by Andy McNab
Over a roast-beef sandwich and a Coke, Philips opened up.
‘Enlisting was all about getting out of where I came from, a fairly typical scenario.’ He sketched out a family life from hell: Dad in prison most of the time and when he wasn’t, drinking himself comatose or beating up his wife and any of the kids who were in reach. His violence was indiscriminate – everybody got equally fucked up.
‘The Army was my family, so when I left it was like stepping into a void. Now I’ve got that family back – and on twice the pay, plus a master’s in sociology. Here I’ve got five-star accommodation, all the amenities and a job for life. More than I could have dreamed of.’
‘What happens if it doesn’t work out – if you screw up?’
‘Just doesn’t happen. We owe our lives to Invicta, so we just don’t allow failure.’
It’s a bit too good to be true, thought Tom, but there was something about the look on Philips’s face that wasn’t just PR.
‘Bottom line: Invicta delivers. And what with everything that’s going on out there right now, the country going to hell, you value what you’ve got all the more. Frankly, the man’s a saint – he should be running the country.’
It wasn’t the first time Tom had heard that said about Invicta’s founder. Rolt professed to have no political ambition, but after witnessing his BBC interview Tom found that becoming harder to believe.
27
They walked on past a golf course and a football field. From behind a row of poplars, Tom thought he heard shots.
‘Yeah, we’ve got a range too.’
‘Can I see it?’
‘The range warden’s a bit funny about visitors.’
His wariness made Tom all the more curious. ‘I’d hate to miss it.’
‘Let me make a call.’
Philips moved away while he dabbed a number onto his iPhone and spoke.
There were single shots and a short burst of machine-gun fire.
Philips pocketed the phone. ‘He said give him five minutes to clear the range.’
He gave Tom an anxious glance.
‘Something wrong?’
Philips put his head on one side. ‘Blokes here, they’ve been through a lot.’
‘Yes, I got that.’
Philips nodded towards the range. ‘The warden, how can I put this? Doesn’t like to be upstaged, if you get my drift. Used to be a sniper.’
Tom smiled. ‘Don’t worry. I wouldn’t dream of it.’
They walked down a path beside a high fence. Philips punched a code into a keypad and an electric gate glided open.
Tom nodded approvingly. ‘Extra layer of security – very wise.’
They mounted a short flight of steps and entered the club house. The interior consisted of a long, windowless pine-panelled room, lit by a row of low shaded lights. On the right was a gallery of photographs and certificates. The left-hand wall was one long weapons rack.
‘Wow, this is some collection.’ As well as numerous HK and Colt assault rifles, he also spied an Israeli Defence Force Tavor Bullpup semiautomatic carbine, a massive 50-calibre Barrett M107 sniper rifle, and several versions of AK.
A door opened at the other end of the room.
‘Here comes our warden.’
A man wearing a flat wool cap and green gilet moved slowly towards them.
‘Sorry to disturb you, Mick. This is Tom Buckingham, sent by the boss.’
‘Tom Buckingham: Mick Vestey.’
Tom grinned and gave his hand a firm shake. Vestey’s face remained impassive.
‘Quite a set-up you’ve got here.’ Tom gestured at the racks. ‘Enough to see you through a decent-sized war.’ A lot of the weapons would be illegal unless held under a section-seven licence. But in the privacy of this vast facility, maybe a blind eye was being turned.
Seeing no response from Vestey, Philips chipped in: ‘It’s one of our most popular amenities. The fact is that men in the field get very used to weapon handling. Once they’re out, they get withdrawal. And then there’s some who just need to get some rounds down the range to relax. We’re pretty liberal with the ammo.’
For Tom, guns were simply tools of the trade, but he had known plenty of others for whom weapons meant far more – and in some cases too much. This was a gun-nut’s paradise. ‘Can we see the range?’
Vestey shrugged. ‘Six-hundred-metre gallery, electric and twenty-five-metre indoor. We got it all.’
