Fortress

by Andy McNab

  He was still in a state of excitement from the evening at Downing Street. He had had a whole two minutes with the prime minister, with Nasima looking on.

  ‘You’re very good on camera – you’ve got the knack,’ the PM had told him. ‘So I rather fear we’re going to be ruthlessly exploiting you over the coming weeks. Are you getting everything you need?’

  ‘Oh, yes, thanks.’ He had started to describe the flat, then quickly stopped when he saw the PM wasn’t paying any attention: his eyes had flicked to Nasima.

  ‘And what do you do?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve put everything on hold to support Sahim.’

  Her well-chosen answer pleased the PM, and Sam even more.

  ‘Well, then, he’s very lucky – and so are we that he’s got you. You know what they say, behind every great man and all that …’

  But by then someone was at his ear and he was gone.

  Sam turned to her and grinned, delighted by the PM’s reaction, but her face had gone blank, just as it had when he’d first set eyes on her. She shrugged. ‘Well, I guessed it was what he wanted to hear.’

  In the car back to the flat she had hardly said a word. To fill the silence he thanked her for being there, twice, to which she had merely nodded acknowledgement. Perhaps she was tired. He was exhausted too, but the adrenalin rush from the evening – rubbing shoulders with the mighty, her by his side – was almost overpowering. He had never felt like this before.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind that everyone thought we were – you know.’

  ‘No, it was fine.’

  Again, the slightly unnerving lack of response. At least if she’d been bothered by it that would have been something. He got the impression she didn’t want to discuss it, but wasn’t hugely moved one way or the other, as if the idea of being with him, like that, didn’t engender any emotion at all. That was the ultimate failure, to provoke indifference in a woman. Maybe she was conscious of the driver’s presence. It was one of the Party’s regulars, a Polish guy with whom Sam had already had one touchy discussion about the current situation.

  The bedroom door opened. He turned, he hoped not too quickly. She had removed her makeup and was wearing a long dressing-gown, buttoned up to the neck, and slippers.

  Never mind, he told himself. There will be other opportunities.

  And now here they were in front of the TV, still not talking. Every now and then his eyes flicked away from the screen to her, in the passion-killer garment. His desire hadn’t been quelled at all. She could have been wearing a black sack for all he cared.

  Eventually she switched off the TV and turned to him. His whole body glowed under her gaze. ‘I have some news about your brother.’

  He felt the atmosphere in the room change. It was as if they were back in Doncaster, in that kitchen, the first time they’d met.

  ‘It’s not good.’

  The coverage of the hostel bomber had already reminded him about Karza and, to his alarm, Sam realized he hadn’t lately been giving his brother much thought. Her words brought him back to earth with a bump.

  ‘Is he still alive?’

  ‘Yes. He was wounded and is being treated. But it’s complicated.’

  ‘You know for sure he’s all right?’

  ‘All I know is what I’m telling you.’

  ‘How did you find out?’

  ‘They have representatives here.’

  ‘Returnees?’

  ‘Since the bombing of the hostel they have to be very careful. Surveillance is being stepped up on them so communication is hard. They are also very angry with Britain.’

  ‘Because of the targeting of returnees?’

  She shook her head. ‘Not just that. The rebel army council, which was funnelling help through Turkey, has been disbanded. The supplies promised by the West haven’t materialized so they’ve lost all credibility with their fighters on the ground, who were desperate for ammunition. Those groups like the one your brother was with had no option but to side with the more militant ones. It was that or die. They feel very bitter, very let down. They feel the West has betrayed them.’

  ‘But they are looking after him? Karza.’

  Her look was quite cold. Was it selfish to be so concerned about one man when the whole struggle was at stake?

  ‘They are, now they know who his brother is. They’ve been told to keep him alive.’

  What did she mean? He opened his mouth to speak but so many thoughts were crowding in that he couldn’t think what to say.

  ‘They want something back.’

