by Andy McNab
As he prepared to reply, Halford’s gaze swung in the PM’s direction. ‘As things are at this time, I can’t honestly disagree, but I’ve no doubt that, with the right powers and resources to draw down, we could make a lot more headway.’
Farmer saw the PM’s cheeks redden. If he was coming close to being made a fool of in front of the massed ranks of the COBRA gathering, he was fighting not to show it.
‘You can rest assured, Commissioner, we’ve directed all the law-enforcement agencies your way on this—’
There was an almost audible gasp as Rolt interrupted, pressing his hands on the table as he spoke: ‘The sooner we start a programme of internment, the sooner public anxiety will be reduced. They’ve put up with enough trouble from the Muslims. It cannot go on.’
Behind Rolt, Farmer could see Clements, his eyes scanning the room, a small, wry smile on his face. Not for the first time he got the sense of the cabinet secretary as the puppet master, deftly and invisibly pulling a string here, a string there, silently goading on his new protégé. Rolt was already showing all the signs of being a loose cannon and Clements seemed to be enjoying the mayhem.
The prime minister’s face turned even redder. ‘I will not be party to any kneejerk policy decisions. Nor will I permit policy to be made on the hoof. The proper forum for any discussion of such measures is with the whole cabinet and we will be doing that this weekend.’ He breathed out. It was pure flannel, Farmer knew, but it would do for now. The PM glanced at him, so he mouthed, ‘Messages.’
‘Meanwhile we need to concentrate on making sure we are sending the right messages to the public.’
Again, Rolt came back at him with indecent speed. ‘As in “keep calm and carry on”?’
Farmer detected a faint ripple of amusement. Buoyed by this, Rolt continued: ‘The extremist community is talking this up as a triumph against the state. What I’m getting back from the people I’ve been talking to is that we seem to be at a complete loss as to how to respond to what is virtually civil war.’
There was another almost audible gasp. But this time the PM was ready. ‘The message is that we are on the case.’ With a nod to Halford he went on, ‘And the more police we can see out on the streets the better, even if some of them could be better used indoors.’
But Rolt hadn’t finished. ‘And the army?’
The PM looked at him over the half-glasses Farmer had warned him not to wear because they made him look older. ‘We’re not at that stage yet, Vernon.’ He gave the nervous chuckle he was prone to when he felt cornered. The MoD people exchanged glances. Never before had Farmer felt his grip on authority to be so fragile. ‘In fact, that’s one of the items on our agenda for Chequers this weekend, along with any other significant move, such as declaring a state of emergency. For discussion,’ he added firmly, lest Rolt was in any doubt.
Good, thought Farmer. At least he’s firing back. It seemed to have silenced Rolt for now, but Farmer was watching him closely. This was the first big meeting the new home secretary had attended with the prime minister. Any other newcomer to the cabinet would have chosen their words very cautiously – in fact, they would have gone out of their way to make a show of support. Not Rolt. It had been a bold move to co-opt him, but he alone was probably the reason the chief was back in. And, as Farmer always feared, Rolt inside the government was going to be just as disruptive as he was outside – possibly even worse. He glanced at Clements. Usually the cabinet secretary liked to remind everyone of his presence by making some supportive noises. But he remained uncharacteristically tight-lipped.
The discussion veered off into a debate about a proposed forward deployment of military at RAF Northolt, which soon ran out of steam. But the MoD was directed to prepare a standby army presence, should the need arise. Now that those gathered understood that nothing of any substance was going to get done, they were all itching to get away. The PM had got away with it this time but he couldn’t let them melt away without summing up, Farmer thought. He touched his elbow and frowned.
The PM frowned back, then twigged. ‘I cannot overstate the gravity of the situation we find ourselves in. We must reassure the public about the operational actions we are now taking to find these men, among them an intense police and Security Service action to ensure we bring this man to justice. And I urge you all to scale new heights in your efforts to get on top of it.’
