Fortress

by Andy McNab

  ‘How about we get some beers? Take a break from all this flag-waving.’

  Tom looked round and saw Stutz deep in conversation, Skip fiddling with his phone and Beth smiling relentlessly. Maybe he should have been working the crowd, flying the flag for Invicta, but getting an inside track on Stutz’s operation from an old buddy was too good an opportunity to pass up. Kyle gripped his arm.

  ‘C’mon. Those guys seem to have it covered.’

  Tom saw him catch Stutz’s eye. Stutz looked up from the group he was talking to and nodded. Tom grinned. ‘Okay, partner, let’s ride!’

  47

  Tom did a swift change into jeans, T-shirt and bomber jacket. On his way out he waved at Beth and, for the first time since he had set eyes on her, thought he saw the smile fade. Was that wistfulness he detected? Maybe she had been hoping babysitting him would be a respite from Skip. Maybe she had been thinking more than that. Yeah, and maybe he was kidding himself.

  The hot night air was full of the sound of cicadas and the aroma of barbecuing meat laced with traffic fumes.

  ‘Ah, the sweet smell of Texas.’

  Parked on the hotel forecourt was Kyle’s Harley, a classic early sixties Panhead but straight, no ridiculous Easy Rider forks or crazy chrome. A workmanlike machine.

  ‘Still tearing up the Badlands?’

  ‘You wanna take it? I gotta bring the van anyhows. No helmet needed here. You get to feel the wind in your hair.’

  Tom zipped his jacket and climbed aboard. He kicked it over and the pushrod twin exploded into life. He hauled it off the stand and eased out behind Kyle’s Chevy van. The height of the gas tank raised the centre of gravity, which was only somewhat counteracted by the low seat. The riding position, feet forward, made for a distinctly laid-back driving style, which was fine since the machine was in no hurry to climb up the revs. After the BMW he was used to, it was monstrously heavy. But there were upsides to the design, which had barely changed in more than a century. This was a bike on which you could cruise all day across America.

  After ten minutes the city fell away and they were in open country. Kyle veered off the freeway onto increasingly smaller and rougher back roads where the Harley came into its own, soaking up the rough surface and floating through ruts, like the dirt roads it had originally been built to conquer. It was a mean slug of a machine, which would only grow old grudgingly, like its owner.

  At the end of a long wooded track stood a weathered-looking ranch-style house. There were several other vehicles pulled up in front: a pick-up with a gun rack, a dusty Chrysler 300C with a bullet-hole in the windscreen, and a van with tinted windows that said Bob’s Pool Maintenance on the side. Tom didn’t know if there was a Bob. But he was pretty sure that pool-maintenance vans didn’t need tinted windows.

  Kyle was waiting, a six-pack of Southern Star dangling from each hand as Tom pulled the Harley to a halt beside him. ‘As time passes, the more I find love in inanimate objects. Less complicated.’ Tom killed the engine. ‘They also find me more reliable.’

  Tom heaved the bike onto its stand and stared into the darkness. In the yard he could see the ghostly shapes of a swing, a slide and a large wooden climbing-frame; the weeds around them suggested they hadn’t seen too much action lately.

  From inside the house came the sound of an American football game, a crowd roaring and a hysterical commentator.

  ‘Some of the boys are home. Come and say hi.’ Kyle waved him in.

  Three large men were lounging round a huge TV, surrounded by cans and Chinese take-out cartons. There was a strong smell of cannabis.

  ‘Y’all meet Tom Buckingham, recently liberated from Her Majesty’s very own SAS.’

  The men favoured the same fashions as Kyle: big beards and shades, fatigues and sleeveless denim over wife-beaters. They each raised a hand at Tom through the fug and returned to the game.

  ‘Come on back out into the fresh air.’ At one end of a wraparound porch were a dog’s basket and two old Adirondack wooden chairs with wide armrests. Kyle indicated the chairs and tossed Tom a can as they sat down. He followed Tom’s gaze beyond the cars to the play area. ‘Gabrielle and the kids been gone a few years now. Some of the boys’ situations were similar to mine, so I invited them to move in. And we get along just fine.’

