Fortress

by Andy McNab

  As the waitress retreated, she gave Tom an appreciative look, which Hugh noticed. He leaned across. ‘Always good to see my DNA getting the attention it deserves.’ Tom gave his father a withering look.

  The champagne arrived. They raised their glasses and drank.

  ‘Ah, that’s better.’ Hugh’s fitness regime had done nothing to dull his appreciation of alcohol.

  ‘Bit of a mess you’ve come back to. What’s your take on it all?’

  ‘I’m still catching up.’

  Hugh furrowed his brow so it resembled rough terrain. ‘Some would say – indeed, are saying – that it’s the inevitable consequence of open borders.’ He gestured at the other diners, all older than himself. ‘That’s the prevailing view of many of us wrinklies. And these people coming and going from Syria, that’s another bee in their bonnet. Frankly, I think that aspect’s been blown out of proportion.’

  Tom knew he could count on his father not to swim with the tide. In fact, he made a habit of taking the contrary view, something that had brought a good many dinner parties to a premature halt, requiring Mary’s anxious apologies to smooth things over. It occurred to Tom, perhaps for the first time, that it was one way in which they were alike.

  ‘What do they think in here, the powers that be?’

  Hugh looked round. ‘Well, Chatham House rules, of course, so one can’t pass anything on. But there were very strong words on the subject in here last night. A chap who’s quite high up in the civil service hinted that the government’s terrified. They daren’t do anything drastic for fear of alienating parts of the electorate. And public confidence in the cabinet is ebbing away, never mind in Parliament itself. So the MoD and the police have been meeting privately to lay out emergency measures – even talking about putting your lot on the streets, if things don’t die down. The PM’s buggered off to the States, you know, and that woman Garvey’s been left holding the fort.’

  Tom winced inwardly at the reference to ‘your lot’ but let it go. His father was getting into his stride and at least it deflected the conversation away from him. ‘Well, she is the home secretary, Dad.’

  ‘Of course, of course.’

  Hugh leaned across the table and dropped his voice. ‘You know what I think? There are some people who actually want things to get worse, precisely so they can take drastic action.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Oh, you know, dumping some of this human-rights legislation that keeps coming at us from Brussels, all the politically correct stuff that ties the hands of the police and the judiciary.’

  ‘You agree with that?’

  ‘Trouble with today is, the collective memory of the last war – I mean the Second World War, when our forebears had to muck in and all pull together, when there was a real threat of invasion – has pretty well died out. The truth is, us baby boomers have had it too easy. So we’re panicking.’

  The lamb arrived: two huge plates of roasted meat and a bowl of vegetables. Gradually, Tom felt himself perking up.

  ‘And let’s have some of the house claret to keep this company.’

  As they tucked in, the waitress returned with a bottle and two fresh glasses.

  ‘That’s the one – just pour it.’

  Hugh fell silent as they attacked their food. Tom was well aware of how little he was giving away, but Hugh would have to lump it as he topped up the claret, no doubt hoping it would oil the wheels.

  ‘Did you um, get back to Rolt?’ The question broke the silence. Tom stared at his father warily. ‘Vernon Rolt. You were at school with him.’

  ‘Yeah, you said. Look, I’m not talking to anyone right now.’ He drained his glass.

  His father refilled it. ‘He’s very keen to get hold of you.’

  ‘So you gave him my number.’

  Hugh could tell straight away that this had been a mistake. Tom’s face had turned to stone.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry, old boy. I know it’s private and all that but I just thought, what with you being back and … He’s a pretty big deal, these days, as I’m sure you know. Quite a hero – and they seem to be in pretty short supply right now. And he was a mate of yours.’

  ‘Hardly. I seem to recall I once decked him in a boxing match. What sort of a “big deal” is he?’

  ‘You don’t know? Well, it’s quite an interesting story. He dropped out of university, drifted around America, fell in with the dotcom crowd in California and made himself a fortune. Then he got homesick for Blighty, came back and ploughed a load of his savings into starting up Invicta.’

