by Andy McNab
So far, she had shown the right signs. One room had a king-size bed, the other a narrow single. He gazed at the king size and wondered how she would look on it, naked.
He called her but the number was unrecognized. He tried it several more times and got the same message. A sense of doubt welled up in him. Had he let his imagination run away with him? His mother used to tell him he was a fantasist, dreaming of all the things he wanted to do. He began to wonder if she’d been right. Why would Nasima, who seemed so capable, need his help to find somewhere to stay? There was so much about her that both excited and mystified him. He knew almost nothing about her, or her family, or how she had come to be connected with the charity in Doncaster.
Just as he was starting to give up hope an unknown number came up on his phone.
It was her. ‘I lost my phone.’
He could barely disguise his relief.
‘Were you worried?’
‘Well, yes.’
‘That’s nice of you.’
He delivered the good news about the flat. ‘Just temporary, but it has two bedrooms.’
‘See? I told you. They’re very lucky to have you, right now.’
‘Yeah, I should remember that.’
‘They must really think they need you on their side. Not many people like us would be so willing to speak up for the government, especially at a time like this.’
‘There’s something else.’ He told her about the Downing Street do: an invitation from the prime minister, no less. There was silence at the other end of the line.
‘Are you still there?’
‘That’s – well, it should be very interesting.’
Oh dear, had he gone too far? ‘You don’t have to come. I mean, it was just I thought …’
‘Sahim, that’s wonderful. I’m sorry, I was lost for words. You really are amazing.’
A warm glow of confidence flooded back. Even over the phone the force of her appreciation was unmistakable. All he had to do now was tackle his next challenge: to convert it into something tangible.
37
10 Downing Street
The reception room was a sea of people. Waitresses glided between them with trays. Over a marble fireplace at one end of the room hung a portrait of Elizabeth I, standing on a map of England. But Sam’s attention was on Nasima as she gazed at the crowd.
‘It’s much bigger inside than it looks from the front, isn’t it?’ he said.
‘What is?’
‘Number Ten. A bit like the Tardis.’
She seemed mystified, a reminder that they were worlds apart. But he could see she was captivated by the event. Her whole manner was so different from that of the distant, wary woman he had first encountered in Doncaster. Her dress had also surprised him. She had really gone to town: smart black suit with a skirt above the knee, white blouse and high-heeled boots. Her eyes were subtly enhanced with kohl and her lips were a glossy rose. In this gathering of powerful, famous people, he wasn’t the only one whose attention she was attracting.
‘If you don’t mind me saying, you look terrific.’
She gave him a wry smile. ‘Just trying to blend in.’
The spell was broken by Derek Farmer bearing down on them. ‘Well, look at what we’ve got here.’ His lips were shiny with alcohol. He licked them as he spoke. ‘I hope I’m worthy of an introduction.’
‘This is Nasima. Nasima, this is Derek, my boss.’
He added the last words as a warning signal. He was ready for Farmer to disgrace himself and wanted to alert her in case she decided to take against him. But she rose to the occasion, smiled and even gave him a flirtatious laugh. Sam’s chest swelled with pride at her taking charge of the encounter with such confidence. Farmer leaned down and spoke in his ear in a stage whisper. The smell of drink was almost overpowering. ‘I’d keep her under a burka if I were you.’
Nasima laughed dutifully as he trundled away.
‘I’m sorry about that. You handled him brilliantly.’
‘Yes, he is quite disgusting,’ she said, without breaking her smile.
They sipped their elderflower cordial as a couple of reporters came up and complimented Sam on his TV appearances. He’d kept his studio makeup on, so what remained of Dink’s inflictions were now fully concealed. He could feel Nasima’s admiring gaze as he fielded their questions.
‘What’s your comment on the identity of the bomber?’
Sam frowned at the man, who was glancing at his iPhone as he spoke.
‘Kevin Hagerty, Daily Mail.’
