by Andy McNab
‘What does “someone like me” mean exactly?’ Tom watched her closely; on the surface she appeared to be quite relaxed, in her stride.
‘You might have noticed on the campus that the men, they’re … well, a lot of them have had a bad time and they’re mostly … how do I put this? From less advantaged backgrounds. He doesn’t get many of your sort. That’s why he was so keen to meet you. Or meet you again, I should say.’
‘Clever of you to track me down. Was it hard?’
‘Part of my job is to be a talent scout for him. He needs what he calls a better class of ex-servicemen, not just victims but victors. People who can act for him on the ground. It’s my job to know everything about his background and who he knows or has known. When I discovered you were on your way back from Afghanistan, I thought he’d like to know. He’s always looking to recruit new blood.’
A very well-crafted answer, thought Tom.
‘And how did you do that?’
‘Do what?’
‘Track me down.’
She held his gaze. Tom decided she must have been well trained. ‘An old contact at the MoD, who’s also an Invicta supporter. He helps where he can with lists of returning soldiers.’
‘And you happened to recognize my name because you knew Rolt and I were contemporaries at school.’
She smiled a bit too eagerly. ‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘And you managed to get hold of my phone numbers.’
She gave a coquettish smile and took a sip of her drink. ‘Well, I was a journalist.’
‘He must have been very pleased with you.’
She looked temporarily lost. ‘He expects a hundred and ten per cent.’
‘And total loyalty.’
She smiled emphatically. ‘Mm.’
‘So he’d be pretty pissed off with you if he found out you were working for someone else.’
She closed her eyes and gave an exaggerated shudder. ‘God, yes.’
‘But you’d tough it out, wouldn’t you – if he accused you?’
She stared at him with an amused smile, as if she was pretending to enjoy not knowing where this banter was going.
‘And you’d be very plausible. You’d challenge him on it – insist he backed up the claim.’
She took a much bigger sip of her mojito.
‘Well?’
His whole demeanour had changed. Not overtly threatening, just a cold, penetrating stare.
She put her glass down and positioned it on the coaster. ‘Yes, I would.’
‘And if I went to him and told him that you couldn’t have seen my name on any list because the MoD never lists the movements of the SAS, and that my phone number is privileged, is never on anyone’s file …’
Her calm and seductive serenity was starting to fray. Tom suspected that inside she felt as though she was clinging to a very slippery windowsill.
‘… and that therefore I’ve been set up …’
‘I’m sorry, Tom, but I really don’t understand what you’re saying.’
A last-ditch attempt. She was off the windowsill, falling to her doom. A bit of him felt sorry for her – she was only doing her job. But mostly he was angry. He’d been played in Afghanistan, humiliated in front of senior officers, made to carry the can for a brutal murder. And now someone else was manipulating him.
He leaned across the table and put his lips very close to her ear. ‘Take out your phone and call your case officer. Say you’d like him to join us for a drink.’
34
‘This is all rather awkward.’
Tom said nothing.
Woolf’s eyes had a slightly desperate look, like that of a man who had had a stroke and was thinking far more than his features would allow him to express. He and Tom had met before, on the Eurostar hijacking: Woolf had been MI5’s man on the ground when the SAS had gone into the tunnel. Unlike the suits and mandarins, who had rushed in after it was over to claim their slice of the credit, he had taken a back seat. And for that Tom had reserved a molecule of respect for him – until now.
They were seated in a private room in his father’s club that Tom had commandeered for the meeting.
Phoebe, looking fragile, stared hard at her nails as she waited for her boss to explain himself.
‘Sorry to hear about the business in Bastion.’
Tom glared at him, feeling nothing but cold anger. It came as no surprise to him that the spook knew about his exit from Afghanistan – but how much? ‘Let’s just get this done, okay?’
Woolf sighed, with an air of defeat uncharacteristic for someone in his line of work. These people were used to calling the shots. ‘Okay.’ He took a deep breath. ‘From the top?’
‘From the top.’
