Fortress

by Andy McNab

  ‘The Met insist they were acting on flashed intelligence about a purported mobile bomb factory in the back of a Transit van, also carrying a passenger suggested to be a returnee from Syria. Their source, not one of ours, you’ll be glad to know.’

  Woolf looked round the table. The assembly stared back at him.

  Ferris, group director for the north-east, chipped in: ‘We get about a hundred and fifty false leads like that a day. Does there have to be a conspiracy here?’

  Woolf nodded eagerly. He was in his stride now. ‘Quite so. But here’s the thing.’ He punched up another slide: a middle-aged man in a police uniform. ‘SCO19 control room officer: John Philip Vestey.’ The next shot showed both men.

  ‘Mick’s brother. He was on duty the night of the shooting – though unable to communicate with his team on the ground due to an alleged radio fault. Make of that what you will.’

  Woolf stood back to let this revelation sink in. Now the room came alive.

  ‘Are you watching him? Mick.’

  Woolf smiled ruefully. ‘You know how many bodies surveillance takes.’ He pointed at Cindy and Rafiq. ‘This is the sum total of my team.’

  ‘Listening to his calls?’

  Cindy shook her head. ‘He doesn’t use a phone.’

  ‘Ever?’

  ‘Turns it on every couple of days for just a few minutes. The rest of the time it’s off and he leaves it at home.’

  ‘Somewhat incriminating.’

  Jedburgh, ex-Special Branch and a notorious sceptic, launched in: ‘So you’ve got a classic loner, who’s conquered his demons and trained himself to channel his rage. What’s holding him back? Chances are that having started he’ll probably keep shooting. I suggest you pull your finger out and bring him in before he does any more damage.’

  Mandler agreed. ‘Good point. Keep them coming.’

  Molly Downham, the only other woman in the group, never spoke up unless she had something pertinent to say. ‘James, can you share with us exactly why you’ve been playing your cards even closer to your chest than usual?’

  Woolf nodded. ‘That brings me neatly on to part two. We’ve covered the who, but now comes the why. Why kill a perfectly decent liberal-minded community worker who’s been commended for his work with disaffected youth?’ He leaned forward and hit the space bar again. ‘Recognize him?’

  The next sequence was a video of a man in his early thirties standing at a podium, receiving an award from the Mayor of London in front of an audience, who were giving him a standing ovation. ‘Vernon Rolt, founder of Invicta.’

  ‘So his facility is being used as a secret training ground for white British jihadis. That’s pretty far-fetched, isn’t it?’

  Woolf glanced at the other two. ‘Yes. It’s crazy and everyone who’s heard it agrees.’

  It was Molly’s turn again. ‘Are you actually pointing the finger at Vernon Rolt?’

  Woolf raised his eyebrows inscrutably. ‘I wouldn’t want to go that far … just yet.’

  ‘But that’s why you’re keeping this in the family.’

  Woolf nodded again.

  Jedburgh cleared his throat. ‘Sorry, James, but I’m not buying it. Right now we’ve got an inundation of returnees from Syria. A lot of them have seen and done unimaginable things, been thrown together with the most out-there extremists. They’re trained, they’re battle-hardened and we can’t keep track of them because they’re using different names, keeping away from their families and so on. We just don’t have the resources or the intelligence.’

  This Woolf knew to be true, to his frustration. And Jedburgh wasn’t done.

  ‘The sight of one of their own being all lovey-dovey and multi-culti with Christians, atheists and whatnot, they’re going to see that guy as the enemy even more than the Anglos. It’s a nice idea, but I think you’re going to find you’re barking up the wrong tree. Radicalization is the issue, nothing else.’

  The meeting fell silent. Woolf glanced at Rafiq, then Cindy. Both were studying their hands intently.

  Mandler got up and brought the meeting to a close with a speech about how grateful he was to them for sparing the time, and waited while the others filed out to their cars.

  ‘Interesting.’ He gave Woolf a mischievous look.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘You have to consider all sides of the problem. And the trouble is, what you’ve got here is conjecture. I think we might park this for now. Perhaps I can find something else on which you can train your enormous brain.’

  It sounded like a compliment, yet also a putdown.