  He popped his can and drank deeply. There was a big empty silence but as soon as Tom drew breath to ask a question Kyle continued. ‘I got this place because it was safe and out of the way, thinking it was my job in life to protect them. I didn’t know back then that what they needed protectin’ from was me. Ain’t that ironic.’

  It was not a question.

  ‘Do you see them at all?’

  ‘I don’t get to go near. I hear stuff about how they’re doing and that’s about it. Gabrielle doesn’t want me around them and the sheriff knows that too.’

  Tom decided not to ask why.

  ‘Eleven tours, six in Iraq, five in Afghanistan, and I didn’t have a scratch, not one. I thought I was fuckin’ immortal. Guys dug operations with me because they figured I’d bring them good luck. But I knew my number was gonna be up sooner or later. So did Gabrielle. She persuaded me to quit. She said, “You’ve served your country. Now come home and look after your family.”’

  He gazed dispassionately at Tom. ‘Guess you’ve got the same problem coming at you. Only you’re lucky you don’t have a family to fuck up. Some shit-for-brains shrink asked me how I fill the void. I told him them being gone wasn’t the void.’

  His eyes looked tired from staring into the sun too long.

  ‘The fuckin’ void I got to fill is not having a war.’

  He took a long pull on his can.

  Tom shifted in his seat. He’d known too many evenings like this descend into booze-fuelled self-loathing and recriminations. He needed to lift the conversation away from domestic matters; he wanted Kyle’s perspective on Oryxis before he got too drunk to be useful. ‘Tell me about Lederer and Stutz.’

  ‘You seen The Truman Show, right? Lederer’s Truman.’

  ‘And Beth’s in the Laura Linney part?’

  He laughed uproariously. ‘Ain’t she somethin’? What she puts up with from that kid, watching his damned videos of her with his hand in his shorts …’ He leaned across and lowered his voice.

  ‘Know what? She’s actually Stutz’s girl. Took me a while to figure that one out.’

  ‘Doesn’t he mind?’

  Kyle shook his head. ‘He’s a busy guy. Ain’t got no time for stuff like that. If Beth’s what it takes to keep Skip amused and on the job all day, then all well and good. How she stands it …’

  ‘And what keeps Stutz busy?’

  Kyle looked at him. ‘Who’s asking?’

  For a second Tom thought he had zoned out. Far from it. He fixed him with an unexpectedly cold stare, as if reassessing him.

  ‘What I’m saying is – is that Tom Buckingham, ex-SAS sergeant, or Tom Buckingham, associate of Invicta?’

  ‘What’s the difference?’

  Kyle just gave him a look.

  ‘Well, is Stutz a good guy?’

  ‘He threw me a lifeline.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘After Gabrielle left it was a bad time. I didn’t do too well on my own, and I craved excitement. I got into some arms trading, working cartels across the border: AR-15s, AKs, FN semi-automatics, M4s, M203 grenade launchers. I made a lot of money. But I knew that sooner or later the ATF were gonna catch up with me – it was just a matter of time. Stutz got me out of it.’

  ‘How did he do that?’

  ‘He has his connections.’

  ‘And in return?’

  Kyle laughed to himself. ‘He says I was his inspiration.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Me and my kind. Our kind. Who did what we did but don’t like the outcome. Who trained and fought to protect this country, to secure our borders, to remove the threat. No one’s facing up to the fact that we failed. They sent us off to fight unw
innable wars. All the guys who were in Fallujah, the ones who got out. Now they see Al Qaeda back in town like it’s ’04 all over again. All that blood spilled – and for what? They’re mad as hell and they want something back for their sacrifice. Stutz wants to channel that anger, put it behind some proper action to protect the country. And know what? It goes all the way up the food chain. You saw the crowd tonight. Pentagon people, private operators, all players who want a better outcome.’

  He reached across and gripped Tom’s shoulder, just as Stutz had done. ‘See? You’re far from alone, man. Help is at hand.’

  Tom didn’t feel that he was in need of any help, but he went along with it. Kyle was on a roll: no point in distracting him.