‘The shooting in Walthamstow. We think it connects to Invicta.’
‘How?’
Woolf looked at Phoebe but she was still studying her nails. ‘Our suspect is on their payroll.’
‘Who is he?’
Woolf hesitated. Tom laid his hands flat on the table. ‘Come on! You’ve fucked me around enough.’
Woolf swallowed. ‘His name’s Vestey.’
Tom laughed. ‘No way.’
Woolf’s eyes widened. ‘You know him?’
‘I saw him in action today. He’s not your man. His sniper days are over.’
Woolf reddened. ‘His brother’s a commander in SCO19. He was on duty that night.’
‘Take it from me. Vestey could not have been your shooter. He’s past it.’ Tom gazed at Woolf as he digested this news. ‘Is that it?’
Woolf blew out a long breath. ‘All right. We don’t have much to go on, even less now you’ve … enlightened us about Vestey. And I’m grateful you did. There are plenty in the Service who would happily see me fall flat on my face on this one.’ He leaned back and gripped the edge of the table.
‘This shooting of a blameless respected Muslim – set up to look like it was done by the police – has, in my opinion, all the hallmarks of a deliberate act of provocation. Remember what happened after Stockwell and Duggan? The outrage. Only this time the cops did not do it. So who was it? Our focus has been on Muslim extremists and returnees from Syria. But why would they? They may have the motivation to do harm, but do they genuinely have the capability to carry out an attack with this kind of precision? You and I both know that’s highly unlikely. My colleagues in the security services are looking in the wrong direction.’
He blinked as he waited for Tom to respond.
Tom knew what he thought. A returnee might have the motivation and have done a bit of time in a training camp, but you didn’t learn to be a sniper pissing about in a war zone shooting off an AK at anything that moved. However, he wasn’t in any mood to give Woolf the benefit of his wisdom. ‘You’re the spook: you tell me.’
‘Well, the key question is motivation. The killing has brought Muslims out onto the streets and, in turn, all those who hate them. Someone is deliberately trying to polarize the two sides. To push us beyond the limits – perhaps even to the edge of civil war.’
Tom folded his arms. ‘And the hostel bomb? Genuine reprisal, or …?’
‘Or an attempt to raise the temperature further. Exactly. We’ve had Seven/Seven. We’ve had Woolwich. Each time we’ve stepped closer to the edge of popular outrage. Now the government’s tearing itself apart trying to be all things to all communities, but it’s losing the battle. The whole – ecosystem we’re living in has changed.’
Tom glanced at Phoebe. ‘And you suspect Rolt because he’s gone out of his way to articulate it?’
‘A year ago Vernon Rolt would have been ostracized for talking about removing the extremist element,’ he began, ‘whereas today …’
Tom looked at Phoebe again.
She nodded slowly. ‘He’s extremely secretive, and extremely well connected. He’s worked long and hard to build and maintain his position as a pillar of society. An entrepreneur who’s not only ploughed millions into a good cause but befriended, a
nd championed, a very particular kind of underdog.’
Woolf took up the thread. ‘The underdog with a grievance, with the capacity to turn on his former masters. Potentially, Invicta isn’t just a refuge. It’s the perfect incubator for the disaffected ex-soldier with a grudge to nurture.’
A waiter put his head round the door. ‘Anything I can get you?’
Woolf looked as though he badly needed a drink but Tom wasn’t in the mood to show mercy. ‘We’re fine, thanks.’ He waved the waiter away and turned back to Woolf. ‘Let me get this clear. You believe someone inside Invicta is training former service personnel – people like me – to be terrorists?’
Woolf took a breath. ‘Maybe. That’s what we have yet to verify.’
Tom turned to Phoebe. ‘Well? You’re the one who’s been cosying up to him all these months.’
Phoebe glanced at Woolf, who signalled for her to go ahead. ‘They prefer to think of themselves more as crusaders or freedom-fighters than terrorists. But unfortunately we’re not that cosy. Rolt plays everything close to his chest, as I said. He makes lots of his own arrangements, doesn’t keep records, sometimes avoids using email even. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t suspect me, but he knows that the Service is likely to be watching him, as it does all right-wing groups, so he never lets me see anything sensitive.’
