by Andy McNab
68
18.30
St James’s Park
Jamal sat in the van in the mews behind Invicta, the plans and notes Isham had given him laid out on his lap. There were the codes to the underground car park, the codes for the lift up to the office floors, and a plan of the rooms where Rolt and Tom Buckingham usually worked. He had photographs of them, of their PA, and of the rest of the staff. Isham was nothing if not meticulous. To Jamal’s intense relief, the offices were empty. All the lights were off and the security screens that protected the windows overlooking the mews were shuttered. Bashar was tapping the steering-wheel, nodding to whatever was coming through his earbuds.
‘Shall I take you to where you’re going to stay?’
Isham had arranged a room for him in a safe house belonging to one of his contacts in Leytonstone.
‘I want to do a proper recce. I need to check out the park in front and find a good place where I can watch the building undisturbed.’
Bashar nodded eagerly, as if he understood exactly what Jamal was talking about. On the journey down from Watford Jamal had done all he could to give his young driver no cause for concern about his precious passenger.
‘The van will become too conspicuous if you hover around here. You can leave me and I’ll make my own way.’
‘But Isham insisted I don’t leave you.’
Jamal gave him a cold look – he was getting quite good at it. ‘I am insisting, okay? This is my mission. I need to do what I need to do.’ He gave Bashar a fatherly smile. ‘Go on home, and thank you for driving me.’ He offered Bashar his hand. ‘God be with you.’
69
19.00
Monkton Grange
Ashton unrolled a large drone photograph of a stately home, marked up with various colours. Tom recognized the house instantly but said nothing.
‘Chequers. The prime minister’s official country residence.’
Tom’s eyes widened appropriately.
‘Just the cabinet are there, no minions, no mandarins or special advisers. It’s one of the PM’s strategy brainstorms, a.k.a. “What the fuck do we do now?”’ Ashton grinned and poked the photograph with a ruler. ‘Pretty much all you need to know is on here, a complete layout of all the systems and processes.’ He snorted. ‘Courtesy of a Regiment exercise six months ago to test the security. And, of course, all the blind spots where we can do what we need to do.’
Tom peered at the photo, training all his concentration on it.
‘Basically, it’s leaky as fuck. No one acted on our recommendations. They’ve literally done nothing, except add a panic room under the kitchens. Penetrating the perimeter will be a piece of piss.’ He shook his head pityingly. ‘Even with all the aggro going on around the country, all they’ve done is increase the headcount.’
‘What protects it?’
‘Now that the police have enough on their hands on the streets it’s farmed out to contractors, would you believe? Harcore. All their people have done time on diplomatic protection in places like North Africa and Iraq so they’re not knuckle-draggers.’
‘They armed?’
‘Of course.’
‘How many?’
‘Twenty-odd. It can vary, but only by two or three.’
Tom scrutinized the layout, absorbing as much as he could while Ashton continued.
‘As you know, these things are all about speed, aggression and surprise. If it goes to plan, the first thing they’ll know about us is when they’re on the ground with Taser barbs in them, getting plasticuffed.’
‘And if they’re quicker?’
‘Well, that’s the first reason we’re going in bombed up.’
The awful possibilities hung in the air. Ashton lowered his voice. ‘That’s why I’m briefing you separately – because you’re at the front of this. You’ll be going in with the documentation, which is being prepared now – hence you’ll be dressed as you are.’ He nodded in the direction of the hall. ‘The Invicta guys out there, they’ll make sure you get to the PM and deliver the paperwork.’
He turned back to the drone photo. ‘There’ll be three groups, one for each of the entry points – the gatehouses, on the perimeter. As soon as all groups are at their start lines, I’ll give the go. Electronic counter-measures will do their job as the teams move in, take the three gatehouses and dominate the space and security. Some of each group will just push past and head direct to the house. You’ll be with them. But only you’ll make entry. They’ll provide a cordon around the house so the PM and cabinet can see you mean business.’
Tom swallowed. Mother of fuck: was this really happening? But his job now was to get with it. ‘So the less this looks like overt coercion the better, I’m guessing.’
‘Right. Nothing should have to happen at gunpoint. The cabinet need to feel they’ve still got a modicum of free will.’
Tom continued to look as if this was all quite normal.
‘And don’t expect Rolt to react straight away. You’re not coming in as his man, so no high fives or clapping each other on the back, okay?’
As if, thought Tom.
‘Keep it cool and businesslike. All your attention will be on the PM. You produce the first document, and give it to him. On it are the signatures of those who have already put their names to this. It’s up to him whether he shares that list with the cabinet straight away. Once he’s seen the names it should be obvious to him that he’s toast. After he’s read it, get it back off him and pass it to Rolt, then let him circulate it. Don’t make them feel rushed. But let them know they’ve got five minutes to digest it. Make it clear that the place is surrounded and no one goes in or out until it’s done. While they’re reading it you present the second document to the PM. That’s his resignation letter, formally handing over to Rolt, with the cabinet’s unanimous support. No one leaves until you have that signed. That’s the second reason why everyone is bombed up. If anyone tries to do anything brave, they’ll be stopped.’