‘Which bomber?’
Hagerty looked askance. ‘The hostel bomber, just been ID’d. Returnee from Syria.’
Sam’s stomach lurched. Hagerty continued talking while simultaneously scanning the room for anyone else of interest.
‘Nurul al-Something-or-other, got back three weeks ago after a nine-week tour. They found half his head in the rubble.’
The reporter fixed his eyes on Nasima, whose expression remained studiedly neutral. Then he called across to Pippa, who was talking to one of the presenters of Newsnight. ‘You need to brief the new boy.’
Pippa turned and said, without smiling, ‘Kevin, if this is about the hostel story, you know very well that’s unconfirmed speculation.’
Sam took a breath. He wasn’t at all clear what the rules of engagement were here, but Nasima was right beside him, watching intently.
‘Well …’ he ventured ‘… whatever the outcome is, I can say this much. Some of the people returning from Syria are very damaged.’
‘Oh, so you don’t condemn them, then?’
Sam reflected briefly on how much his life, and his thinking, had changed. Dink had committed that brutal assault on him for the same reason he was here now, so close to the seat of power: it was because of his difference. All this time he had been living his life believing he was no different from the mainstream. Now he was being sought out for his views because of his background. He didn’t know whether to be amused or outraged. It was as if he had been both alienated and empowered at the same time. How weird was that? He cleared his throat.
‘I do condemn the bombing, utterly. But it is important to understand the motivations of those who go to help in Syria, the desire to help their brothers, to do some good. Many of them come back utterly traumatized by the experience of war. Rather than just punish them, we should offer them support.’
The reporter let out a long garlicky sigh. ‘Blimey. I wonder what your new mate the PM’s going to say about that.’
Pippa was suddenly by their side. ‘Kevin, this is a reception not a bloody press conference.’ She turned to Sam. ‘He can’t use a single word.’
‘What – really?’
Sam looked at the smiling reporter in bafflement.
‘Yes. Really. Now run along.’ She held out a newly manicured hand to Nasima. ‘Philippa Kendrick, head of communications. Thank you so much for coming.’ She gazed at them approvingly. ‘Would you like to meet the prime minister?’
38
Across the room, Stephen Mandler, director general of MI5, was working his way through a much-needed glass of claret. He observed the entourage swirling around the PM with a mixture of pity and contempt. From his perspective the man was out of his depth, splashing away frantically, trying to keep his head above the waves.
On the other hand he felt a bit sorry for him, having constantly to come up with sound-bites that spoke to an increasingly fractured electorate, while his cabinet briefed and schemed behind his back. Yet there he was, making exactly the wrong call: tanned and buoyant, fresh from his trip to the President’s retreat, aglow with the excitement of standing shoulder to shoulder with ‘POTUS’. And he’d accepted one of those ridiculous Camp David jackets they made everyone wear as if they’d joined some fraternity, all the more to talk up the revived Special Relationship, while in his own country the streets burned and the people were in uproar. His assessment was that both of them, the President and the PM, had buried th
eir heads in the sands of Afghanistan, while all about them the danger signs much closer to home were flashing red. He’d seen it all before, heads of state shoring up their crumbling reputations with lofty promises about international partnerships. And there was more to come. A full-blown Anglo-US summit right here in the middle of London, sprung on them out of the blue when there was still glass all over the streets, to show that it was ‘business as usual’ in the capital. All Mandler could see was more overtime and cancelled leave – and, as always, no extra budget to cover it.
As he took another gulp of wine he reflected that never in all his time in the Service had the country seemed so unstable; he felt a mounting discomfort that bad things were happening, and at a pace he could neither understand nor control. It was one thing to know what the problem was, quite another to know how to fix it.
To complete his misery, Alec Clements sidled up, rosy-cheeked with wine. ‘Ghastly news, isn’t it?’
‘The summit?’