‘So you’ve actually got nothing concrete on him?’
Woolf parried this before she could answer. ‘You know what keeps us spooks awake at night? The white terrorist, the one no one’s looking out for. The one who looks and sounds just like us. The next big one won’t be a bus bombing or a plane, it’ll be a smart surgical strike on people in power and that will need operators who can pass for insiders – who are hiding in plain view.’
‘Except you’ve got fuck-all to implicate Invicta, especially now I’ve shot down your claim about Vestey.’
‘Maybe he recruited the shooter.’
‘Maybe. You’re clutching at straws.’
‘Straws are sometimes all we have.’ Woolf leaned forward, propping his head on the tips of his fingers, as if fending off a headache. ‘Look, you’ve just spent some time with him. Isn’t there anything about him, about Invicta, that gave you pause for thought?’
Tom stared at him for several moments. The claims were outrageous, bordering on the deranged. Rolt was unusual, eccentric, even. But he had shown Tom respect and confidence, which was more than he could say for his former paymasters. ‘My first impressions are that Invicta’s doing a good job for soldiers who’ve been fucked over or abandoned by the system. Without his commitment and dedication most of them would have been lost, ending up a danger to themselves and a menace to society.’ He stood up. ‘I think we’re done here.’
Woolf held up his hands in surrender. ‘Please, Tom. We need someone on the inside, no disrespect to Phoebe, who can get closer—’
‘One question. Why didn’t you go through the normal channels to try and recruit me? Was that such a crazy idea?’
Woolf shook his head. ‘If we’d gone through the normal channels, at least ten people in the MoD would have had to know. There’d have been emails, forms, countersignatures. Just getting it signed off by your CO, you’d have been blown before we even got airborne. Apart from the DG and a couple of my counterparts, no one knows about this. It’s completely off grid. I couldn’t risk anyone inside the MoD apparatus knowing.’
‘In case they tipped Rolf off?’
‘As Phoebe says, he’s that well connected. He gets one whisper of this, I’m out – and my boss will probably have to fall on his sword too.’
For all Woolf’s pleading, it was still clear to Tom he had been played. Woolf had used him as the Service always used people, like avatars, in a game they thought they could control.
Tom took out his phone. Woolf opened his mouth, closed it again and sighed. ‘Look, I apologize. It was bad judgement. If you make the call to Rolt, I’m history. Invicta will become even more impenetrable and we’ll never know. We won’t even know if we were wrong.’
Tom looked at Phoebe. Her eyes were glistening. ‘This what you signed up for – to fuck over members of the armed forces?’
She didn’t speak but her eyes said it all. Keep this to yourself, please, for my sake as well as yours.
Tom looked at them both. ‘Okay, I’ve heard what you’ve got to say, now piss off.’
Woolf got to his feet. ‘So – will you help us?’
‘I haven’t decided yet. Right now I need a holiday.’
Woolf buttoned his jacket. He looked like a man who could have done with a week’s sleep.
After they had left Tom stayed in the room alone, very still for several minutes. Then he took out his phone and dialled Delphine.
35
Westminster
‘My God, I’m so sorry. The bastards.’ Pippa’s face was a picture of concern.
Not even Nasima’s expert attention could entirely disguise Sam’s bruises. He had done a bit of improvisation with some foundation of Helen’s he’d discovered in the bathroom but the finish was uneven. How did women get that stuff to go on properly? Fortunately the worst of the damage was not on his face or hands. ‘I think they came off worse,’ he joked.
She laughed along but Sam doubted she believed his lie. ‘Well, I’m sure the police will get them.’
‘Ah, I didn’t report it.’
‘Why ever not?’
He felt like saying, You just don’t get it, do you? The assault had been a wake-up call, a reminder of who he really was and where he had come from, but that wasn’t what he had come to talk about.