With that he stood up and marched out of the room. Farmer struggled to his feet and set off in pursuit. As he was leaving he caught sight of Clements exchanging glances with Rolt. That was all it was – a look – and anyone else might not have noticed it. But Farmer’s job was to be the prime minister’s eyes and ears, and what he had just seen he didn’t like one bit.
59
21.00
Malvern Hills, Worcestershire
Tom took his time driving back through the dark country lanes, which he knew like the back of his hand. Even with the roads in the condition they were in, he could have done it in half the time, but he wanted to be sure that the Fiesta was definitely following him. When he got to the bottom of his parents’ lane the car speeded up, overtook and disappeared into the night. Evidently Ashton had decided to keep a watch on him. Reporting the latest developments to Mandler was not going to be straightforward.
It was almost midnight, but all the downstairs lights were on. And there was an unfamiliar car parked close to the front door, an Espace. As Tom got nearer and the security lights came on he could see that the vehicle was in bad shape. Several of the panels had been kicked in, the front valance was gone and a side window had been smashed. One rear tyre was flat. In the meticulously kept grounds of Newland Hall it was an incongruous sight. Tom stepped out of his car. He heard the dogs’ deep baritone bark, welcoming him back. His mother met him at the door.
‘What’s that?’ he said, nodding over his shoulder at the Espace.
‘The Rashids – you know, with the village shop. They were attacked by some thugs from the pub, who smashed the place up, and their car. They were really in fear of their lives. The police didn’t seem interested in helping them so I’ve decided to put them up. I hope you’re not going to argue with me. And don’t go up the stairs like a herd of buffalo – I’m hoping they’ve gone to sleep.’
She was wearing her resolute, don’t-mess-with-me face. He gave her an admiring hug. ‘Of course I won’t. But have you told Dad? He’s bound to worry about any trouble coming to the house, for your sake.’
‘It was an emergency. Anyway, he’s staying up in town. This deal he’s got going on has become very drawn out. Sorry, I haven’t even asked about your evening. How was Ashton?’
He rolled his eyes. His throat and lungs still ached from the waterboarding. ‘Oh, you know. Same old.’
She peered at him. ‘You look like you had quite a session. Are you sure you should have driven home?’
He feigned guilt. ‘Probably not.’
She tutted. ‘Has he got anything for you?’
He smiled. ‘Maybe.’
At least that was the truth, for once. She smiled back, clearly still thinking about the Rashids, and how a sedate English country village could become the scene of an unprovoked, racially motivated attack reminiscent of Germany in the 1930s. ‘They’d done nothing, you know. They were just closing up when those – bastards descended on them.’
She never used bad language. He pulled her towards him and stroked her head. Underneath the determination he could feel the anxiety in her shoulders.
‘I think I could do with a cup of tea.’
‘Let me make it for once, eh?’
They went into the kitchen and he settled her in a chair. The idea of anything happening to her, if she had been caught up in the attack, was unthinkable. The TV was on, tuned to the BBC News Channel.
‘Never thought of you as a news junkie, Mum.’
‘Well, you can’t very well not be, these days. Especially when it’s happening on your own doorstep.’
He fill
ed the kettle. ‘Any developments?’
‘Only that those escaped prisoners seem to have vanished into thin air. I can’t remember a time when I’ve felt more uneasy about what’s happening to the country, and I don’t mind telling you that I think Rolt’s partly to blame. Instead of trying to calm things down he’s stoking the fire just as much as the rioters and bombers. It’s as if he actually wants to make things worse.’
She was usually much more careful about winding him up than his father was, but Tom knew that, since Rolt had moved into politics, she was deeply troubled by his association with him. He had never seen her like this. All his life she had let his father sound off about the state of the world while she kept her opinions to herself. Often he didn’t even know what she thought. He realized she was glaring at him, as if he should take some of the blame, but then her expression changed. ‘It’s been a long day. Sorry.’