  And with that he folded up his glasses and left.

  20

  Westminster, Central London

  ‘Can you open your bag, please?’

  There was a heavy police presence outside Party Headquarters, checking people before they went through the door. Barriers had been set up to funnel visitors to a table where their belongings were being examined. Sam unzipped his bag. The policewoman glanced in and ran a grey plastic wand over his laptop. ‘ID?’

  ‘I have an appointment, with—’

  ‘ID, please,’ she repeated, as if he hadn’t heard her.

  He felt inside his coat and brought the driving licence out of his wallet. She peered at the details, then examined a clipboard held by her colleague. ‘Mr Koverchovich?’

  She said it loudly, mispronouncing it. A couple of other uniforms looked up and scanned his face.

  ‘Dr Kovacevic. I’m here for a job interview.’

  The policewoman’s mouth twitched with amusement. ‘Good luck, sir,’ she said, without a trace of goodwill as she handed back his bag. With a curt flick of her head, she signalled to him to go through.

  Sam gave his name at the desk, then sank into a large leather and chrome chair. He tried to collect his thoughts for the interview but the impact of Helen’s note blotted out everything else. He had found it on the kitchen table when he got back.

  Dear Sam,

  I’m going to Mummy’s. She thinks it would be better if I stayed with her for now, because of the riots and everything that’s going on. Please don’t take this the wrong way. You can go on using the flat till you find somewhere else.

  Hx

  If the letter was a bombshell, the call that followed it was worse. The first three times he’d tried it went to voicemail, but she picked up after the fourth.

  ‘What is this? Are you dumping me?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Sam.’

  ‘What’s your mother been saying?’

  ‘Just that it’s a bad time for us to be together.’

  ‘What the fuck does that mean?’ He was practically shouting down the phone.

  ‘I’ve got to go. Sorry.’

  She rang off. He dialled again, then decided against it. He threw the phone at the wall. Tears of anger blurred his vision. It took him several minutes to grasp what Helen had meant. Nothing like this had happened before.

  When he retrieved the phone he saw there was a voicemail. Even though it was late he had called the number and got straight through to a woman called Pippa, who sounded very important but terribly keen to meet ASAP.

  A tall woman in her early thirties, in a smart suit with a silky blouse underneath, glided towards him. Her smile and her hair looked immovable.

  He got to his feet. She put out a hand. ‘Hello! I’m Pippa. So, is it Sam or Sahim?’

  Sam shook her hand, which felt limp and cool, and smiled. Usually he would have said ‘Sam’ emphatically. But the choice suggested opening himself to more possibilities. ‘Either’s fine.’

  She tilted her head, sizing him up. ‘I rather like Sahim. Let’s go for that, shall we?’

  She gestured for him to follow. Her carriage and manner reminded him of Helen, but he dismissed the thought.

  She showed him into a boardroom with a long table and waved at a chair. A carafe of water had been placed in front of it.

  ‘We’re just waiting for Derek – he’s our marketing wizard. But h
e’s always late so let’s see if we can cover a few things first.’ She gave him a conspiratorial smile as she seated herself opposite him and opened a slim file. ‘We’re so glad you decided to give us a chance.’

  He laughed, faintly sheepish. ‘Well, I’m always open to offers.’ Oh, God, he thought, does that sound desperate? The truth was he had never allied himself with a political party, not because of any determination to remain independent but because politics didn’t interest him. They were talking about an actual job, though, and since he didn’t have one, he had nothing to lose.

  ‘We thought you must be rather in demand.’

  ‘I was up at Oxford for an interview. They’ve not got back to me yet.’

  This wasn’t a lie, more a creative interpretation of the truth.

  She smiled again. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Their loss, I’m sure. I’d be lying if I said we weren’t pleased. Young Muslims willing to work for the Party are a bit thin on the ground right now.’

  ‘Well, I’m not exactly practising.’

  She laughed. ‘Well, I call myself C of E but I can’t remember the last time I went to church. You fit the bill, all right.’

  Her enthusiasm put him at ease. ‘Well, you haven’t interviewed me yet. You may think differently afterwards.’

  They both laughed politely. She flipped open a file and studied it. ‘So, just to be absolutely clear, you were born in the former Yugoslavia, is that right?’

