State Of Emergency: (Tom Buckingham Thriller 3)

by Andy McNab

  ‘When we first got to him back in the mid-eighties, he was still playing the long game, despite having inherited his papa’s fervent anti-Communism, and just biding his time. But he had never forgotten what the Soviets did to Emil, and was bent on revenge. So we popped him on the payroll and he fed us some scraps of intelligence. Come glasnost, perestroika and so forth, he did as every good servant of the centralized Soviet state with any brains was bound to do and metamorphosed overnight into a rampant capitalist, ruthlessly reaping the rewards of sudden privatization and becoming obscenely rich in an obscenely short space of time.’

  Since Mandler was in full flow, Tom opted to stay quiet.

  ‘As I said, we’d had him on a retainer of sorts since the eighties, naïvely thinking that when the time came he would do our bidding. But my predecessors hugely underestimated him. Oleg had his own fish to fry. What they didn’t fully appreciate was that he wasn’t just anti-Soviet, he was anti-Russian, anti-Kremlin, never mind who was in power, bent on revenge for their historic and unrelenting persecution of the Crimean Tartars. All this just when we were extending the hand of friendship to our former Cold War foes.’

  Tom braked hard as a Porsche Cayenne with two uniformed children in the back pulled out of a drive with no warning.

  ‘You may as well slow down. This could take some time.’

  ‘As you wish, sir.’

  ‘So where was I?’

  ‘Making up with Cold War foes.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Not only was he incredibly effective at outsmarting his rivals, whenever the crunch came he had no scruples about liquidating both competitors and even collaborators whom he decided were getting too close to him. While he was still on our payroll, even though by now his income probably exceeded the entire Security Service budget, he had quietly become the covert banker of choice for any up-and-coming anti-Kremlin separatists. South Ossetians, Chechens, Uzbeks, he backed them all, helped them with not only finance but introductions to arms dealers. Although he was very discreet about it, very good at covering his tracks, our association with him was a ticking bomb, as far as SIS was concerned, and at one point we considered liquidating him. But then around the back end of ’ninety-five our interests – that is, HMG’s and his – coincided over the need to quash some opposition to a pipeline we and he had an interest in crossing a certain region in the Russian Federation. Through some of his clients, he, ah – “helped”, shall we say? – remove that resistance.’

  ‘What sort of resistance?’ In the mirror Tom saw Mandler’s Adam’s apple bob as he pressed a thumb and forefinger over his eyes. ‘Is there a problem, sir?’

  ‘Put it this way. As black ops go, they don’t come much darker.’ He let out a heavy sigh. ‘Farmers, families, rural folk, blameless individuals whose misfortune it was to live in the path of this wretched pipeline, all wiped out. Torched to death, some of them, in their own church. And, to top it all, the fucking pipe never got built.’

  Tom saw Mandler glance at him warily. He knew why. Some of what he was saying had an eerie familiarity. Only a couple of years ago, when he was still in the SAS, Tom had been at the sharp end of foiling an attack on the Channel Tunnel by a terrorist cell from the former Georgian enclave of South Ossetia. The incident, which had cost the life of one of his best friends in the Regiment, had left a very bad taste – and several unanswered questions. And his commanding officer on that mission had been Ashton.

  ‘I’m sorry if this is bringing up some less than pleasant memories for you.’

  ‘Just keep going with Umarov for now,’ said Tom, tersely.

  Mandler gave him a regretful look and continued: ‘We were bloody lucky our involvement never came to light, but I always worried that it meant Umarov had something he could blackmail us with, if he ever chose to, knowing he liked to play the long game. Anyway, his tendency to go his own way and be a loner started to catch up with him. Friends weren’t something he was good at making or keeping. Enemies were a different matter. By 2008–9 he was getting to be too much of a thorn in the Kremlin’s side, a bit too big for his Tartar boots, so they arranged to have his assets seized. But our Oleg’s style is all about staying a good few steps ahead of the pack. He’d seen this coming and already had most of his fortune stashed safely in Switzerland. When they came to arrest him they found that he had already bolted.’

  ‘And you gave him a safe haven?’