‘Good Lord, no. The bomber, of course. I thought you of all people would have that front of mind.’ The cabinet secretary eyed Mandler reproachfully. ‘Confirms everything I’ve been saying all along about the Syria problem, as no doubt you’re aware. At least it’s out in the open now. Time to face the facts.’
This was neither the time nor the place for an argument. Mandler decided no response was the best policy as Clements went on. He wondered if he was going to tell him how to do his job, one of his trademark characteristics and why so many people couldn’t stand him.
‘And I do happen to know that the PM would be jolly glad to hear that you’ve got your A Team covering the returnee threat. Woolf seems a bright chap.’
Was there nothing that escaped his attention? How he had any idea of what Woolf or any of his staff was doing was a complete mystery. Mandler gazed at him with barely suppressed contempt. A morsel of roast beef from a mini Yorkshire pudding had anchored itself to Clements’s lapel. He decided not to point it out. Instead he responded with one of his deathly smiles. ‘Jolly good idea.’
Mandler glared at the retreating back of the cabinet secretary as Sarah Garvey appeared at his elbow.
‘What a cunt,’ she muttered.
He and the home secretary did not have a lot in common but they shared a loathing for Clements. ‘Quite.’
She emptied the remains of her Chablis as if she was doing shots. ‘Never passes up an opportunity to do someone’s job for them.’ She leaned towards Mandler. ‘You should know he’s already told the PM you’ll be stepping up your watch on returnees. And since he’s mentioned Woolf, you’d probably better make sure you’ve got him aimed in the right direction.’
They exchanged a glance. He could see she was in a corner. Had Clements got at her as well?
‘Look, I know it’s all part of your job to think out of the box et cetera, but this is force majeure.’
He turned and bent his head closer to her ear. ‘Anything you say, Home Secretary, but entre nous, the pathologist’s report on said returnee, whose body parts were sprinkled over the hostel site, rather tends to suggest that the unfortunate fellow was almost certainly dead before he supposedly blew himself up.’
Her eyes widened as he nodded slowly. ‘I shit you not.’
She let out a long, mournful sigh. ‘Are you going to tell me what you think about that?’
‘Honestly?’
‘I know it means breaking the habit of a lifetime.’
He shrugged. ‘God’s truth, I haven’t got a bloody clue.’
39
BA 195 London–Houston
It was the call to Delphine that settled it.
‘Please, Tom. I need some time with my family. I’ve been too long away from France.’
Tom decided not to argue. He knew only too well how stubborn she was. In fact, he respected her for it. They were kindred spirits in that way, though he realized now, with a stab of regret, that it worked against them as a couple. His mother’s words echoed in his head: Don’t rush her.
He raised his seat to upright and gazed down at the Texas landscape as the 747-400 started its descent towards George Bush Airport. When he’d called to accept his invitation, the founder of Invicta had let out a huge sigh of relief.
‘I knew I could count on you. I hope it won’t be too onerous. You’ll have to press a lot of flesh, wow the crowd, spin a few yarns about your time in the field. They need to know we’re for real. And they want to feel reassured that I’ve got the right people around me.’
Rolt clearly felt Tom was doing him a favour. The man was hard not to like. And so far he had seemed to be completely straight with him, which was more than he could say for Woolf.
‘We’ll keep this to ourselves, shall we? With all the heightened tension around the hostel, we don’t want any unnecessary attention, do we?’
‘Fine by me,’ Tom told him.
On his iPad was the file Rolt had sent him. It was sketchy: a profile of Skip Lederer, boy genius and founder of Oryxis, a dramatically expanding software start-up, and a bit about the chairman, Aaron Stutz, a seasoned operator with a raft of business interests, including oil exploration, risk management and private security. He was more than twice Lederer’s age. Quite what their interest in Invicta was he would have to find out. Even after he had digested the details, Tom was hardly any the wiser about that aspect of it. And Rolt had not revealed how much he was hoping they would invest.