He put an arm round her. ‘Don’t be.’ If only he could tell her …
She glanced back at the TV. ‘Look, there he is again, hogging the cameras. It’s as if he’s trying to take over.’ She shrugged off his arm and left the room.
60
For the fourth time in less than an hour he tried to get through to his father’s mobile. It was past one a.m. but Tom wasn’t going to give up.
Eventually Hugh picked up, plainly exasperated at being called so many times. He spoke in a low tone. ‘This had better be important, dear boy. I’m right in the middle of closing a deal.’
He sounded frayed and drained. All the same, Tom was in no mood to apologize for disturbing him. ‘Umarov. You lied to me.’
There was a pause. Tom heard a door open and close. Evidently his father was in search of somewhere more private.
‘Sorry, I didn’t quite get that. What did you say?’
‘You heard. What are you doing with him? I need to know.’
Hugh’s voice was hushed but his anger was only too apparent. ‘Tom, that really is my business and, as it happens, it’s at a very delicate stage. And how on earth did you find out?’
Tom weighed the Ordynka in his palm. ‘I’m sitting in your study, looking at his fancy gift. Do you have any idea what you’re getting into?’
‘Tom, what I’m “getting into” is not only going to make me financially secure and save your mother and me from bankruptcy, it could also benefit you in the long run – that is, unless someone comes along and tries to bugger it up. And how dare you go through my private things?’ He almost spat the words. Tom had never heard him so angry. ‘I’ve put up with your secrecy all these years. I’ve bitten my tongue the whole time while you’ve gone off risking your neck. You’ve no right to be lecturing me, or indeed calling me a liar. No right at all! How honest have you been with me about your dealings with Rolt, eh?’
What did he mean by that? Tom left a silence for him to fill. When Hugh spoke again his tone was softer. ‘You may see me as an old fool, but I know you better than you think. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to work.’
The line went dead.
61
07.30
Tom’s early jog took in the perimeter of his parents’ land. The grey murk that had descended on the country almost a month ago showed no sign of clearing, and a fresh flurry of snow was falling. Not great weather for a run, but he wanted to clear his head and think. He also wanted to check just how much attention Ashton was paying him before he decided his next move. Sure enough, the Fiesta was parked a hundred metres from the gate to the driveway, its windows misted, the two people inside just shapes, though as he came past he smelt the distinctive whiff of Russian tobacco.
Tom made no attempt to conceal himself, but did the opposite, running past the car as if not bothered by it at all. After the difficult call with his father, he had stayed up well into the night, writing a detailed report in longhand for Mandler. In any other situation he would simply have waited for further orders, but this wasn’t any other situation. In fact, in all his time in the Regiment he couldn’t think of a moment like this. He had no obligation to continue. Rolt was in government, Woolf had been redeployed and Mandler – despite his exalted position – was in no position to watch his back. But he had come this far. He had been shot at, mauled by a dog, smashed over the head – twice – and waterboarded. And he was still no nearer to finding out what Ashton was planning or what exactly his connection was to Rolt and Umarov. But Tom knew he had made up his mind: Ashton wasn’t going to open up unless he made him some sort of commitment. Whatever he was proposing, he would have to go along with it, if he was going to find out any more about his plans.
Before he left for his jog he had dispatched his mother to Mandler’s house with the report, to deliver it in person. Buried in the text was a time for them to RV at his father’s club, somewhere in plain view they might have every reason to be, and where he hoped he might also find Hugh.
Using his mother was a desperate measure. He had never involved her in any of his work before, but there was no one else he trusted who wouldn’t be followed. Besides, since he had discovered his father’s connection with Umarov, all the old boundaries between home and career had been blown away. To his surprise, she had willingly agreed, though he had promised to explain when he could. If he ever could. Her instructions were to wait while Mandler read it through and told her if he wanted to meet. He had correctly anticipated that Ashton’s goons would be keeping tabs on him, so his only option was to behave as if it was a normal day.