  ‘Actually, no. We would have been quite happy if Moscow had banged him up. We’d finished with him and the last thing we needed was any blowback. A long, perhaps indefinite, stretch at Mr Putin’s pleasure would have been our preference.’

  They had reached the M40, and its usual crawling mass of vehicles heading towards the capital. Tom accelerated down the slip road and wove across the traffic to take residence in the fast lane. ‘So what happened?’

  Mandler rubbed a hand over his eyes. ‘He just went off our radar – not that we had any particular reason to keep an eye on him. The activities and whereabouts of a well-heeled, exiled oligarch weren’t exactly top priority, though I must admit it always bothered me that he could blackmail us over the pipeline business, if he chose to. Anyway, it transpires he showed up in London only a few months ago. Just slipped in on the Eurostar bearing a Swiss passport that presumably his bankers had helped swing. What with all the current excitements, we didn’t get wind of him until – well, the other day.’

  ‘So was it him Randall drove Rolt to meet in Geneva?’

  Mandler shrugged. ‘Who knows? It’s a possibility, that’s all.’

  ‘And you’re saying this is the first you knew that he was here in the UK?’

  ‘After you went to bed I made a few calls. It seems Umarov’s been very quietly but rather rapidly acquiring a sizeable property portfolio across the capital.’

  ‘How sizeable?’

  ‘Very. He trades under a number of different and highly forgettable names. International Assets, AB Properties. United Investments.’

  ‘And Xenia Dalton, how does she fit in with this?’

  Mandler raised his hands and let them fall back onto his thighs. ‘Ah, beautiful, tragic Xenia. Her father was Oleg’s business partner before he was killed.’

  ‘Killed how?’

  ‘He was murdered, not unusual for Russian businessmen – or Crimean ones. It’s not known by whom. Afterwards, Umarov took up with her mother – not a union Xenia supported. In fact, it was one of the reasons she left and came here. Knowing she was trying to escape Umarov’s clutches, we fast-tracked her citizenship.’

  ‘And the money she’s ploughed into Newsday?’

  ‘A legacy from her father.’

  ‘And her relationship with Umarov now?’

  ‘Put it this way, he almost certainly had her father killed. She built that fortress to avoid the same fate, only he’s suddenly turned up here, and laid claim to her legacy. And it seems he’s moved into the floor below.’

  Tom’s awkward conversation with Xenia now started to make more sense. ‘So what’s the deal with Rolt?’

  ‘Well, you and Phoebe are the ones watching him …’

  There was a flavour of indignation in Mandler’s comment, which Tom ignored. ‘And there’s nothing you’re keeping back from me?’ Tom eyed him in the mirror. He looked pinched and careworn.

  ‘No, you’ve got the sum total of it. What you know is what I know.’

  Tom processed what he had heard. When Randall drove Rolt to Geneva something happened there that turned him off Rolt big-time, enough to want to finish him. Evans said he’d heard him begging. If it was Umarov in the car, what exactly was Rolt begging for? Mandler was staring into the murky distance, the traffic slowing as they reached London’s western fringe. ‘Let’s come at it the other way. Ashton.’

  Mandler said nothing.

  ‘The Georgia mission, the one backed by Umarov, he was part of it, yes?’

  Mandler nodded slowly.

  ‘But you really have no idea what he’s up to,’ presse
d Tom, ‘what he was doing in the Lakes?’

  He wasn’t altogether surprised by Mandler’s reply. ‘Frankly, Buckingham, if anyone’s going to crack that one, it’s you.’

  46

  10.30

  Croydon, Surrey

  ‘Ma’am, I’ve got to say I don’t think this is a good idea.’

  Garvey and Adila sat motionless in the back of the Vectra, peering out through the misting windows at the mayhem in the street. The SO1 driver twisted in his seat to make eye contact with the former home secretary.

  ‘I’m going to recommend we abort.’

  He had to shout to make himself heard above the din outside. Garvey eyeballed him back. ‘We’re going to Adila’s house and that’s it. I want to talk to her family. If you don’t want to drive us, we’ll walk it. I’m not the home secretary any more, I’m just their MP. I get a bang on the head, the nation’s not going to go into mourning.’

