by Andy McNab
‘This boy’s being stitched up through a combination of spin and censorship. I want anything Rolt says or does that nails him as the liar and bastard he is. I need it, okay, Tom? I’m going to bring him down if it kills me.’
Tom managed to get rid of her as politely as he could.
On his way back to the front desk, his phone buzzed. Let that be Hugh or Mandler. He took it out. The porter put his fist to his mouth and coughed. Mobile phones were strictly forbidden in the club. ‘Oh, sorry, just reading a text.’
‘No difference, sir, I’m afraid.’
‘Okay, okay.’
Tom stepped outside. By the time he got to the revolving doors he had read the contents. Just a postcode, and the message:
19.30. Bring your toothbrush.
It was from Ashton.
66
14.30
Junction 5, M1 motorway
All three southbound lanes had stopped moving completely for the police to do their check. Jamal put his feet on the dash. Bashar, at the wheel, was gently rocking to the music coming out of his earbuds, an almost imperceptible, tinselly sound, just audible enough to be irritating. As they headed to London, he had glanced at Jamal every few minutes and grinned, excited to have been chosen to drive such a famous passenger. Now he was looking nervous and took out his earbuds.
‘Put them back on and turn up the volume. It’ll help distract you.’
Bashar complied.
Jamal watched the police as they moved among the vehicles. Such was the volume of traffic they couldn’t hope to search every one. Instead they were picking them at random – or not quite at random, taking a good look at every male with black hair or a beard. But this was like no vehicle check Jamal had ever seen. Those doing the questioning were accompanied by two more carrying MP5 carbines. A few cars up, two other officers were going through the contents of an aged Volvo estate, which they had laid out in the slush on the hard shoulder, ignoring the turbanned driver who was remonstrating with them.
Jamal had been given a freshly prepared ID with a photo that matched his new appearance. He had shaved off his beard and one of Isham’s people had cut his hair and trimmed his eyebrows. The effect was alarming but it did the job of changing his appearance, along with a pair of thick-framed, plain-lensed glasses and an earring. He barely recognized himself, so with any luck no one else would either.
He had his whole speech ready about their destination, the plumbing job they were going to, with a phone number that could be checked, and there was an answerphone message on the line that matched the name of the company on his ID. There was even a landing page uploaded on the web. Isham might be a fanatic but you couldn’t fault his attention to detail. He had gathered round him a small army of loyal helpers with all the right skills, young men radicalized by the tension on the streets. Bashar told him he now saw no future for himself except as one of Isham’s soldiers.
‘I envy you going to Syria, brother. I want to so much. But Isham wants me to stay here and serve him.’
Jamal nodded, noncommittal. Syria had been such an eye-opener, but he was equally shocked at how much Britain had changed.
The night before, Isham had shown him the vest. It was much more compact and sophisticated than the bulky devices he had seen in Syria, but there they could be hidden under much looser garments. ‘Winter is good because everybody’s wearing thick clothes,’ he had said. ‘Nobody is surprised to see someone wearing a padded coat. And in this weather it’s not so surprising when people keep them on indoors.’
The explosive was spread evenly over the surface of the chest and thicker at the small of the back. It was heavy, because of the layer of small, jagged lumps of metal shrapnel.
‘But everything in your pockets – coins, watch, belt buckle, glasses – becomes shrapnel too,’ he’d told him. He had even shown him pictures of the bomb his wife had worn, which he had designed before his arrest. ‘Try it on. Let’s see how it fits,’ he had urged, and Jamal had obliged. Isham had shown him how to route the wires down one sleeve so the activator, a small squeeze-sensitive switch, could be hidden under his cuff, ready to be drawn down into his palm at the right moment.
‘Now imagine you’re about to meet Vernon Rolt, shake his hand. “Hello, you say to him. I am the Butcher of Aleppo.” Then bang.’ Isham laughed uproariously. ‘It will be so glorious, even better than my wife’s triumph.’