‘It’s a very large figure,’ Rolt had told him, ‘but I don’t want to tempt Fate by telling you. All you have to do is make them want to open their pockets just that bit more. Also,’ he added cryptically, ‘they may put you through a few hoops. But nothing you’ll be unfamiliar with.’
Tom had made a few notes for his speech, and chosen a mission from his past, which he thought would be just the sort of thing they’d want to hear. In 2006, as part of a four-man squad, he had sprung a CIA operator from a heavily defended house in Kandahar. Using the rescue drills they had perfected under live fire back in Hereford, they had fast-roped onto the roof from a Black Hawk, blasted the occupants with flash-bangs, and snatched the chained and blindfolded agent from right under the noses of his captors. It was a do-or-die operation in the best tradition of the Regiment, all done and dusted in under twenty minutes. He would leave out the fact that the American was a total arsehole who had demanded to know what had taken them so long – and that they had been seriously tempted to boot him off the deck of the Black Hawk as soon as they were in the air.
At the arrivals gate there was a line of drivers holding up name cards. As he scanned them, a tall young woman with a 1000-watt smile came towards him, as if out of a dream. She was blonde, gorgeous and, even allowing for the heels, close on six feet, most of which was legs. Her silky hair was in a ponytail, her lips heavily glossed, as if with varnish. Her red skirt was tight but not so short as to attract the wrong kind of attention, and the crisp white shirt was open to show enough cleavage to stimulate interest without looking what his mother would doubtless have called ‘inappropriate’.
‘Hey there, Tom! Beth Adams. Welcome to the Lone Star State!’
How had she recognized him? Everyone in the Regiment closely guarded their image.
‘Delighted to be here.’
‘We’re very honoured to have you visit us this day.’
As they stepped out of the arrivals hall Tom was mugged by the summer heat and, for a moment, he tensed. But it wasn’t the same as Afghanistan’s debilitating, angry heat, and accompanied by the big Texas sky, it invited him to relax and pretend he really was on holiday. Beth lowered the sunglasses that had been perched on her head and clicked across the parking lot in her vertiginous heels. Oppressive, troubled London already felt a long way away.
She gave him a big grin as if they were about to embark on a ride at Disneyworld. ‘We’re all really excited about your visit. So here’s what we’re gonna do. I’m gonna run you up to Skip’s compound right away. He’s dying to meet you. You can f
reshen up there. Then we’ll take you back downtown and get you checked into your room. The reception’s in the same hotel. Oh, and Mr Stutz will be there to greet you.’
‘And he’s dying to meet me as well?’
There was a beat as the irony failed to penetrate, then she giggled to fill the vacuum. He had limited appetite for this level of enthusiasm, however long the legs that went with it. Maybe after a few bourbons she would mellow.
She marched him towards a gleaming metallic black Chevy pick-up, sporting a Don’t Mess With Texas bumper sticker. She remotely popped the tailgate, which lowered in time for him to drop his bag on the deck.
‘That all your stuff? I do hope you won’t be leaving us too soon.’
He shrugged. ‘I guess I’ve been trained to travel light. So, tell me, what’s your role at Oryxis?’
‘Oh, I just help out.’ She giggled childishly. ‘Look after Skip and stuff. He’s a really fun guy. You’re gonna love him.’ She laughed again.
It was impossible to know how much of it was genuine. Tom reminded himself to behave and resist the temptation to provoke her with any more arsy Brit cynicism. Her laugh was full of sunshine and optimism, and he found himself smiling back as he opened the passenger door. ‘I’m sure I will.’
He climbed in beside her. The seats were upholstered in something reptilian. ‘I assume a lot of snakes were harmed in the making of these seats?’
Again she laughed, but was clearly baffled.
The engine growled thunderously, and they were engulfed by a gale of aircon and country music.
‘Everything you heard about Texas, it’s all true.’ She turned to him with an even bigger smile as she threw the shift into drive. The truck leaped forward.