Tom kept up his kid-in-a-toyshop look, more eager than wary. ‘Any chance of a cabby?’
Vestey gestured at the weapons. ‘Take your pick.’
Tom pondered for a second, then pointed at the HK MP5.
Vestey frowned. ‘You sure?’
‘Never tried one. Could be my only chance.’
Vestey bent forward and lifted it out of the rack. ‘Suit yourself. We’ll pick up the rounds through here.’
Tom followed, listening to Vestey, who sounded as if he had flicked a switch. ‘The lanes are flood-lit and air-conditioned, with individual shooting benches and a target pulley system. Shoot all year round in perfect conditions. No mud, no rain, no distractions, so you can set up the perfect zero.’
They paused while he disappeared into the ammo store. ‘Very proud of his domain he is,’ whispered Philips.
Vestey reappeared with a thirty-round mag for the MP5.
‘Twenty-five metres?’
Vestey nodded. ‘Go all the way, if you like.’
He handed Tom a pair of ear defenders and protective eye glasses.
The range was eerily deserted, with no sound but the aircon humming from the ceiling vents.
‘What happened to everyone else?’
‘We clear them out on the hour. You can have too much of a good thing.’
Vestey marched them past the indoor range. Tom glanced through a door at the stalls. The American-made silhouetted figure targets appeared to be wearing shemags. ‘Bit politically incorrect?’
Vestey snorted. ‘Just a little touch of nostalgia for the lads. We use to go big on OBL targets but now he’s history there’s less demand.’
Philips looked uneasy so Tom let the remark go.
‘Standing or prone. Take your pick.’
‘I’ll stand, thanks.’
Vestey loaded the weapon and made it ready before handing it to Tom, his forefinger pointing at the safety catch for him to see. ‘There’s a round in the chamber and the safety catch is on.’
It felt warm as if it had been recently used.
Tom took up his position, raised the weapon and looked down the sights. He thumbed down the safety, let his aim drift slightly wide and fired.
The first round missed the target altogether.
‘Shit.’
‘Take your time,’ said Vestey, with a hint of weariness.
Tom aimed again, slightly closer this time. The bullet hit about three inches left of centre target. Again, he aimed slightly wide. This time it went four inches left of centre. His next three shots did no better.
Tom passed the weapon back to him. ‘Go on, then. Show me how it’s done.’
Philips gave Tom another of his anxious looks. But Vestey just shrugged. ‘Okay.’
He held the gun like a pro, like it was part of him, brought it up, aimed and fired. The first was an inch off, the second another inch.
‘Good skills,’ murmured Philips, as if a compliment was required to fill the silence.
Vestey remained in his position, fired five more times. None of them came as close.
‘Okay, give me one more chance.’ Vestey handed the weapon back to Tom. This time he got centre mass.
‘That’s better.’ The next one hit right home as well. He lowered the weapon and offered it back to Vestey. ‘Want to match me?’
Vestey’s eyes didn’t meet his. ‘Time I was getting back. Got another group in a minute.’ He turned and headed back the way they had come.
Outside, Philips lit a cigarette. ‘Sorry he wasn’t more forthcoming.’
�
��I hope I didn’t wind him up.’
‘You’ve got to remember, for the people here, a lot of water’s flowed under the bridge. We have to accommodate all sorts.’
Tom spied Jackman coming towards them.
‘Sorry to butt in, gents, but the boss asks if we could swing by Redditch. That’s if you can spare the time.’
‘Is he at the hostel?’
‘He’s meeting the police there in an hour.’
28
Redditch
Rolt was standing with a group of cops, some in uniform, others in hooded white overalls. Firemen were removing their kit. A group of noisy onlookers was being kept well away behind a tape. Some carried placards: Fuck off home and blow up your own people.
Rolt broke away and came towards Tom. ‘Care to have a look?’
Tom shook his head, disgusted by the carnage. ‘Expect the cops don’t want too many tramping around their crime scene.’