  The conversation seemed to be veering into alien territory. Less than an hour ago they had been mistaken for a couple; now she was becoming more business-like, more distant. He battled to manage the torrent of confused emotions swirling inside him.

  ‘What exactly?’

  ‘Their people here want to meet you.’

  This was a world he had never had any contact or rapport with. He felt as though he was being pulled along on a conveyor-belt, outside his control. ‘Why?’

  ‘As I said, they know who you are, what you do.’

  ‘What difference does that make?’

  ‘They want to deal with you direct. There is only so much I can do, Sahim.’

  He sensed her exasperation. He felt his face heating with embarrassment. ‘Of course – how stupid of me. I’m so grateful to you for doing this. How can I ever repay you?’

  She allowed him a small smile. ‘Well, you are giving me a roof over my head.’

  He felt the warmth come back a little, as if she had just flipped a switch.

  ‘So we are in each other’s debt.’

  He seized the moment to take her hand. She didn’t resist, just let it lie there. Should he go further? He didn’t get to find out.

  ‘They want to see you tonight.’

  ‘But it’s—’ He looked at his watch: 01:12. ‘Now? Really?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She released his hand and got up.

  ‘They will text me when they are near. And you mustn’t be alarmed: they will have to take some precautions, for security. I suggest you get some sleep until I need to wake you.’

  45

  Crown Plaza Hotel, Houston

  There was a long line outside the reception room. To get in, the guests had to pass through a full security check and give up their phones to meaty, dark-suited guards in shades straight out of Men in Black.

  Beth steered Tom past the line and straight through, where she broke away and went into full meeting-greeting-laughing mode as she guided people to their seats. Tom scanned the crowd: mostly male, almost uniformly middle-aged and white. A lot of the men had the square-jawed, whitewall haircut look of former military personnel. Others were clones of Stutz – grey men in grey suits. But there was another contingent somewhat less formally dressed, with beards and ponytails, who looked as if they had just ridden in on their bikes from the desert. What kind of big idea would unite these disparate factions?

  Stutz clambered onto the stage. ‘For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Aaron Stutz.’

  There was a ripple of laughter – as if to acknowledge how ridiculous it would be not to know who he was.

  ‘And I want to thank you most sincerely for joining us tonight. You’re about to experience an evening to remember. But you don’t want to listen to me. Without further ado, let me introduce you to the brains behind this project, the reason you all have come here tonight – Skip Lederer!’

  To wild applause and whooping, Skip ambled in, sucking a popsicle. Beth had evidently not persuaded him to change: he was still in the Beavis and Butt-Head T-shirt, his only concession to the occasion a small radio mic. Instead of standing at the autocue, he chose to sit on the edge of the podium, his legs swinging like a toddler’s. He didn’t bother with an introduction. Instead, he took out the popsicle and examined it, then reached into his jeans pocket and held up a smart phone and an American Express card. ‘Most folks think these are what freedom is all a
bout.’ He waved them in the air so everyone could see them.

  ‘Uh-uh. Not so. In fact they’re quite the opposite. These babies are the spy in your pocket, channels through which we can discover everything we need to know about an individual: what he buys, where he goes, who he meets, who he screws, what he reads, who his friends are, his enemies – and what they’re saying about him. We can find out more about a guy than he knows about himself. Great, huh? So, what’s the problem?’

  He waited, ostensibly for someone to answer, but really for dramatic effect. They were hanging on his every word.

  ‘The problem, girls and boys, is not the collection of the intelligence, it’s what happens to that information. That’s the NSA’s problem number one. Their other problem, of course, is that they think they’re hot shit.’

  He shook his head. ‘Know what? In actuality they are full of shit.’

  A few of the audience whooped.

  ‘I mean literally. Their server capacity is maxed out. They got so much data on us they don’t know what to do with it all. Like, they’ve built the world’s biggest vacuum-cleaner to suck up all the intel, and it’s gummin’ up the works. They can’t process it. It’s too freakin’ much for them.’

  He paused briefly to finish the popsicle, then gestured with the stick.