When he got back to the house the Rashid family were in the kitchen, feeding their three children. Six months ago he had been into their shop and was greeted like an old friend. Now they all looked up nervously. ‘Your mother said it would be all right …’
‘Good morning, all. Absolutely right she did. Do you have everything you need?’
‘Yes, thank you. We’re sorry to inconvenience you. Your mother has been so kind.’
Mrs Rashid had done the talking; her husband was still looking at Tom warily. Tom gave him a warm smile.
‘I’m only too glad we can help. It must have been awful. Stay as long as you need – we’ve got more than enough space. It’s no problem at all. I’d better get cleaned up. See you later, kids.’
He had adopted what he hoped was a breezy, reassuring tone. But as he went back into the hall Mr Rashid followed. ‘Do you think we should make arrangements to leave?’
‘No, honestly, you’re welcome to stay as long as you need.’
But then Tom grasped what he had really asked, and it sent a chill down his spine.
62
09.00
Watford
Jamal awoke from a deep, chemically induced sleep. After a few minutes, he raised himself a little and saw that he was not alone. Five men, not those who had helped in the escape, were seated close to his bed, watching him. As soon as they saw he was awake, the oldest, who was dressed in a light brown jubbah, nodded at one of the others, who got up and left. Then he leaned forward.
‘You must be hungry after your long sleep. Refreshment is coming.’
For a moment, Jamal thought he was back in Syria. The walls that surrounded him were windowless and built of breeze blocks. The floor was concrete with a couple of rush mats. Then he remembered the rest of the journey. They were in Watford, on an industrial estate, in the back room of a plumbing company. He stared at the men blankly, still trying to disentangle what was a terrible dream and what was real, until it all clicked into focus with a terrifying jolt. There was no dream. It was all horribly real. He had left his beloved sister, the only one who had not shunned him, dead in the ruins of the prison. A great mass of grief and anger surged up inside him.
A woman entered the room. She was completely covered. She bowed as she approached, put a tray beside the bed and scuttled away.
He looked down. There was a mug and a teapot, a bowl, a carton of milk and, incongruously, a Kellogg’s variety pack. One of the younger men came forward, poured the tea and added some milk. Ja
mal drank, and instantly felt nausea rising. He put the mug back on the tray. The door opened again and Isham appeared. All the men stood up and there was a lot of embracing and back-patting. Then he turned to Jamal and opened his arms. Isham was freshly showered, his ginger hair glistening, and had on a brand new ankle-length jubbah, the creases where it had been folded still showing in the fabric.
‘And here we are, Alhamdulillah.’
Jamal didn’t move. All he could feel was anger boiling inside him. He hadn’t asked for any of this. He would have stayed inside prison and fought to clear his name, however hard and drawn-out that would have been. But that option was gone – and with it his beloved sister. He looked at Isham, smiling down at him as if he was some kind of trophy.
Months under the ever-suspicious gaze of Abukhan had trained him to mask his true feelings almost as a matter of course. He got to his feet shakily and accepted Isham’s embrace. ‘Alhamdulillah,’ he replied.
The group broke into applause.
‘You are a great prize, Jamal. All our brothers are celebrating your escape. Yours will be the example for all who are prisoners of the Kuffar.’ The loss of his wife had not dented his jubilation. ‘First you will bathe and then we will dress you in new robes and you will record a video. Your supporters will be waiting to hear from you. You must show them that you are free and ready to fight again. You must issue a call to arms.’
Despite Isham’s northern accent, pink complexion and gingery hair, he hadn’t only adopted the beard and dress of the Muslim: his pattern of speech mimicked that of someone whose first language wasn’t English. Evidently his supporters in the room, who were all Asian, were buying it. But Jamal had been here before, back home in Croydon, when he had fallen under the spell of the man who had originally recruited him to go to Syria. Britain was full of self-appointed zealots oozing hate-speak that masqueraded as religious belief. But there was something about Isham that marked him out. The others were buffoons, all mouth and posturing. Isham was a cut above. Horrific as it had been, the prison break had been meticulously organized.