‘Yeah, but you’ve seen the effects of more bombs than any of them.’
‘It’s confirmed, then?’
He nodded, then shivered. ‘It’s only when you see it that the true horror hits you, doesn’t it?’
Rolt looked grey and drawn. Whatever anger he was feeling, he was doing his best to keep it at bay. ‘They’ve taken away some remains. They said they’re hopeful of getting an ID.’
Inside, the building was a mass of rubble, everything dripping wet from the fire hoses. Three floors had collapsed in on themselves. They stepped aside as two men in hard hats with lamps attached came through with a body-bag on a stretcher.
‘How many casualties?’
‘Five dead. Fourteen critical, three unaccounted for. A few hours later, the canteen would have been full and the toll would have been triple that.’
Tom stood on a plastic sheet that covered the foyer floor. ‘How many explosions?’
‘Just the one, far as we know. The fractured gas pipes did the rest.’
‘Any ideas on how the guy got so far into the building?’
‘One witness claims they heard shots before the blast. The police think he may have shot his way in.’
‘Any weapon recovered?’ Tom surveyed the wreckage with a wearily practised eye. The bomber would have to have been a giant to carry the weight of bang to make a hole that big. This wasn’t some random attack.
‘Sorry I dragged you up here.’
‘Not a problem. And since I’m here, I could look in on that guy Blakey I told you about.’
‘Let me come with you. I’m only getting in the way here.’
29
Selly Oak Hospital, Birmingham
Blakey lay flat on his back, surrounded by a spaghetti of drips and drains. He was staring straight upwards, his eyes glazed. He turned his head as they approached and a smile spread over his face. ‘They said you’d called.’
His voice was small and slurred. He tried to lift his head, gave up. Tom stood right over him so he didn’t need to move.
‘You’re my first visitor.’
‘What about your mum?’
‘She’s gone to my sister’s in Leamington. They smashed her windows. She’ll come when she’s got her nerve back. I’ll still be here. I’m not going anywhere.’ He closed his eyes again.
Tom took his hand. It felt limp and lifeless. ‘How are you doing?’
‘How does it look?’
Tom wished he hadn’t asked. He introduced Rolt.
Before they had got past the pleasantries a nurse and two orderlies appeared.
‘Hello, Cliff. We’re taking you down to pre-op. Going to have another look at that spine of yours.’
‘Whatever.’
The nurse gave Blakey a wan smile and turned to Tom. ‘Sorry to break up the party, guys.’
Rolt reached forward and gripped Blakey’s shoulder.
‘We’ll get your mum and sister out to see you. That’s a promise. Then we’ll see what else we can do for them and you.’
30
In the car back to London, Tom rode in the rear with Rolt, who spent a long time poring over his laptop, the screen a mass of figures. As he scrolled through them, he sighed frequently but said nothing. Jackman pulled onto the M40, put the Bentley in the fast lane and let the needle wind its way up past a hundred.
‘Thanks for offering to help Blakey.’
‘As I said, it’s what we’re all about. He’s got enough on his plate without having to worry about his mother being too scared to come and visit him.’ Rolt focused on his figures again.
‘You’ve got quite a set-up, haven’t you?’
Rolt smiled. ‘So you got on okay there?’
‘Very interesting.’
‘Impressed?’ He looked as though he really wanted to know.
‘The guys I spoke to – they seem to think you saved their necks.’
‘Well, there is a bit of a gap in the market. HMG seems to have forgotten about them.’
‘I still don’t know where you think I fit into all this.’
The traffic abruptly backed up and they slowed to under fifty. The inside lane was coned off: armed police had surrounded a minibus. The occupants were lined up facing the vehicle as they were patted down and cuffed.
‘See what’s happening? People are frightened. This mess we’re in – it’s scaring them. It’s affecting everything: the economy, the markets – tourism.’ Rolt closed his laptop. ‘Do you mind if I confide in you?’
‘Shoot. I’m all ears.’