  ‘Bosnia. Yes. But I’ve been here since I was five.’

  She frowned. ‘You came as a refugee? Gosh, that must have been horrid for you.’

  ‘Actually, no. I count myself very lucky to be here.’

  She sighed. ‘If only more people felt that way.’

  The door flew open and a middle-aged man with a florid face and wispy blond hair burst in, a BlackBerry pressed to one ear. Under his arm was a sheaf of papers that looked as if they were about to cascade from their precarious perch.

  ‘Tell him to do it or he’s fucking out of here today. I don’t care. Well, fuck you too.’

  The papers slid to the floor.

  ‘Fucking arseholes.’

  Only then did he become aware of the two of them, watching. ‘Sorry, all.’ He grinned at Sam and thrust out a meaty hand. ‘Derek Farmer. So glad you could come. Boy, do we need someone like you round here.’ His brow furrowed briefly as he peered at Sam. ‘So you are Muslim, right? Or, er …’

  He frowned at Sam’s linen suit from H&M. Pippa studied her nails.

  ‘I am, but I’m under cover.’

  They all laughed – a little too long. But for the first time in a while Sam felt as if he was capable of making an impact. ‘But to answer you properly, yes, I am a Muslim. Born and bred.’

  ‘But not about to …’ Farmer made a gesture as if something was about to explode from his chest.

  Sam was mystified. He glanced at Pippa who was looking the other way.

  ‘Oh, y’know. Kaboom!’

  Sam laughed again because there was nothing else he could think of doing. So did Farmer, who looked at his watch, then picked up his BlackBerry and gestured with it. ‘So, here’s the deal. The Party’s in the shit. Most of your lot think we’re the enemy. And, frankly, we deserve everything you’re hurling at us – well, maybe not the petrol bombs. But the fact is we look like a bunch of fucking dinosaurs. Well, not Pippa, of course, who just looks fucking sexy.’

  ‘Fuck off, Derek.’

  ‘Oh? Thought it was worth a shot. Anyway, apart from Pippa, the Party’s a load of WASPs, who look as though the only hoi-polloi they know are the beaters on their grouse shoots. As for “Generation Now”, all we’ve got is a few chinless wonders whose grasp of Estuary English is about as good as their Mandarin, and a posse of Afros we bribed to join up with free iPads.’

  He looked at Sam expectantly. ‘We need some Islamic cred. Someone who can speak to the street, reach out to the Muslim community, love them up a bit and make them feel more like we’re the party that has their interests at heart. Got it?’

  Sam found himself nodding. All his time in academe he’d been surrounded by political correctness. Farmer’s refusal even to pay lip service to it was almost refreshing. ‘Yeah, I think I can help you out there.’

  Farmer waved him on, like a traffic cop. ‘Go on, then. Do your stuff.’ He leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head, revealing large sweat stains round his armpits.

  Sam looked at Pippa, who was smiling. He leaned forward. ‘Eh, okay, well. There’s a lot of people, not unlike me, really, who just want to get on with their lives. They’ve either fled tyranny or their parents struggled to get here so they can make something of themselves. None of us in this country have anything to gain by fighting with each other. We all want peace and quiet and prosperity.’

  Farmer clapped. ‘Love it. More!’

  Sam felt like a performing seal but he didn’t care: he had their attention and that made a welcome change. ‘Peace and prosperity only thrive where there’s the rule of law. As a criminologist, I know all about what happens when there’s no security. This party is right to support the police. Their job is very difficult and, yes, mistakes get made, but what’s the alternative?’

  Farmer turned to Pippa. ‘I think our friend here has just talked himself into a job.’ He returned to Sam. ‘Got any skeletons?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Sex, drugs, rock and roll, anything the tabloids could stick you for?’

  Was Karza a skeleton? If so, he wasn’t about to let on.

  ‘Married? Girlfriend – or boyfriend?’

  ‘None of the above – currently.’

  ‘Well, if you do snare one make sure it’s a she and, if possible, one of your lot. Some of our backwoodsmen cut up rough when they see their English roses being plucked by brown fingers. Sorry.’