  ‘All that precious intel is mountains of information they don’t have the resources to begin to mine. Thar’s gold in tham thar mountains, but where’s the manpower to go panhandling for it? Sure it’s fine if you know who you’re looking for, which bad guys you’re on to. But what happens when you don’t know who the hell they are?’

  He paused and surveyed the sea of rapt faces. Then he turned to the giant screen behind him and aimed a remote. ‘I’ll tell you what happens. The Boston Marathon happens … Fort Hood happens … Times Square happens. No warning. No intelligence.’

  The faces of the perpetrators of each attack flashed up, followed by the burning Twin Towers.

  ‘Another problem. Nine/Eleven. Some of those guys were in the system. They had a few names, but no one joined up the dots.’

  The screen changed to an image of a huge football crowd: faces of all types, all ages, all colours.

  ‘Where’s Waldo? Where’s the next guy on no one’s radar who comes out of nowhere and goes bang? Does the NSA know about him? The hell it does. Even though he’s in their system somewhere.’

  Skip was rewarded with a volley of evangelical Right ons and You said its. Evidently his appearance and mode of delivery had done nothing to dampen the audience’s enthusiasm for his pitch. He shook his head mournfully and jumped up into a standing position.

  ‘Here’s the thing. The NSA’s retrieval technology is supposed to be state-of-the-art. Their programmes have cool names like “Prism” but they suck. Why? Because their systems can only tell you the past, what the bad guys have done. And if they haven’t done anything bad yet? Who’s watching out for them? The freaks who blew up the Boston Marathon. Who knew? How long are we in America gonna have to go around looking at the guy next to us on the street, at the bus station, on the subway, wondering what’s in his backpack, what’s under his vest? Well, let me tell you, the wait is almost over.’

  The audience were now on their feet, clapping and cheering. What they were hearing made George Orwell look like an optimist, but they were loving it.

  ‘For those of you who are tired of wondering when the next bomb is coming, when the next lone bomber is gonna strike, Oryxis has the solution.’

  He turned to the screen again and waved the remote. Over the Times Square throng appeared the words Threat Elimination.

  ‘Our software is designed not only to mine the information, but to process it in real time. Soon, what NSA desk jockeys take a week to do, we’ll be doing in thirty seconds. And we can do a thousand times the volume.’

  He paused while the room erupted with more whoops and applause. They didn’t need convincing.

  ‘But here’s what else we can do.’

  The screen flashed with another headline: Predictive Tracking.

  ‘What Oryxis can do, with intelligent use of all this data, is model what an individual is going to do before he does it. Our algorithms penetrate the data, looking for patterns in behaviour that conform to our profiles. We then isolate our POIs, our Persons of Interest. And then we go deep. We go in and get it all. We can know so much about a guy that we know what he’s going to do before he’s even thought of doing it. Welcome to the future. Suck on that, NSA! We are gonna build the digital fortress to keep this country safe.’

  To thunderous applause he came and sat down beside Tom, who leaned towards him. ‘Interesting. And what happens to the POI after you’ve identified and predictively tracked him?’

  Skip shrugged. ‘Hey, I just write the code.’ He nodded at Stutz. ‘I leave the outcomes to the grown-ups.’

  Stutz was on his feet, clapping along, his face turning purple again, but with elation this time. ‘People, let’s hear it for Skip Lederer, the cleverest man in America – hell, the world!’

  He smiled indulgently, like a headmaster waiting for his pupils to stop chattering. ‘Now, I’d like for you to meet our next speaker, a very special guest, who’s come all the way from war-torn London to talk about the work of our friends at Invicta. Tom Buckingham has, for the last fourteen years, served his country in their most elite military group, the British Army’s Special Air Service, better known as the SAS.’

  All eyes were now on Tom.

  ‘Please join me in giving him a real down-home Texas welcome. Tom Buckingham!’

  As Tom approached the podium to loud cheers, Stutz came forward and gave him a firm photo-opportunity handshake and a big grin. Only there were no cameras tonight, that was for sure. Stutz whispered in his ear, ‘Give ’em hell, son. Tell it like it is.’

