Fortress

by Andy McNab

  ‘So, tell me about the event. Who’s coming?’

  ‘Aw, it’s just, y’know, guys networking.’

  ‘That’s a bit vague.’

  ‘They’re all friends of Oryxis. And they’re just dying to hear what Invicta’s doing for y’all.’

  ‘I just like to know who my audience is. In case they’ve heard it all before.’

  She laughed yet again, probably to cover up the fact that she didn’t have a clue what he was on about.

  On the way he quizzed her more but her answers were all frustratingly vague: ‘Aw you’ll see,’ or ‘The guys’ll fill you in,’ each accompanied by her sunny laugh. So he just let her talk, pointing out roadside features, like a drive-through liquor store called Beer Barn, which was, unsurprisingly, styled to resemble a barn, and Freakin’ Pecan – ‘The best place in the universe, like ever, for pecan pie. Don’t you go and leave without trying it now, y’hear?’

  ‘Okay, promise,’ said Tom, his resistance wilting in the Texas sun.

  Despite feeling carpet-bombed by her enthusiasm, he had fewer problems with Americans than some of his fellow Brits had. He admired the can-do mentality, the refusal to compromise and even the tendency towards overkill, which could make British methods seem tentative and half-arsed. As he considered this, he realized how detached he had become from his roots. In the space of just the last few days he had already begun to change his thinking. But whereas before he had felt angry and disillusioned, he now felt energized and refreshed. The Texas sun, the country music, Beth’s enthusiasm – and her long legs – were working their magic.

  At an intersection they pulled up behind another pick-up with a gun rack carrying a Mossy 500A and a Winchester 94.

  Beth grinned. ‘Betcha don’t get to see a lot of that back home.’

  His thoughts drifted back to the Invicta campus, and to Woolf’s claims about Vestey. What would his hosts make of the hostel bombing and Rolt’s views about dealing with the current crisis back home? Just as he was deciding to put those thoughts aside, he felt his phone buzz in his pocket: a text – from Woolf.

  He was tempted to delete it without reading it, then decided to leave it for later.

  40

  Lederer’s place looked more like a country club than a home. A vast golf course occupied the grounds on one side of the drive for as far as Tom could see. On the other side was a lake with several brightly coloured pedalo-type boats tethered to a landing.

  ‘Pirates is one of Skip’s favourite games. He is just so much fun.’

  Behind a line of trees he could see a Ferris wheel: full size.

  ‘Yep, that’s our Skip. Basically he’s just one big kid.’

  ‘With an oversized brain, though, right?’

  Beth laughed yet again. How long could she keep this up? Was it really natural?

  ‘You got it.’ She brought the truck to a halt outside the main door of the mansion and parked next to a silver and blue Bugatti Veyron, covered with road dust, a deep scrape down its left flank: a million dollars’ worth of car and it looked as though it had been driven along a wall.

  ‘Looks like it could do with a bit of TLC.’

  ‘He’s got a new one on order. Let me show you to where you can freshen up. And when you’re ready I’ll find him for you.’

  She led him through a hallway made almost entirely of dark grey marble with a fountain in the middle, which produced a fan of blue-tinted water. It reminded him faintly of a crematorium, albeit a very expensively designed one.

  ‘Why blue?’

  She looked thrown for about a second, then said, ‘Skip’s favourite colour.’

  She opened a black polished door and waved him in. ‘You can freshen up in here – if you’d like.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  The bedroom looked about big enough for tennis. One wall was all glass, looking out onto the golf course; another was all TV, playing a film of dolphins frolicking in an expanse of turquoise sea. A gleaming, piano-black wardrobe, when he opened it, turned out to be a fridge with a temperature-controlled wine section and a cocktail cabinet. What a pity they’d put him in the hotel.

  Another black door led to an equally vast wet room.

  Beth hovered in the doorway. She seemed in no hurry to leave. ‘Want me to fix you anything?’