‘What you saw today, I’ve put everything into it. Become a bit of an obsession. But it’s costly and it doesn’t exactly pay its way. I’ve tried the government. They plead cuts and more pressing priorities. No one wants to remember the heroes of a war they’re trying to forget before it’s even over. And now with this bombing …’
There was real anger in his voice. He closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose, then felt in his pocket. He pulled out a silver cigarette case, slid one out and lit it. ‘But I have got some interest from abroad. Potential investors.’
‘Where?’
‘America – Texas, to be precise. There are people there who want to do something similar. I’ve proposed a partnership: their cash, Invicta’s knowhow and reputation.’ He sighed. ‘God knows we’ve jumped through enough hoops for them. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve been over there. They’ve heard my pitch, but to them I’m just another businessman touting for money.’ He turned to Tom. ‘You know what’ll clinch it? They need to hear it from someone who’s been there and done it.’
‘Who – me?’
‘Precisely. Someone with a blue-chip military background, who isn’t a fully paid-up Invicta graduate. Who can give an objective assessment with a bit of intelligent perspective.’
‘In which case perhaps you’d better share your agenda – your full agenda.’
Rolt looked surprised.
‘Up to now you’ve let Invicta’s success speak for itself. You’re conspicuously absent from the PR messages it puts out. It’s almost as if you’ve shied away from any applause for what you’ve achieved. But in that TV interview you put down a marker.’
Rolt shrugged as if it had been no more than an unintentional aside.
‘And what you’ve said will send shock waves through Whitehall.’
He smiled. ‘That won’t hurt. They could do with a jolt.’
‘But if you follow your argument to the logical conclusion, what you’re talking about is a pretty extreme crackdown on potential terrorists that we don’t currently have legislation for. Critics will accuse you of advocating something like – well, ethnic cleansing.’
He waved Tom’s words away. ‘Look at you. You’ve risked your life all over the world in the War on Terror. I don’t know the details of why you’re suddenly back in Britain, that’s your business and I’ll respect your desire to keep it to yourself, if you choose to do so, but I’ll hazard a guess that you’ve risked your life – oh, maybe twenty, thirty times for this country, an
d what have you got in return for it? What has your friend Blakey got to look forward to when he comes out? Freedom from fear – is that such a big thing to ask?’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Okay, cards on the table. My people are loyal – in fact, they’d probably drive over their own grandmothers if I asked them to. But almost all of them, one way or another, we’ve helped put back on the rails – they’re, well, to an extent a bit dependent. Men like you, in their prime, with a record like yours, are different. Be my ambassador, go to the US and get them to commit. With your track record, you’ll be the one to convince them. Think of it as just another mission, but with food, drink and hotels instead of warfare.’
He raised his hands almost apologetically. ‘I’m not asking you to sign up to anything. Just go and tell them your story.’
Tom knew this wasn’t a decision to be made on the spot.
‘Let me sleep on it, okay?’
31
Doncaster
An eerie calm seemed to have settled over the town. He passed a petrol station. The pumps were covered up, the shop part gutted. There was no sign of the police this time. On the forecourt a pair of foxes battled it out over the contents of a discarded KFC box. He was irritated at having to leave London. Only one day into his new job and he had had to ask to be excused from a seminar they’d wanted him to attend at the LSE. But Pippa was full of understanding, as if he could do no wrong.
‘Of course, Sam! Family must come first. It’s a Party motto,’ she’d told him.
Not that he had let on what the family matter was: if they found out about Karza, it would be a disaster. He still didn’t quite know what to make of his important new role. He was glad of the money as well as the attention. It felt good to have a position and be listened to, though it was new to him to be trading on his background.
He rounded the corner at the bottom of his mother’s street. Part of him dreaded what Nasima would have to say, but he was looking forward to seeing her again. There was something intriguing about her – and she was the complete opposite of Helen. The brutally perfunctory way she had ditched him, the implication that he was the wrong race and religion, had stung him hard.