  Public speaking was a necessary evil, something to be trained for, like suiting up for a gas attack. He knew several in the Regiment who would rather die in a firefight than get up in front of an audience but he was ready. He shut his mind to everything but the job he had agreed to do and what he was about to say.

  He needn’t have worried. They were attentive, leaning forward to listen and laughing in all the right places, as he took them through a few highlights of his life in the SAS. And when he moved on to describing the men he had met on the Invicta campus, whose lives had been turned around by Rolt and his programme, there was a reverent hush. From there, he pulled no punches in his description of the hostel bombing. If this was what it took for Rolt to get his money, then why not go for it? If there was one thing that would surely clinch it, it was this. It almost alarmed him how easily it came to him, finding the words that could mesmerize the audience. Was this how the politicians did it? The hate preachers? And all the time in another part of his brain he was asking himself what any of this had to do with Invicta. The questions were piling up. And as his eyes drifted from face to face he caught sight of a figure at the back of the room, leaning against a pillar: just the man who might have some of the answers.

  46

  ‘Hey, partner.’ Kyle Pope eased himself away from the pillar and stepped forward. ‘Of all the gin joints in all the towns …’

  ‘Who does that make me, Ingrid Bergman? And, by the way, you’re no Bogart.’

  ‘Didn’t think you’d recognize me.’

  Tom punched his shoulder and was enveloped in a big man-hug. ‘I’d smell you a mile off.’

  Even with the mirror Aviators and the chin-muffler beard, there was no disguising Kyle Pope. Six feet four in his bare feet, he had towered over his adversaries in Iraq. Yet his black eyes and olive complexion, from Tartar stock somewhere on his mother’s side, gave him a look of the universal citizen, and an almost legendary capacity to blend in. When you were in a minivan stuck in the middle of a traffic jam in Baghdad, he was the one you wanted to keep close to. The man led a charmed life, a major reason Tom was still alive.

  ‘Nine years – Jeez, where
did they go?’

  The joint SAS-Delta Force assault had been on a compound in Ramadi, about a hundred klicks west of Baghdad. Local resistance was anticipated, so Delta operators in tracked and turreted Bradleys had mounted over-watch. The intelligence had told them the house was occupied by a large extended family so casualties had to be minimized. House clearing was second nature in the Regiment. Tom had practised this sort of drill ad nauseam with live-fire exercises in the Killing House back at Stirling Lines. The trick was to be confident enough to fire without hesitation, yet spare the innocent. Flimsy, rusted metal gates protected the entrance. But before they were through they were met with a hail of fire from the upstairs windows and he was hit in the thigh.

  The wound itself wasn’t life-threatening, but he was pinned under one of the gates and part of the wall that had exploded with an RPG fired from the house. Trapped, without help, he could have bled out. They couldn’t call in the Bradleys as he knew that others firing from neighbouring buildings couldn’t see him. In a brief lull, Kyle had run forward, but as he bore down on Tom another volley of AK opened up. Kyle wheeled round and sprayed the windows, while hauling Tom out of their arcs to safety. It had been the first day of the rest of his life.

  ‘Good to see a friendly face out there tonight.’

  They moved a couple of steps away from the crowd.

  ‘Yeah, these dudes ain’t exactly top of my list of drinking buddies. They lapped up your spiel, though. You sure hit the high notes.’

  A couple of well-wishers headed towards Tom but backed off when they saw Kyle.

  Tom noted the Glock holstered on his friend’s hip. ‘Who are you expecting?’

  ‘Comes with the territory. I help Mr Stutz with his security.’

  ‘That a full-time job?’

  ‘Twenty-four seven.’ Kyle nodded at the men in black, chests straining at their suit jackets. ‘Yep, that’s my team.’

  ‘How’re the kids?’

  Tom remembered he had twin boys and a baby girl.

  ‘Good, I guess.’ Something in his tone indicated that that was as far as he wanted to go on that subject.