Tom struggled to believe what he was hearing. He strove to keep his features relaxed, as if this was the sort of thing he’d been expecting all along.
‘There’ll probably have to be a show of hands to convince the PM. Several of those sitting round the table have already been sounded out. Any likely dissenters are in the minority, so I don’t think there’ll be any quibbling.’
Ashton clapped his hands and rubbed them together. ‘Once that’s done we’ll have a new premier.’
A coup, right here in Britain? He made it sound as though they were buying a new car.
‘And that’s legally binding?’
‘Effectively. The PM’s position will no longer be tenable. What’s left of his credibility will be shot. Rolt will have had his vote of confidence. There will be a few more formalities but this gives him the tools to get the job done.’
The words ‘tools’ and ‘job done’ struck ice into Tom’s heart. Once the democratic foundations had been hacked away, what terrible vengeance was planned? He needed his own plan, fast. ‘And once it’s done, what then?’
‘You saw the helo outside? We fly Rolt back to London, keep him at a secret location until we get the all-clear from our people at Number Ten and the press are assembled outside for him to make his entrance.’
Tom pored over the drone photo, still trying to digest what he was hearing.
‘Okay. When do you give orders?’
70
Tom watched as the Invicta crew started to shake out for the op. It was half surreal, half completely familiar, as if he was back in his old life. All fifty-eight of them were carrying out their battle prep of themselves and each other, Velcro being readjusted, a plate of Kevlar body armour front and rear, ammo pouches being threaded through webbing straps, plus a polymer holster for a secondary weapon, a Sig 228. Each man also wore thigh holsters carrying their Taser so that the armour wouldn’t get in the way of the weapon when it was drawn down. M4 assault weapons, the American newer and lightweight version of the Vie
tnam vintage M16, hung from slings on shoulders or were being made safe with thirty-round mags. Several of the guys with gloves on had cut the tops off the fingers so they could grip weapons and kit more easily.
This was no rag-tag crew of Wild Geese: these were the smartest and fittest Invicta had to offer, the opposite end of the spectrum from Evans and Randall. Ashton had drilled them well. Everything Tom was seeing oozed professionalism, which was both good and bad. Good, because he could predict their behaviour more easily; bad, because it would be harder to confuse or divert them.
Two of the team were bent over thirty-litre daysacks, carrying out final checks on trauma kits. Plastic bottles of plasma replacement were being repacked along with their giving sets. It was reassuring that, if things did go noisy, someone on the team would be ready to plug holes and replace lost fluid. Another man was making checks on an electronic counter-measures kit. The daysacks with ECM gizmos would create the vital bubble of static over the target so all communications coming in or out could be blocked at will. They would also take care of the landlines to achieve total isolation.
Tom could only guess that this was what Dartmoor had been all about. He also concluded that the apparent theft of weapons from the Invicta campus had been to divert attention away from what they were being used for. The longer he watched, the clearer it became that this had been prepared over a good while. But if Rolt had been involved in the detail, Tom and Phoebe would surely have got wind of it. The more he thought about it, the more he was coming to realize how much Rolt was merely a part of the plan, rather than its true instigator.
He carried on watching as they checked each other over in case there was a pocket or pouch that hadn’t been buttoned or Velcroed and made sure that the grab handle on the back of the armour was accessible. If a man went down and needed dragging out of the line of fire, the handle would be crucial. Others were jumping up and down checking for any rattles from the kit. The snow had started again but no Gore-Tex was being worn now: it produced too much rustling noise, and noise meant compromise.
This was all Ashton, the fanatical attention to detail that had made him such an effective CO and why he was respected rather than liked.
‘Looks good, doesn’t it?’
Hanson was at his side. There was energy coming off him as if he had been given a whole new lease of life.
‘Yep.’ Tom nodded.
He imagined them going through Ashton’s hoops, the table-top rehearsals, markings on the ground at first so the teams could develop a sense of where they would be in relation to each other. There would have been walk-throughs, then more realistic rehearsals with kit and in real time, practising the attack, then interrogating the what-ifs to cover every eventuality, a man down, the ECM not working. And if there was any opposition …
The atmosphere was electric. Tom knew all too well that, for most of them, their time in uniform had been the best years of their lives, and that everything since had been about trying to come to terms with life outside, with the fact that it was over. Invicta had been more than a halfway house. It had picked them up after they’d been spat out, dusted them down and shown them how to start again, how to be of value and make a contribution. But the chance to do something like this, to take part in an actual mission that would have a dramatic impact on the nation, to – as they all saw it – serve their country again, was a dream come true. They were about to make history.
And what was uppermost in Tom’s mind was how he was going to stop it happening – not only how to derail it, but how to do so without making himself the scapegoat on all sides. Mandler was unreachable; he had made it clear that he suspected something was about to happen, but had no idea what or when. Had he found out? Was that why he had gone off the grid? Tom’s mind was racing. A coup against the British government was about to be launched and he was the only one outside the conspirators who knew anything about it. He was on his own.
Ashton emerged from another door at the end of the hall, closed it behind him and came towards his men, nodding at Tom as he passed. Tom noted the light fade under the closed door, then brighten. Someone else was in there. Tom had already sensed that Ashton hadn’t been alone in the room he had just left. He went towards the door, listened, heard the almost inaudible sounds of a person moving about, and knocked.