  Pippa gave Sam an apologetic look while Farmer ploughed on. ‘How’d you like to be on telly tonight?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘He actually has some media experience,’ said Pippa.

  ‘Fuck me – then he’s perfect. Channel 4 News are doing a hatchet job on us. We could put you up – surprise the shit out of them.’ Farmer seemed thrilled at the prospect.

  Emboldened by their attention, Sam felt a surge of confidence. ‘I’ll need a briefing.’

  ‘Good man. Play your cards right, we might even parachute you into a safe seat.’ Farmer scooped up his papers and winked at Pippa. ‘Do the necessaries, Princess.’ He offered Sam a warm, sweaty hand. ‘See you in Makeup. Jon Snow’s gonna love you.’

  21

  Pall Mall

  The smell of Hugh Buckingham’s club was a rich mixture of floor polish, port and old leather.

  ‘Excuse me, sir, if you would be so good …’ The ancient porter tottered into Tom’s path and raised a gnarled claw to his neck.

  ‘Oh – of course.’ Tom reached into his pocket and drew out the tie his mother had reminded him to bring. The porter sighed quietly, and glanced apologetically at the portrait of Wellington. But the First Duke’s attention was still focused on Waterloo.

  ‘Mr Buckingham’s waiting for you in the library, sir.’ The old man gestured jerkily, as if his arm was controlled by wires from above.

  ‘Thanks.’

  As Tom went towards the huge double doors, he remembered his first lunch there with his father, just as he was signing up. It had been a difficult one. Put up to it by Mary, Tom’s mother, Hugh had been tasked to make one last-ditch attempt to deter him. Neither of them understood Tom’s military ambitions and were convinced it was all down to his wilfully rebellious spirit. His father’s pleas had fallen on deaf ears.

  ‘My dear boy!’

  Several of the other readers jumped as Hugh Buckingham pierced the silence. He threw down his Telegraph and leaped out of his chair with an energy that belied his sixty-eight years. He was tanned and bright-eyed, with strong arms that clasped Tom in a brief but impressively firm hug.

 
; ‘Hey, Dad.’ It was months since he had seen his father. He had lost even more weight, having late in life discovered the joys of serious exercise. ‘Just looking at you makes me feel exhausted.’

  Hugh clasped his waist.

  ‘Thirty-four and counting – inches not years, of course. And keeping the Alzheimer’s at bay.’ He grabbed Tom’s arm and spun him round, as if he was a clockwork toy. ‘Come on, I’m famished.’ He marched him towards the dining room, where a table for two was waiting by the window. ‘Bloody good to see you.’

  Behind the bonhomie, Tom detected his father’s anxious glances. Over the years, Hugh had seen him return from tours thin and bearded, bruised and battered, but always exhilarated by the job that was his life. But Tom knew he could count on Hugh to keep his observations to himself. Tom would discuss what had happened in his own time, if he chose to; there wasn’t going to be any third degree.

  ‘They’ve got rack of lamb on today – seem to remember it’s one of your favourites.’

  ‘Why are you staying up in town?’

  ‘Board meetings. Very bored.’ Hugh chuckled. ‘The old firm’s in the throes of a takeover.’ The city company he had served for three decades had persuaded him to come back as a non-executive director.

  The wine waiter glided towards them. ‘Something to start, gentlemen?’

  ‘How about kicking off with a couple of glasses of your house champagne?’

  ‘We’re not celebrating anything, are we?’

  ‘Well, we won’t let that get in the way of a glass of fizzy pop!’

  Behind his excitement at seeing Tom, Hugh seemed sheepish.

  ‘You’re so transparent, Dad. You would’ve made a terrible spy.’

  A waitress passed them in the sort of black and white uniform no one wore any more.

  ‘So what’s it to be?’

  ‘Yeah, I’ll go with the lamb.’

  Hugh waved the menu to flag down the waitress, like a ground-crew member directing a jumbo jet. Tom recalled being embarrassed by the expansiveness of his movements when he was a boy. Now his enthusiasm felt life-affirming and rather welcome.

  ‘Two lambs.’ Hugh winked at Tom. ‘And leave some space for jam roly-poly – bet you don’t get that in Afghanistan.’