  ‘In 2005, more people from Islamic countries became US residents than in any previous year: ninety-six thousand. 2009, the figure’s up to a hundred fifteen. We got a time bomb ticking.’ He crushed the can and helped himself to another.

  Tom made sure he was drinking only half as fast. ‘How does Stutz plan to achieve his “outcome”?’

  ‘You saw Skip’s presentation. Stutz wants to deploy it to weed out the bad apples. That’s where he’s focused. Forget Afghanistan, forget Iraq, Syria. Protecting the homeland from what’s coming down the pipe. That’s what he’s all about.’

  ‘How’s that going to work?’

  ‘First you gotta convince people it’s worth believing in. Maybe scare them some. Show ’em why it’s gotta happen. And let me tell you another thing. Stutz has the network, the manpower. You want in?’

  Tom tried to look thoughtful while he came up with an appropriate answer. Rolt had won some of his sympathy. But nothing he had seen of Stutz and Lederer made him want to get any closer to them.

  Kyle was staring at him as if waiting for an answer. ‘You been fucked over. You wanna chance to fuck them back?’

  ‘You’re still not telling me what it involves.’

  ‘It ain’t that simple. To get to that level, we need an indication.’

  Was this what Rolt had meant by ‘jumping through a few hoops’? He hadn’t counted on this.

  ‘What sort of “indication”?’

  ‘You made a good impression on Stutz, I’ll tell ya. He likes guys like us. Gets off on the whole Special Forces thing. And you can talk the talk, all right. But if Invicta wants his dollars it’s gonna take more than a few fancy words and a coupla handshakes.’ His eyes were sparkling with intrigue.

  ‘He needs to know how far he can trust you, how far you’re prepared to go.’

  ‘How’s that going to happen?’

  Kyle grinned and poked himself in the chest. ‘I give him the word. But I gotta know where you stand first.’

  Was this all bullshit – the self-important ramblings of a former elite soldier gone down in the world?

  Kyle’s phone buzzed in his pocket. ‘I gotta take this.’ He got to his feet and moved a few yards away, glancing back as he spoke.

  Tom processed what he had heard with a mixture of curiosity and distaste. Kyle was smart, he had trusted him, and he was utterly fearless: Kyle had risked his life to save him. What had changed? He was bitter and angry with the world and he had good reason to be. Was this what Tom could look forward to – now he was out of the Regiment? Was Kyle just further round the curve? Perhaps this encounter was going to prove a valuable wake-up call. But right now there was a choice to be made. He was sounding as if he was about to set Tom some kind of challenge.

  Suppose Woolf was right, that there was a more sinister element to Invicta and Rolt. Could that element be Stutz? For better or worse, Tom had got himself this far under the wire. He was being given a chance to go deeper. In the interests of getting to that next level, of penetrating Stutz’s operation, of finding out more about their plans, it had to be worth it.

  Kyle finished his call.

  Tom stood up and grinned. ‘Okay.’ He held out his hands. ‘I’m in.’

  48

  Victoria, London

  How could he sleep? The adrenalin that had been coursing round him seemed to intensify until he thought he might have a stroke. Then she was shaking him awake.

  ‘They are ready for you. Turn left out of the front door and go to the corner. You will see a black people-carrier.’

  ‘Is there a name?’

  ‘They’ll make themselves known to you. Go.’

  He pulled on his jacket and shoes. He hadn’t undressed.

  She followed him to the door and closed it behind him.

  Close to the junction the people-carrier, an old Toyota Previa, was parked with no lights on. As he came towards it the side door slid open. ‘Sahim?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He couldn’t see who was speaking. The voice came from deep inside the vehicle.

  ‘Come to the door.’ A small sharp beam of light was pointed at his face. ‘Get in.’

  He hesitated.

  ‘Now, please.’

  The engine started. He climbed in. It was very warm inside. There were four of them. He saw a phone, its screen glowing with an image. They thrust it in front of him.

  ‘Watch.’

  It was a video of a man lying on a mattress. Whoever was recording him moved closer and pulled back the sheet covering him. The figure on the bed shrank away as if he was about to be hit.