‘But don’t you miss her?’ Jamal had ventured, unable to contain the thought.
Isham was clearly mystified. ‘I am free to continue the work. What else matters?’ And without any further comment, he produced a fat folder and spread the contents in front of them. On top was a photograph of Rolt. ‘Everything you need to know. It’s all here. The plan of his building, how to get access, where you can hide. We’ve been collecting information, building up the detail, for a long time.’
‘How come?’
Isham smirked. ‘A mole – a disgruntled ex-soldier with a grudge against him. He gave us all we need to gain access: key codes for the underground car park, service lift combinations, the lot.’
Isham smoothed his hands proudly over the papers. Already Jamal was starting to understand what made him tick. But already he could see a fairly obvious flaw. Rolt was home secretary now. Why would he use his old office? But he chose to keep that thought to himself. If this was what would get him back to London, so be it.
The police waved on the three cars in front of them.
‘That means they’re going to pick us.’ Bashar’s voice was shaking.
‘What’s the matter? You never talked to a cop before?’
He shook his head.
‘Just keep listening to your music.’
It was a shock to Jamal how most of Isham’s crew had lived entirely cloistered lives, having almost no contact with white people. Perhaps it explained why they were able to take Isham, a white convert, so seriously.
The cop motioned for Jamal to wind down the window. He obliged, keeping eye contact. Here it was the opposite of Syria, where it was all about showing deference to whoever had set up the roadblock to be sure you looked like you knew you were inferior. An icy blast rushed into the cab.
‘All right in here? Keeping warm, are we?’
The cop clapped his gloved hands together. Jamal grinned and raised the Thermos. ‘Like a cup?’
The cop looked over his shoulder into the van. ‘You got everything and the kitchen sink in there.’
‘Don’t like to be unprepared. You’d be surprised what we find on these jobs.’
The one with the MP5 stared at them, stony-faced. Bashar was gazing straight ahead, nodding to the beat, but looking guilty as fuck.
‘What’s up with the kid?’
‘He needs the toilet.’
‘Sure you haven’t got a spare in the back?’
They all had a laugh except Bashar.
‘I’d better take your card. The missus is always on at me about putting in a new kitchen.’
‘Just Google J&R Plumbers. Don’t hold your breath, though. We’re booked up till June.’
‘Must be good, then.’
Jamal nodded. ‘Oh, yeah, we’re good.’
The cop jerked his head in the direction of the open road in front of them. ‘On you go, then.’
Jamal wound up the window. He turned to Bashar. ‘Not too fast now. Take it nice and easy.’
Bashar looked like he had just had a reprieve from the hangman.
‘Don’t relax too much. That may not be the last we see of them.’
67
17.30
Hertfordshire
Monkton Grange was bordered by a high brick wall, from a time long gone when there were the means and cheap labour to create such barriers. Tom knew the name. It had once housed a notorious prep school that had been shut down following a scandal. As a boy he remembered seeing the pupils in their grey blazers with their matching blank grey faces. To the left of the gates a sign said SOLD.
&nb
sp; Whoever had occupied it most recently had fitted an intercom. He pressed it and waited. Nothing. The night was still and very cold, and it looked as if more snow was coming. There were several things that could have preyed on his mind, like the whereabouts of his father, and Mandler, and just what the hell he was getting into. But none of that was useful.
He buzzed a second time. Still no answer. There was no point in freezing out there, so he got back into the Range Rover to wait. A pick-up appeared, coming towards the gates from the inside. It pulled up and two men in jeans, Rab Summit jackets and Gore-Tex boots got out. He recognized them straight away from the Invicta campus: Morton and Sharp, relatively recent recruits, unlike Randall and Evans, ex-infantry fitness freaks who specialized in Iron Mans and other such modern forms of voluntary torture.
Tom nodded at them. ‘Evening, all.’
They opened the gates. ‘Go straight up to the house. The boss is waiting for you.’