  ‘Why? Is there some military angle to his family?’

  ‘Apparently he encountered a homeless guy outside his pad in Mayfair who turned out to be a decorated hero of Iraq Two, and that’s where it all started. More than two thousand ex-service chaps have been through his programme.’

  ‘Impressive.’

  ‘He stays out of the limelight and shuns attempts to credit him for what he’s done. But among those who know, he’s much admired. And there are plenty of people in high places who have the wit to realize his programmes saved a lot of these guys’ lives and cleared up a lot of sick that the MoD’s left behind.’

  ‘What did he say he wanted?’

  ‘He was very charming, said he’d heard you were back …’

  Tom could feel his face heating up. He smelt a rat. As he was going through the army recruitment process, his father had engineered a number of occasions when acquaintances of his with Interesting Jobs in the City had been invited to join them for dinner. It was painfully obvious that he had cajoled them into coming in the vain hope that Tom could be diverted from the army. And having set his heart on that course, Tom had refused to go to Sandhurst and become an officer.

  ‘Hope this isn’t another of your career-management initiatives.’

  Hugh took a gulp of wine. ‘I learned that lesson a long time ago. I’m sure it’s quite innocent. He’s making a name for himself through his work with these—’

  ‘Yeah, these people whose lives are in freefall. You aren’t suggesting I’m one of them, are you?’ Tom realized his voice had risen several decibels. A couple of old buffers at the next table were staring at them.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Hugh was stung. ‘Steady on, old boy. I’m not implying you’re on the scrapheap, if that’s what you mean. The chap called me out of the blue. I’m sure his intentions are entirely noble.’

  The room felt stifling. Tom pushed his chair back. His father gazed at him in horror. ‘I’m going for a leak.’

  Tom marched out, pushing his way through the doors and nearly knocking over an elderly member. Outside it was starting to rain. He took a deep lungful of grey London air and cursed himself for being so sharp with his father, who only had the best intentions, who had put up with his waywardness, and the uncertainty, all these years, and who loved him.

  What the fuck was he going to do anyway? He hadn’t given it a second’s thought. But before he could descend into any kind of self-pity he found himself thinking of Blakey. He took out his phone and searched the number for Selly Oak.

  The nurse on the ward sounded relieved to hear from him. ‘No one’s been to see him at all. Are you a relative?’

  ‘No, just a mate. How is he?’

  She didn’t answer.

  ‘He is going to make it, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, it’s just – well, he’s going to need a lot of help.’

  ‘Can I talk to him?’

  ‘He’s with the surgeon. Could you come in later?’

  ‘I’m in London, but I’ll phone back.’

  He ended the call and noticed the missed calls from two days before. Maybe Rolt could do something for Blakey.

  When he got back to the table his father behaved as if nothing had happened. He was good like that.

  ‘Two jam roly-polys on their way.’ Hugh grinned at him guiltily, just as he used to when Tom was small, as if the puddings were some kind of transgression. At least some things didn’t
change.

  22

  Pimlico

  Sarah Garvey reached for her phone, which was buzzing like a trapped fly on her bedside table. She glanced at the time – 2:25 a.m.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, Home Secretary.’

  It was Halford, the Metropolitan Police commissioner.

  ‘No problem, John,’ she lied. ‘I’d only just got to bed.’

  After giving him such a hard time in COBRA she had made a mental note to be more positive.

  ‘We’re just getting reports of a fire at an ex-servicemen’s hostel in Redditch, probably the result of an explosion.’

  ‘Fatalities?’

  ‘Too early to say. But, looking at the footage, I’d say almost certainly. The front of the building’s been blown out. Several passers-by taken to A and E. Should have a clearer picture in an hour.’

  There was an energy to his tone that had been absent at their meeting. She guessed why. This was off his patch and was sure to take the heat off the shooting.

  ‘Hold back as long as you can on the details. Let’s be very careful what we feed to the media. Nothing, repeat nothing, suggesting a bombing until it’s confirmed by forensics. And even then let’s discuss what we say first.’