  The driver eased the car forward. A glass bottle smashed against the windscreen, the stench of its contents seeping in through the air intake.

  Garvey glared at the scene. On one side of the road a group of white thugs in bomber jackets was penned behind barriers with a battery of heavily armed police in riot gear, while on the other there was an equally angry mob of men with beards. A cop in full riot gear tapped on the driver’s half-misted window.

  ‘You lot can hoppit. Read my lips. No more media.’

  The driver motioned with his thumb at his passengers. ‘She’s their MP, mate.’

  Garvey flung her door open. ‘I’ve had enough of this pussyfooting around.’

  ‘Ma’am, this street’s a no-go area. We can’t be responsible—’

  ‘No-go area? Since when? You’re the police. Nowhere should be a no-go area for you.’

  Garvey helped Adila out of the car. The cop was blocking her way. ‘Look, ma’am, I don’t think you quite understand.’

  ‘Oh, I think I do. Now, are you going to escort us to this young lady’s house or are we going in alone? Your choice. We’re going either way.’

  ‘I’ll have to call this in.’

  ‘You do that. Come on, Adila.’ Garvey took her arm and together they walked up the middle of the street.

  ‘Kill the cunt! Cut her head off!’ shouted one of the protesters.

  Garvey paused and turned to him. ‘To which particular “cunt” are you referring? You want to kill me? Just you try.’ She came up very close. He looked a bit less full of himself now, and his mates started laughing. A smoke bomb landed a few metres away.

  Adila and Garvey kept walking. As they reached the front door of the house it opened and a couple came out, a man with a camera bag and tripod followed by a woman in heavy makeup, zipping up a laptop case. Four private security men in stab vests and hard hats encircled them as they went towards a people-carrier with blacked-out windows.

  The woman reporter stopped when she saw them. Her face lit up. ‘Adila, there you are! We nearly missed you.’ She gestured furiously to the cameraman to set up. Garvey stepped between them. The reporter shook her head. ‘You’re too late, love. We’ve got the family exclusive. It’s all in the can.’

  Garvey went up very close to the reporter, causing her to take a step back. ‘I am Sarah Garvey, this family’s elected Member of Parliament. This is a live case with significant security implications. You’re exploiting these people and I guarantee that your editor will receive an injunction within the hour.’

  The journalist put her head on one side and gave Garvey a pitying look, her eyes gleaming with barely concealed pleasure. ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, Ms Garvey, but I think you’ll find that the new home secretary’s office actually called Mr Masri and told him to give us the interview.’ The woman turned to Adila and switched her smile back on. ‘So, Adila, a word on your brother. As a smart young student, I’m sure you’ll be joining your parents in condemning Jamal’s crime?’

  Garvey felt her fists clenching. She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. She could feel the blood pulsing in her temples. The temptation to flatten the smug bitch was almost overwhelming. Instead she took Adila by the arm, swung round and pushed past the cameraman who was still struggling with his tripod.

  Adila pressed the bell. Nothing happened. After a few seconds, she pressed again. Then a third time. After the fourth try, the door opened. A man with a chinstrap beard, dressed in a long jubbah, stood there, his face like thunder. He glared at his daughter as she came to a halt. ‘You traitor.’

  ‘Father, this is—’

  He slammed the door in her face.

  Garvey went up to the door and lifted the flap of the letterbox. ‘Mr Masri, this is your MP, Sarah Garvey. I’m here to tell you that your son is innocent until proven guilty and that I have it on very good authority that the video that was posted online has been faked. Please open the door so we can talk.’

  ‘Jamal is no longer my son. He has brought shame on our family and destroyed our life. We have no future here.’

  The crowd of white men had started chanting, ‘Out, out, out!’

  The SO1 driver had gathered a posse of heavily armoured local police, who encircled them. ‘I’m going to have to get you out of here, ma’am. This is gonna get a lot worse in a bit.’

  Adila pointed at the end of the street, where very slowly a large white vehicle was coming into view. ‘What’s that?’