‘It’s not that simple. There could be reprisals. Look, there’s something I was hoping you could help me with. I’ve been chucked out of my flat.’
It was sort of true. It was only a matter of time before Helen would want the place back. He had decided Pippa was the best person to broach this with. Derek Farmer was the decision-maker but Sam didn’t think he could stand his particular brand of bonhomie just now. Uppermost in his mind was finding somewhere he could also accommodate Nasima. Her imminent arrival in London dominated his thoughts.
‘Oh dear. That’s not good, is it?’ She shook her head in sympathy.
‘Things aren’t as easy as they were, put it that way.’ That much was true. Things weren’t. Everything was different. The attack had knocked away the foundations of everything he held dear, as if he had been punished by some malign force for clinging to his values of tolerance and inclusion. But almost as powerful had been Nasima’s response. First, her concern, the professional way she had taken charge of his injuries. How much his life had changed in just a matter of days. This new job and now this woman. Helen was history. What was the point of having some white trophy girlfriend when there were people like Nasima out there?
Not that she was his girlfriend. Not yet.
Pippa listened, her head tilted to one side as he spoke. She reminded him of a kindly headmistress, even though she was probably not much older than he was. ‘Well, no. Absolutely. We can’t have our star spokesperson living on the streets. Stay here while I make a few enquiries. I might have just the thing.’ She gave him a broad smile and glided out of the room.
It had been Nasima’s idea to ask the Party. It wouldn’t have occurred to him, and when he had said he didn’t like to ask, she had become quite frosty. ‘They’re in government and they’re your employer. What’s wrong with asking?’
In less than a minute Pippa was back, triumphant. ‘Courtesy of one of our recently disgraced members, it seems we have a rather nice little pied-à-terre in Victoria going begging.’
‘Disgraced?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Shared a bed in Brussels one night with another man – not a problem per se, but his wife wasn’t terribly happy. And his constituency party is – shall we say – very old guard.’
Sam nodded noncommittally. ‘It sounds perfect. Does it have two bedrooms? My girlfriend is very modest.’
T
here was a beat while she took this in. He could see her thinking, They’re a funny lot.
‘Oh, yes. Right. Of course. As it happens, it does, though the smaller one really is a bit bijou, as the agents like to say.’
‘I’m sure we’ll manage. It’s very kind of you.’
‘The furnishings aren’t much to write home about, but as you’ll be out and about most of the time, I don’t imagine that’ll be a problem. And it is very central. The neighbours may be a bit old-fashioned, but I’m sure you’ll use your charm on them.’
He assumed that by ‘old-fashioned’ she meant likely not to want Muslims living among them. Whatever, it wasn’t his problem. His life was evolving and he was taking charge of it, leading his destiny in a new direction.
From a drawer she produced a large gold-edged invitation card and held it out to him. ‘Welcome to the next level.’
He gazed down at it.
The Prime Minister requests the pleasure …
‘Beware, you’re going to be bombarded with these. We want you at all the PM’s VIP bashes. We’re keen to widen the gene pool around him – and you’re, well, the best thing that’s happened to us in a while.’
Sam stared at the card.
‘And I can make them plus one if you like.’
He grinned. ‘Wow, thanks.’
His life was on track. He was someone. He couldn’t wait to tell Nasima.
36
An hour later, Sam was leaning against the wall in a fourth-floor mansion flat two blocks from Victoria station, getting his breath back.
Inside it smelt faintly of mildew and instant coffee, and bore all the signs of a hurried departure: curtains drawn, a large drift of post piled against the inside of the door, an iPhone charger hanging out of a socket and half a packet of chocolate digestives on the small kitchen table. He bit into one: still crisp.
He sat down in a black leather swivel chair, running his hands up and down the chrome frame and grinning to himself. He had gone to work for them; now he was making them work for him. He stood up and explored the bedrooms. Nasima wasn’t actually his girlfriend yet – that was more at the planning stage. He hoped she’d be okay about being his date at the PM’s events. Would that kind of thing impress her?