  ‘Well, I’d advise you to prepare for the worst. An eyewitness reported seeing a disturbance in the doorway as if someone was being stopped from going in.’

  ‘Okay, thanks for that.’ She put on the light and found the TV remote.

  BBC News was already there, with a reporter standing at the end of a cordoned-off street. Behind her rose a thick funnel of smoke from the flames, which fire-fighters were battling.

  ‘… and although the police have yet to confirm that this was a bomb, fire-fighters have just ruled out a gas explosion—’

  Her report came to an abrupt halt as she ducked to avoid a flying bottle, which smashed to the ground a few feet behind her. The camera panned round to reveal a group of T-shirted and tattooed men, shouting and gesticulating angrily from behind a police tape.

  Right, Garvey thought. We might as well be at war.

  23

  Fulham, London

  Sam’s eyes fluttered open. The clock said four twenty. He propped himself up on one elbow. Someone was ringing the doorbell. It was probably one of the other tenants who had lost their keys. He decided to ignore it.

  He turned over and glanced at the empty half of the bed. Helen’s half – of her bed, in fact – and although she had referred to it as ‘the flat’, it, too, was hers. He wondered if she had seen him on TV, and what she would make of his new position. Maybe it would induce her to come back. But he was using his real name now. Probably her mother would be even less in favour of her going out with him now he was called Sahim.

  The bell went again. He let it ring. He had no inclination to be helpful to her neighbours. He would be out of here just as soon as he had found a room to rent. Besides, he was exhausted. After the Channel 4 News appearance Pippa had whisked him off to the Shard for an informal meet and greet with the home secretary, Sarah Garvey, some Whitehall bigwigs, their special advisers and some senior police. Garvey had been pretty distracted and barely acknowledged him. Nevertheless the heady thrill of rubbing shoulders with Establishment high-ups had boosted his confidence no end, especially when one of her mandarins patted him on the shoulder and told him he had a gift for a good sound-bite. He had been assured this would mean a lot more attention from the media.

  The bell sounded yet again. ‘Fuck off,’ he said, but this time he struggled to his feet, pulled on a pair of shorts and padded to the door.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Kovacevic?’

  A male voice. No one he recognized.

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Sahim Kovacevic?’

  He put the chain on the door and opened it a fraction. A motorbike messenger, holding a slim envelope. ‘Yeah, that’s me. What do you want?’

  ‘Just take this.’

  The man thrust the letter through the gap.

  ‘Do I need to sign anything?’

  ‘No.’

  He went back up to the flat and opened it.

  News of your brother. Meet me at your mother’s flat, 22.00.

  Nasima

  24

  Tom moved briskly through St James’s Park in the hope that his head would have cleared by the time he reached his destination. Luckily Invicta’s headquarters were only a short walk from his father’s club, where he had stayed the night after an evening of rather too much drinking. He had read about the explosion in one of their hostels over breakfast but when he’d called Rolt’s office they had insisted that the meeting was still on.

  The street had been blocked at either end by police Transits with mesh grilles over the windows. Armed police stood at either side of the front doors. One stepped forward as Tom approached.

  ‘Can I help?’ he said, in a tone that suggested help was the last thing on offer.

  ‘I’ve got an appointment with Vernon Rolt.’

  ‘Your name, please, sir?’

  ‘Buckingham.’

  The officer stepped back and knocked on the door. A cop inside opened it. The first repeated Tom’s name.

  The cop inside consulted a clipboard and nodded. The first officer’s expression changed. ‘Sorry, sir. It’s all due to the bombing.’

  ‘That’s confirmed now?’

  ‘’Fraid so.’

  Tom went into the reception area. The place was strewn with the silver boxes of a TV crew. The receptionist was taking a call so he went straight past and followed the cables up the stairs.

  A powerful light shone out of one of the doorways. In the corridor a young woman was standing beside a TV technician watching a monitor. She looked up as Tom approached and was about to shoo him away when she appeared to recognize him. ‘Are you Mr Rolt’s eleven o’clock?’