There was no answer. He opened the door. A small, ruddy-faced man with short spiky silver hair looked up from a tablet, through a fog of cigarette smoke.
‘Good evening.’ Tom smiled and walked in nonchalantly, as if it was the most obvious thing to do. The man said nothing, just gazed at him, his eyes almost invisible under a heavy overhang of brow. Although they had not come face to face before, he had no doubt who this was. ‘Oleg Umarov? I’m Tom Buckingham.’
The man’s expression relaxed. ‘Ah, yes. Tom Buckingham.’ He repeated the name as if it was already familiar, nodding slowly. ‘Quite a reputation you have.’
Umarov spoke with a thick guttural accent, but seemed at ease with the language. He got up slowly and came towards Tom, looking at his outstretched hand as if he was making up his mind whether it was safe to touch. Eventually he took it and gave it a curt shake. ‘And you know my name. You are well informed.’
‘I have to be. Watching Vernon Rolt’s back means I need to know all I can about him.’
Umarov looked unimpressed. ‘Well, I prefer not to be noticed.’
For a second neither of them spoke. Tom looked on as Umarov continued to size him up.
‘So you are ready?’
Tom nodded.
‘Vernon Rolt has become a very important person in this country. Don’t you agree, Tom Buckingham?’
Time for a display of solidarity. Tom offered up a smirk. ‘We are about to make him the most important.’
Umarov nodded approvingly.
‘And what’s in all this for you?’
Umarov frowned. Perhaps he wasn’t used to being put on the spot. But while he was in the room with the ringleader, Tom thought, he might as well milk it for all it was worth.
Umarov lit a cigarette and blew out a long plume of smoke. ‘I like this country. It has great potential still, but the futile experiment with multiculturalism has failed. It’s become a distraction and now it’s blown up into something they can’t handle. The process needs to be reversed. Vernon has caught the public’s imagination. Now he needs the tools to finish the job. To clear the decks and start again. Do you think he’s up to it?’
Was this a trick question? Tom just stared at him.
‘When he came to me he had money trouble. I helped him out but I told him that in return he should raise his game.’ Umarov waved a hand towards where the sounds of the assembled men were coming from. ‘Let’s say I opened his eyes to the possibilities.’
Tom couldn’t help himself. ‘Do you think he’s up to it?’
‘Now he knows he has no alternative, yes.’
While he was saying this, Umarov had moved closer. Although he was several inches shorter, his presence seemed to fill Tom’s vision. ‘I can see why your father is so proud of you.’
Tom felt a cold chill down his back at this reminder of how far into his life Umarov’s tentacles already reached. Mandler had left him in no doubt as to Umarov’s reputation and now the man was talking about Tom’s father as if he knew him well. He decided to ignore the comment, pretend he hadn’t even heard the threat wrapped up in it.
Umarov’s eyes glinted. ‘I hope you aren’t going to disappoint us all tonight.’
‘Why would I do that?’
He produced a thin smile. ‘Only if you were a fool.’
71
20.00
Charing Cross Road, London
Jamal sat in the Pret A Manger just off Leicester Square. For ‘Britain’s most wanted’ it was a crazy place to show himself – except that here in plain view he was probably better off than in one of Isham’s safe houses. He kept his face down and away from most of the other customers but noted how many of
them had his colouring. It should have made him feel at home, but all he could think of was that all of them were under threat. He now knew that Vernon Rolt’s plan was nothing short of ethnic cleansing. How could this happen in the country that had welcomed his parents, where he and his siblings had been educated, where Adila, who in Pakistan would have been married off at fourteen or younger, had won a place at medical school? It was an abomination. All thoughts of clearing his own name had left him now. There was one thing he could do and it was stop Rolt. And Isham had given him the means.
The thought of Adila dead had changed everything. Jamal drew his bag closer and considered the device inside with which Isham had entrusted him. Rolt had singled him out for persecution, used the lies about him to further his own cause. Abukhan had been the leader he had come to hate, but Abukhan had not had anything against him personally. Vernon Rolt was another matter.
Alistair Latimer slid into the seat opposite without looking at him. Jamal glanced at his face. All his muscles were taut. Latimer took the lid off his coffee and, as he blew on it, spoke in a low whisper. ‘Don’t say anything, don’t look at me. Just listen.’
Jamal did as he was told. Latimer’s words came rapidly in a low hiss. ‘You realize I’m breaking the law even speaking to you, let alone meeting you, after what’s happened? My career is finished if this is discovered. You understand that, okay?’ He broke off and glanced Jamal’s way. Jamal tried hard not to return his gaze as Latimer continued: ‘However, there may be a way we can help you to get justice.’
Jamal turned his face a fraction towards Latimer. ‘I don’t want justice.’
‘You want to know what happened to Emma? You’ll want justice when I tell you.’
Jamal listened while Latimer told him about the way her remains had been delivered, how the news had been suppressed. ‘If it wasn’t for Rolt the truth would be out now. Don’t you see what he’s done to you?’
