rejecting the old texts. ‘To those who don’t like this country’s values I say, “Take your leave.” To those who have gone abroad to fight for extremist causes, I say, “Don’t bother to come back. You have forfeited your right to citizenship.” I’m here in front of you today to make a pledge that very soon this land will be rid of all those who are not patriots, who do not love this country with their hearts and souls. Be under no illusion, whoever negates their allegiance to this country with some faith or connection to evil values like these, not only are they not welcome, they will forfeit their right to British citizenship.’
He paused for a few seconds, nodding to the crowd.
‘Yes, it is that simple. And our country will once more be safe from terror. In the coming days and weeks I shall be devoting my time as your home secretary to piloting the legislation through Parliament that will end, once and for all, the right of individuals to live here, to enjoy Great Britain’s freedoms – not to mention its generous welfare provision – who do not support its values one hundred per cent.’
He turned to the cameras again.
‘And for any of you who are not willing to give your loyalty to this great nation of ours, and embrace its democratic values, I’ve got one simple message. Start packing.’
That was tomorrow’s headlines sorted, thought Farmer, as a mixture of awe and fear spread through him, prompting more sweat. The atmosphere in the room was electric. Every word was great copy and would be quoted verbatim, a veritable banquet of sound bites. How the fuck was the PM going to control the man?
He had to hand it to Rolt: he knew how to connect with an audience, right over the heads of a hall full of cynical hacks. But he wasn’t speaking like the new member of the government he now was. Allard was right. The genie was well and truly out. Be careful what you wish for, he thought as he leaned towards Pippa. ‘The PM’s going to love this – not.’
Pippa raised her neatly tweezered eyebrows. ‘Well, he’s made this particular bed, hasn’t he? He’ll have to lie in it.’
Farmer guffawed. ‘Yeah, with Rolt’s dick up his arse.’
She cringed.
Something about her head-girlish manner made him talk dirty – he couldn’t help it.
They watched as Rolt started to leave the stage, apparently not intending to take questions. But all the scribblers and TV reporters leaped
to their feet, shouting and jostling with camera operators and photographers. Farmer felt a wave of relief as he saw that Rolt was not going to attempt to answer them, but then Allard got onto his chair and yelled above the cacophony: ‘Home Secretary, can you tell us what else happened in the early hours of this morning, after your victory?’
Somehow this question – completely out of the blue as far as Farmer was aware – penetrated the wall of sound and stopped Rolt dead in his tracks. The room fell silent. He looked straight at Allard, his mouth half open, as if lost for words.
‘What the fuck’s he on about?’ growled Farmer.
Rolt closed his mouth, then smiled. ‘What happened last night? I’ll tell you.’ His voice was almost a whisper. He stepped back into the centre of the stage. ‘An attempt on my life was what happened, the first shot in a war that I intend to win. Because, make no mistake, we are at war.’
He stood for a few more seconds as the cameras flashed, then stepped down.
The room erupted in a roar.
Farmer pressed his phone to his ear. The PM needed to know about this – if he hadn’t already seen it broadcast live and passed out from the shock.
Pippa was giving him a thunderous look. ‘What attempt on his life? What’s he talking about?’
Allard looked round at them and grinned broadly as the heavies who had accompanied Rolt cleared the way for him to quit the room. The swarm of media followed, waving microphones and mini-recorders while some of the TV reporters set up hurriedly to deliver breathless pieces to camera as their colleagues pushed past.
Farmer felt his face heating, his pulse racing. Right now a heart attack would be a mercy. His usual sangfroid had deserted him. He grabbed Allard by the shoulder. ‘Where did you get that?’
Allard smirked. ‘Just doing my job, Derek.’
Farmer was struggling. He couldn’t remember a time when he’d felt less in control.