  Tom grabbed a glass and helped himself to some iced water. ‘This is fine. I’ll just be ten minutes.’ He found a remote and switched channels from the dolphins to CNN. The top story in the UK was still the hostel explosion. The bomber’s ID had been confirmed: Nurul al-Awati, from Coventry, recently returned from Syria. A montage of reactions followed: a mixed group of women crying; crowds of chanting shaven-headed men; a train ablaze outside Birmingham; police behind shields being pounded with bottles and bricks.

  Then he remembered Woolf’s text. Call – urgent.

  He texted back, Can’t – later, then deleted both messages.

  41

  ‘Hey, Tom! How’s it hanging?’

  Skip was perched on a silver mesh swivel chair, hunched over a bank of screens, most of them filled with numbers. One was showing a war game, a Black Hawk banking and turning into a fireball. He didn’t look round but waved a hand before returning it to his keyboard. From behind he could have been fourteen.

  ‘He’ll be right with you,’ said Beth.

  When Skip finally did look round, Tom saw the face of an aged teenager, almost grotesquely disfigured by sleep deprivation. The dark pits under his eyes resembled wounds rather than shadows. His mop of curly yellow hair clearly needed a good wash, as did the Beavis and Butt-Head T-shirt that hung off his slight frame, above a pair of baggy checked shorts. Teenager was only slightly pushing it. Tom knew he was twenty-six, had grown up in New Mexico, had dropped out of Stanford University, had never travelled out of the US and had only in the last year moved out of his parents’ house into this purpose-built compound.

  He swivelled round and got to his feet. He was small, five six or so, and almost painfully skinny. The hand he offered was clammy, the fingers clawed from years of keyboard work. ‘Looks like it’s all kicking off in jolly old England.’

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘Man, I love your British understatement.’

  Skip’s eyes slid across to Beth and her cleavage. Her face registered nothing, the blissed-out gaze aimed over his head.

  ‘So, Tom: Delphine. Way to go, dude!’

  ‘What?’ Tom felt every muscle in his body tense.

  ‘God, I love French chicks. Zat accent. And waaay hot. Too bad she bailed on your ass.’ He swung back to his keyboard, hit a couple of keys and her image appeared on a couple of the screens: a CCTV shot of her getting off a French train, then another of her in a street, in a café, coming out of a shop. Tom leaned forward to see the date: yesterday.

  Skip wheeled round, grinning.

  Tom glanced at Beth, the smile on her face fighting for its life.

  ‘C’mon now, Skip. Be nice, remember.’

  ‘Superfast global facial recognition. Neat, huh? It’s still in Beta but we’re on the home straight. All you need’s a passport image or a photo off of Facebook, input that with a few coordinates, frequently visited locations, don’t even need a name, hit send and voilà. When we get it running right, it should relay in about fifteen seconds from anywhere round the globe. Cool or what?’

  Skip paused for him to respond, but Tom was too stunned to speak.

  ‘Want me to set up an alert and patch it to your phone so you can keep check? Case you’re worried about all them smooth French dudes hitting on her? I know I would be.’

  Tom swallowed, holding down the urge to deck the little prick. He couldn’t remember a time he had taken such a dislike to someone so quickly.

  Beth glanced anxiously at him, then went into overdrive, laying down a big apologetic laugh, like covering fire. ‘Really, Skip, you’re just too much. What kind of a welcome is that to show our guest? I’m so sorry, Tom, he’s just real keen for y
ou to see his ideas. Ain’t you, Skip?’

  Skip giggled and raised his hands in surrender. ‘Hey, Tom, don’t take it personally, okay? I’m just a geek with a hard-on for my new kit.’ He pointed at Beth. ‘You should see what I got on her.’

  He hit another key and the screens filled with images of her in every stage of dress and undress, eating, swimming, shopping, driving, right up to meeting Tom at the airport and getting into the Chevy. Creepy didn’t even begin to cover it.

  He wagged a crooked finger at her. ‘See, babe? Nowhere to hide.’ He bowed as if responding to applause, his eyes hovering somewhere round her chest. Still she continued to smile, as if it was actually a clause in her contract. Maybe it was. But, almost to his relief, he thought he saw the mask slip for a millisecond.

  Tom swallowed his disgust and reminded himself why he was there. Press the flesh, secure the cash, then get the hell out. ‘So, what’s your interest in Invicta?’