The drive was bordered by tall poplars, several of which had fallen. Claimed by the ivy and bramble that had taken charge of the verges they looked like strange, camouflaged defences. Parked in front of the grim-looking Victorian pile were two people-carriers and the Mercedes G-Wagen. What also caught his attention, parked well away from the house and visible only by its own interior lights, was an executive type white helicopter, an S-76.
As he came up to the house an outside light went on and a door opened. It was Hanson, the warden. He was dressed civilian but practical: strong boots, sweatshirt, cargos, stuff he could easily move about in.
‘Thought you lot were in Dartmoor.’
Hanson gave him a wry look. ‘Some people think we still are.’
‘Why all the cloak-and-dagger?’
‘You’ll see. Come on in.’
They stepped into a big, wood-panelled hall. Through one door Tom could see folding army cots, green nylon with aluminium cross legs, scattered about the place with multi-coloured sleeping-bags crumpled on top. Washing and shaving kits lay next to bergens, along with green body armour, some of it being used as improvised headrests on the cots. Empty mags for both 5.56 assault weapons and 9mm shorts lay beside it or in the pouches attached to the body armour. All that was missing were the weapons but Tom knew where they would be.
From one of the other rooms came the sounds of ten or more men eating off paper plates and drinking from plastic beakers. A black bin-liner was taped around a door handle with a handwritten cardboard sign fixed above it: All crap in here.
It was familiar. Tom had been in enough holding areas before an operation to know one. It almost made him feel nostalgic.
Hanson waved him in the other direction. ‘We’ve got a briefing at twenty-one hundred but the boss wants to see you first. He’s set up shop down there.’
Tom followed him along the creaking wood-floored corridor.
In a small side room, Ashton looked up from a desk where he was studying some documents. He got to his feet when he saw Tom. ‘Ah, hello again. Glad you could join us.’
Tom nodded and saw the weapon bundles on the other side of the room: large green nylon roll-outs, a bigger version of the sort of bag a chef would keep his knives in. These held assault weapons and the shorts, the easiest way to move weapons around. The padding protected not only the weapons but, more importantly, the optics. ‘Good to be here.’ He gave Ashton’s hand a firm shake and added a confident smile to show willing.
‘You had no trouble getting away?’
‘I’m not exactly overworked right now.’
Ashton waited for Hanson to leave them, then faced Tom, his face set with a to-business look. ‘So you decided to come after all.’
‘Were you in any doubt?’
‘Well, I did think we might have put you off, what with all the, er, vetting.’ He cracked a faint smile.
Tom grinned. This wasn’t the moment to give him any cause for suspicion. ‘Seemingly not. So, what’s the deal?’
Ashton was still standing. He folded his arms and adopted his trademark addressing-the-troops stance, face stern. ‘Before I get into any detail, understand this. Once I give you the briefing – that’s it. No backing out. No fucking around. You’re in. You got that?’
This was the moment, Tom realized, where he crossed over. If he felt a flicker of doubt he didn’t show it. ‘I don’t do backing out and I don’t fuck about. You should know that by now,’ he said tersely.
The beginnings of a smile twitched at the corners of Ashton’s mouth. ‘Okay. That’s good.’
He sat down and gestured at another chair. Tom tried to scan the documents on the desk as he sat. But Ashton rested his forearms on them and knitted his fingers together. From now on he had to be on high alert, absorbing everything he could, while he could.
‘What you need to know, and I want you to keep in mind all the way through, is that what you’re about to do – there’s a lot of support for it. By that I mean from people who matter, the powers that be, inside Westminster.’ He straightened up in his chair. ‘We’ve got backing in the MoD, high up, same in the Met, in the Civil Service, those who’ve come to the end of the road with the current status quo, who recognize that things can’t go on as they have been any more, that something’s got to change and it has to be drastic.’
‘So what is this, then?’
Ashton shrugged. ‘Call it what you like. I’d call it saving our arses.’ There was a cold gleam in his eyes.
Tom kept his face neutral. ‘And how does Rolt fit into this?’