  Garvey knew very well what it was. One of the German-made Ziegler Wasserwerfer truck-mounted water cannon she had been persuaded to order by a delegation of chief constables. ‘Unless your father has a very quick change of heart, which I don’t imagine he will, we’d better do what the officer says.’

  Garvey put an arm round Adila’s shoulders and led her back to the car.

  ‘I’m sorry, I overestimated my powers of persuasion.’

  ‘My father doesn’t bend easily.’

  ‘He bent far enough to give those vultures an interview.’

  ‘He’s naïve – he doesn’t understand how things work here. He doesn’t realize they’ll twist his words.’

  Garvey was seething. That preening little piece of shit, Henry. He’s behind this. But the news that Rolt had actually sanctioned the interview put a different spin on things.

  Adila turned to her. ‘Thank you for trying. I do appreciate this when you must be so busy.’

  Surrounded by armed police and a baying mob, she still sounded as though she was thanking her for an invitation to tea. Garvey smiled to herself. For the first time in a long while she was far from busy. ‘I’ve not finished yet, Adila.’

  ‘If I could only see Jamal. Do you think there’s any chance I’d be allowed to visit him? If I could even find out where he is …’

  ‘Let’s see, shall we?’ said Garvey. ‘Let’s see.’

  47

  11.00

  Home Office, Westminster

  Farmer waited in the home secretary’s outer office. It was a long time since he had been there. He and Sarah Garvey had locked horns soon after she was appointed. It was his fault, mistaking her for someone who might bend to his will, like her more malleable fellow cabinet members. She had seen him off with a volley of abuse that even he would have been hard pressed to come up with. Thereafter he had kept his distance, but nurtured a grudging admiration for the old bat. He had been sorry to see her go. Unlike most of the others, she actually believed in something other than her own advancement.

  Equally, he had been all for putting Rolt on their election ticket. It was a jammy idea conjured up by Clements, though you could never be entirely sure of the cabinet secretary’s motives. All the same, Farmer had run with it, telling the doubters that it was a straight choice between getting into bed with Rolt and a return to opposition – possibly permanently. Now he was having misgivings, just as he was about to have his first one-to-one with the new home secretary. He would have preferred to be bringing happier news with him – all the better to make a good first impression. But what he had wasn’t good, c
ouldn’t wait and had to be delivered in person, for his ears only.

  The double doors opened and a school of junior ministers and senior mandarins swam past.

  ‘You can go in now, Mr Farmer.’

  Farmer put his head round the door. ‘Home Secretary, do you need a minute or shall I come straight in?’ He glanced at Henry, who was leaning over the desk, pointing out something to Rolt.

  ‘No, no, come on in.’

  ‘Derek Farmer, Number Ten press,’ Henry explained, barely glancing up.

  Farmer tried not to bridle. His correct title was director of communications for the prime minister’s office.

  ‘Ah, splendid. Good to meet you.’

  Rolt stood up and offered his hand. Farmer took it and gave it one of his unthreatening shakes.

  ‘Kind of you to see me at such short notice, Home Secretary.’

  ‘No problem, if you’ve got a good reason. What can I do for you?’ Rolt pushed back his chair and rested his elbows on the arms, his fingers knitted together.

  Farmer glanced at Henry, who showed no signs of getting ready to leave. ‘Ah, I think it would probably be better if …’

  Rolt smiled blandly. ‘Oh, no, don’t worry. Henry and I have no secrets, do we?’

  He gave Henry a friendly glance, which Farmer saw the little prick suck up with delight. Farmer took a seat, put on his grave prepare-for-bad-news face and opened the slim file on his lap. ‘This is an evolving national security issue, which I’m not authorized to share with – with subordinates.’

  It was balls, and Henry probably would guess it was, but Rolt ought to get the message.

  He didn’t. ‘I’ll tell you now, Derek, if I’m going to get done here what we need to get done in the little time we have, the fewer secrets there are between me and my staff the better. So why don’t you give us the heads up?’

  Farmer swallowed his sigh. He wasn’t going to get off on the wrong foot here. ‘Understood, Home Secretary.’

  Rolt fixed him with a keen gaze. ‘So, fire away.’