  Skip looked over Tom’s shoulder, towards the door. ‘Ask him.’

  42

  Aaron Stutz, chairman of Oryxis, came towards them: late fifties, balding, grey suit, dark blue tie, round wire-rimmed glasses, reminiscent of the US bureaucrats Tom used to see in the Green Zone, the ones who wore suit jackets over their body armour. He wondered if Skip’s miraculous facial-recognition software would work on Stutz. His face was so uniform and featureless; surely it couldn’t be picked out from a crowd. Nonetheless, he had to have something unique about him: everyone did. He cracked a brief, almost subliminal, smile and held out a chubby hand. He might have looked like a Central Casting average corporate animal but the small blue eyes blazed with intelligence. ‘Welcome to Texas, Tom. It’s good to have you here.’

  Stutz glanced briefly at the screens and shook his head. He had evidently heard the last part of Skip’s informal presentation. ‘Please forgive the boy’s … enthusiasm. His work gets him so carried away he forgets his manners. So, you’re gonna be Vernon’s new recruit? Congratulations. Vernon is a very dear friend of mine, so you can believe me when I tell you he has no greater admirer than myself.’

  Recruit? That wasn’t how Tom saw it. ‘Well, let’s say I’m just here to do my bit, for the moment.’

  Stutz put a hand on Tom’s shoulder and guided him away from Skip towards the door. ‘We just got the news about the bomber. How’s that for timing?’

  Tom frowned. ‘In what sense?’

  Stutz smiled grimly. ‘The folks you’ll be speaking to tonight, they know you guys are on the front line over there. They know what’s wrong and what it’s gonna take to put it right. You’re among friends.’

  Tom was mystified. He nodded while he digested this and struggled to find some appropriate reply. ‘Well, that’s good to know.’

  Stutz clasped Tom’s arm. His grip was surprisingly firm. ‘Vernon’s lucky to have people like you around him, men he can count on.’

  ‘Thanks for the compliment, but I’m pretty new to this.’

  The grip tightened. ‘I’m familiar with your story. So believe me when I say how deeply I feel your anger about what happened in Afghanistan with that ANA asshole. Don’t forget, we’re grateful for your service alongside our people.’

  Stutz’s cheeks had started to go an alarming purple colour.

  Skip’s pictures of Delphine, and now this. Tom felt as if he was being sent a covert message. We know a lot more about you than you’ve bargained for, so watch it.

  He held Stutz’s gaze. The door he had tried to close on Afghanistan had just been wrenched open again. But what was Stutz’s agenda? The best way to find out, he reminded himself, was to play along, for now. ‘Well, thank you for acknowledging that. I appreciate it.’

  Stutz’s face began to ease back from purple to light plum. ‘Son, I’m getting the feeling we’re gonna get along real fine.’

  43

  Crown Plaza Hotel, Houston

  Tom’s room was on the forty-eighth floor. He gazed out at the Houston panorama, where streaks of pink cloud were ranged across the darkening sky. He had shaken Beth off in Reception, resisting her pleas to check his room was okay, and was making the most of a few hours alone. In any normal circumstances a tall blonde offering to make sure his pillows were plumped would have been ushered in, not shooed away. But these were not normal circumstances, and to him, her solicitousness smacked more of anxiety to please her bosses than the desire to get closer to those pillows.

  Tom checked himself in the mirror. Hugo Boss tropical-weight wool suit, Sea Island cotton shirt and Regimental silk tie: his body armour for the evening, plus a crossed-flag pin in his lapel – Stars and Stripes with the Union flag. As well as a first-class ticket, Rolt had provided him with a generous float. ‘Anything you need, any gear, it’s on me, okay?’ He certainly wanted Tom to impress his Americans. But Tom wasn’t ready to feel too beholden to him, not yet anyway.

  His own phone was buzzing again. He decided to put Woolf out of his misery and took out one of the pay-as-you-go Samsungs he had taken the precaution of buying at the airport.

  Woolf was as breathless as ever, diving in without a greeting. ‘You saw the hostel damage for yourself. Was there anything at all that struck you as strange?’