  Something was shouted that Sam didn’t understand. A hand grabbed the man’s head and turned it to face the camera.

  ‘Is that him?’

  For a second he wasn’t sure. The eyes were completely bloodshot. The face had several weeks’ growth of beard and was shrunken and emaciated, but when the camera was pointed at him the eyes lit up. He whispered, ‘Help me, brother.’

  A wave of shock and relief came over him. ‘That’s him.’

  He felt something sting his arm, then everything went black.

  Sometime later, he had no idea how many hours had passed, he came to. His head was resting against the glass. He could see road rushing by. Three lanes. A motorway. He tried to lift his head to see who else was in the vehicle but he couldn’t move. Then he felt a pain in his upper arm and was out again.

  When he woke the next time his hands were tied and some fabric covered his face. A voice he hadn’t heard before addressed him. ‘Sahim?’

  This was a new voice, older, with a strong accent he couldn’t place.

  ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘Sahim Kovacevic, confirm your name.’

  ‘Yes, that’s me. But I need the toilet.’

  He was led through a couple of doors, his jeans were undone and pulled down and he was manoeuvred onto a lavatory seat. There was a strong smell of oil and he heard an engine being revved. Maybe they were in a garage. He was led back and put on a hard chair.

  ‘Can I have a drink?’

  There was some mumbling, then steps, then a door being closed. The hood was lifted just enough to uncover his mouth. Sam could see part of a face: a man in his early twenties, Asian, with a small scrub of beard round the outline of his chin, holding a can of Coke to Sam’s mouth. He smelt of tobacco and garlic. Sam drank, the Coke running down his chin. The hood came back down.

  The older voice spoke again. ‘You are the brother of Karza, that is right?’

  ‘What’s happened to him?’

  ‘He is injured. You will pay for his release or he will be killed.’

  ‘Who has him?’

  ‘One million dollars.’

  ‘What?’

  This couldn’t be happening.

  ‘I don’t have anything like that. I’m just an ordinary person.’

  ‘You are in the government.’

  ‘I’m just a spokesman.’

  ‘Then he won’t survive.’

  ‘But this is madness! He had no idea, he went to help. He was just an innocent—’

  The older man cut him off. ‘What are you?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What are you?’

  ‘I’m a British citizen.’


  ‘That’s what your passport says. When you walk down your street at night, is that what you think? That you are one of them?’

  ‘I’ve never thought of myself as particularly different.’

  ‘You’ve never thought at all. Have you?’

  ‘This country hasn’t done anything bad to me.’

  This was not the right thing to say.

  ‘This country and its allies, its coalition of infidels, is killing your brothers. When you turn on the television and you see the dead and dying Muslims, mutilated by bombs and bullets, do you not see your brothers?’

  Sam was starting to sweat under the hood. He could hear the older man’s anger rising.

  ‘Do you understand anything about what is happening in Syria?’

  Sam shook his head. This wasn’t a time to bluff. ‘Only minimally.’

  ‘Since you are a servant of this government, you should inform yourself so you better understand what your masters are capable of.’

  He was tired, frightened and now angry. Two days ago he’d been assaulted by Dink for his race; now this. What had he ever done to deserve it?

  ‘Okay. Inform me, then.’

  ‘You know who encouraged us to go to Syria at the beginning?’

  Sam shook his head. He could feel a lecture coming his way.

  ‘The British government. They sponsored us to go and help the resistance. Go and be heroes, liberate Syria from the dictatorship. So we went to help our brothers. Young Muslims from Britain, many without jobs, without respect, feeling isolated by the licentiousness and decadence that surrounds them, spat on, shunned because they were obedient to God, because they prayed and didn’t drink. A chance to do something worthwhile, to attain some worth in the service of Allah, praise be upon him.

  ‘So we jumped at the chance. We trained, we prepared, and we saw for ourselves the suffering. But where were the arms we were promised, where were the bullets? They didn’t come. So we rationed the bullets, we shared the weapons. We had to steal to eat, to get fuel. We, who had come to be liberators, were stealing from the people we had come to liberate. Imagine, if you can, the shame, the betrayal.