  Tom gave her hand a firm, business-like shake. ‘Tom Buckingham.’

  ‘I’m Phoebe. He’s overrunning, got the BBC in there. Would you like to wait in the boardroom?’

  ‘This about the hostel?’

  She nodded gravely.

  ‘I’ll linger here and listen, if that’s okay.’

  He leaned against the wall outside Rolt’s office, where a couple of technicians were perched on the silver boxes. Phoebe stood beside him. He could see the two men in profile, Rolt and the BBC man interviewing him, but a monitor in front of one of the technicians showed the live feed. Tom expected Rolt to be smouldering with rage after the bombing. But if he was angry, he had it well under control. He sat upright but relaxed, his hands folded in his lap, a model of British restraint.

  ‘What our government and the opposition haven’t faced up to is the true mood of the public. A lot of people aren’t saying what they’re feeling out loud but it’s plain to see. They’ve just had enough.’

  The reporter said, ‘Enough of what exactly?’

  Rolt lifted his hands and let them drop again as if the answer was obvious. ‘Fear. They’ve had enough of being afraid.’

  ‘So, are you saying that the government should be considering more drastic measures?’

  ‘We know they’re scared of upsetting one small minority of the electorate for fear it will tip the balance in an election. But they’ve got to stop trying to be all things to all people. Hundreds of our men and women have died, thousands have sustained life-changing injuries in the War on Terror. And what have we got to show for their sacrifice? The people Invicta helps are asking, “What about the war here?”’

  ‘Are you saying there’s going to be a war here?’

  Rolt wagged a finger at the interviewer. ‘Don’t put words into my mouth. I’m just repeating what they tell me.’

  Tom observed how Rolt controlled the interview, fending off the reporter but at the same time delivering his message in his own words. The reporter’s eyes were gleaming as if he knew that what Rolt was saying would make headlines all over the media, and he’d have got it first.<
br />
  ‘And what would you like to say to the people who bombed your hostel?’

  ‘I’d say to them, “You have just forfeited your welcome in this country. You and your beliefs are not welcome here.” And I would challenge the government to follow through with that. I’d say to them, “It ends here. Inclusion has failed. It’s time to weed out the terrorists and remove them from the community.”’

  ‘To where?’

  ‘To wherever they can’t harm us.’

  ‘That sounds like a call to arms.’

  ‘Let’s say more of an en garde.’

  ‘Against the Muslim community?’

  ‘God, no. Don’t misunderstand me. Look, I can find you any number of law-abiding British Muslims who would be the first to say, “Do something about the extremists before it’s too late.” The government’s tried the warm fluffy approach – that’s failed. They’ve tried control orders – failed. If what these terrorists want is a caliphate, if they want Sharia law, there are places they can go and find that – but not here. The Huguenots, the Jews and all the other persecuted groups who have settled here came to these shores in search of tolerance and freedom. That tolerance and freedom is now under threat and we need to recognize that.’

  The reporter frowned. ‘What you’re proposing doesn’t sound like tolerance to me.’

  Rolt smiled regretfully. ‘How can you honestly tolerate people whose stated aim is to kill and maim?’

  The reporter looked uncomfortable.

  Rolt continued, ‘We have turned a blind eye to extremist ideologies. We have let them import terror into our green and pleasant land. For their own good as much as ours, they would be happier elsewhere.’

  ‘So, let me get this clear. You’re advocating we repatriate people we regard as a threat to society?’

  ‘I’m advocating freedom from fear.’ Rolt leaned forward. ‘Go to the people staying in our hostels. Talk to the men and women from our armed services who are struggling to find their way back into the country that sent them off to war. Add up the expenditure on policing the potential terrorists, the incarceration of the convicted terrorists, the surveillance of suspects. Then add up what it would take to give those ex-servicemen and -women a decent job and a decent home. To give them some dignity, something in return for risking their lives to uphold our freedoms. What’s the point of their risking their lives if they come home to find the place awash with folk who want to take their freedom away?’