  One detail had stuck in Tom’s mind. ‘The damage was pretty extensive for explosives carried in a vest. Why?’

  ‘There’s a suspicion the bomber was dead before the device was detonated. CCTV from the street has two men, both white, making a delivery an hour before the blast from a van that was subsequently found burned out forty miles away.’

  ‘Has Rolt heard any of this?’

  ‘No, and we’re keeping it out of the press. But you know what this means?’

  ‘That’s two incidents now that have been deliberately made to look as if someone else was responsible for them.’

  ‘Glad you see it my way.’

  ‘Are you having trouble convincing them?’

  ‘You could say that. Also I’ve been reassigned. They’re trying to clamp down on returnees from Syria, Mandler’s insisting. Phoebe stays in place for now. But I’m afraid you’re rather on your own. That is, if you’re still speaking to us.’

  Well, that’s just great, thought Tom. First they trick me into working for them, then they cut me loose.

  ‘So, if it’s not an impertinent question, where are you now?’

  ‘Houston.’

  ‘As in “Houston we have a problem”?’

  Tom could tell he was trying to stifle his disappointment.

  ‘I’d hoped you’d come around, you know, to giving us a hand.’

  ‘It’s not quite a vacation. I’m here for Rolt, standing in for him, sort of.’

  Woolf sounded genuinely alarmed. ‘Look, you do realize we’ve got no backup for you out there?’

  ‘I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself. This isn’t exactly Kandahar. The biggest danger is dying from a surfeit of enthusiasm.’

  Woolf sounded like he was on the move, running up some stairs. ‘Well, I’m late, as usual. But, if anything, this business about the bomber has made me even more suspicious of Rolt. Keep your eyes and ears open, will you? Something really isn’t right about this.’

  ‘I will,’ Tom found himself saying.

  There was a gust of relief from Woolf’s end. ‘So you are with us. Thank fuck for that.’

  ‘Don’t push your luck.’

  There was a cheery knock on his door: Beth.

  ‘Gotta go.’

  44

  Victoria, London

  Sam wanted the first impressions to be the right ones. Earlier in the day, he had put new sheets on the beds, and bought a large bouquet, which he laid on the coffee-table in the living room. He had drawn the curtains, which were heavy and plush. He had then spent some time fussing around, turning up the lights, then dimming them and moving them around to create the most welcoming atmosphere. Eventually he settled for just the single table lamp, which gave off the cosiest glow. The low light and the enclose
d feeling, with the outside world and its distractions now excluded, made the place feel much more intimate. Even as he was denying it to himself, he was hoping this would create the right conditions for what he wanted, which was to shut out the rest of the world and be alone with her. The rest of the night lay ahead, full of possibility.

  At last they were alone.

  The big flat-screen TV faced them across the sofa. Nasima, remote in hand, was flicking between BBC News and CNN. He looked at her luggage, a small wheelie case collected on the way there from Victoria station.

  ‘Is that all you have?’

  ‘I don’t need much.’

  He was starting to notice how deftly she rebuffed any questions she evidently construed as intrusive. Fair enough, he thought. Take your time. But where was the rest of her life?

  ‘Would you like to see the … rooms?’ He couldn’t quite say ‘bedrooms’.

  ‘Sure,’ she said, as if she didn’t much care either way.

  ‘Obviously, you should have the double, the bigger one, I mean. If you prefer.’

  He showed her the small room as well – ‘for comparison’. The more he said, the more he sounded like an estate agent. In his fantasy, which he had already replayed many times, she would be so intoxicated by the excitement of the evening, of having mingled with so many powerful, famous people, that she’d be desperate to leap into bed with him. But he knew that was what it was, no more than a fantasy. All the same, he ached to see her naked skin, and to touch her.

  ‘You choose. I don’t mind,’ he said needlessly. His heart thumped against his chest.

  She put her bag down on the double bed and smiled. Should he make his move? As he hesitated, she moved towards the door to get her case, and he realized she was waiting for him to leave.

  He went into the living room and sat on the sofa. Was she coming back? He put on the TV to drown out the sound of his blood pumping round his body.