Ashton leaned back and spread his hands. ‘He’s got the right ideas but, let’s be frank, you know as well as I do, the prime minister only let him get this far so he could save his own political arse. Now the election’s over he’s going to drag his feet on all Rolt’s strategies, and time’s running out.’
‘You’re going to replace the PM with Rolt?’ Tom couldn’t help his tone of surprise.
Ashton pointed at him. ‘We are, Tom. Be clear about that.’
Neither of them spoke for a few seconds. Ashton was studying his face to gauge his reaction. ‘You’ll get fine detail on the whole mission when I give my formal orders to the team but your role is very particular.’
‘Okay.’
‘This job is all about stealth. The weapons are just to show we mean business. I very much hope we can get it done without a shot being fired in anger. You’ll all have Tasers to dominate the area if there’s a problem with any of the security round the target. It’s about a show of force, no more than that. If we fuck up in any way, we’re done for. It’ll be the end of Invicta, the end of Rolt. You understand that? There’s no exfil, no second chance.’ He nodded at Tom. ‘But you’ve been there before, haven’t you? You know the score.’
Get to the fucking point, thought Tom. But it was also time to show Ashton some enthusiasm. He smirked. ‘You bet. So fill me in.’
‘I’m putting you up front on this because Rolt knows and trusts you. He’ll do what you say. He knows your background, knows what you’re capable of. I’ll be honest – it was he who said he wanted you in. In fact, he insisted.’
Ashton was still scrutinizing Tom as if even now he hadn’t made up his mind about him. ‘You came through pretty convincingly the other day. But I’m still not one hundred per cent. I’ve never totally bought you signing up with Rolt. I think you’re too smart for that.’
Tom came straight back. He needed to dispel that notion right now. ‘He helped me after you binned me from the Regiment, remember? I owe him a lot.’
Ashton didn’t even blink. ‘And he thinks he owes you after what you’ve been through dealing with Invicta’s “rogue elements”. You won’t have any more trouble there, by the way. They’ve all been dealt with.’
Yes, thought Tom, and I was just a few metres away at the time when you slotted Evans. It was time to move him on and get some answers. ‘So who’s funding all this?’
‘Supporters.’
It was time to try out a name. ‘Oleg Umarov?’
‘I’ve never met the man.’
An unexpected light came into Ashton’s eyes. ‘Well, if you’ve got any doubts you can ask your father when it’s all over. Umarov’s keeping him close by at the moment. Very close.’
Every muscle in Tom’s body tensed. Was this some kind of threat?
Ashton gave him a chilly smile. ‘Let’s say it gives me confidence in you. I know how important your old man is to you.’ He leaned back in his chair and continued: ‘And I gather that if the deal they’re working on goes through, your family’s financial troubles will be over.’ Ashton raised his eyebrows and nodded. Think about that.
It was clear he wanted Tom to be under no illusion: he had him by the balls.
Not for the first time, but with much more force now, doubt surged through Tom, laced with anger. Here he was, right out on a limb with no safety net, no backup, no Mandler, about to lead a coup against the very government he was working for, with his own father as a hostage. It was an insane situation, and he had walked right into it. He had no one to blame but himself.
Tom kept his face blank. All his time in the Regiment he had harboured suspicions about Ashton. As the boss, he was respected for his commitment and his resilience, but he wasn’t altogether liked, and there were others who felt they could never totally trust him. Tom had never deliberately given Ashton cause to dislike him, but there had always been a lingering hint of doubt. Perhaps it was a chip on his shoulder, an irritation that Tom, a public-schoolboy from a well-heeled background, had not gone the officer route. Perhaps it was because people naturally liked him and Ashton was jealous of that.
But why should Ashton know anything about his father’s business affairs? Tom fought with himself not to react. The surprise visit to his parents didn’t seem so surprising now. He forced himself to ignore the barely veiled threat. Nothing would be helped by an outburst. The more he kept his cool, the more he could focus on what was about to happen.
