by Andy McNab
He didn’t have much time. Eventually someone would notice that Kyle hadn’t shown up, and as for Jefferson, even neo-Nazis looked out for their own. Luckily, since he was definitely a minimalist in the furnishings department, there were very few places to look. On the table was a yellow legal notebook. He flipped it open and read the large, childlike handwriting.
Today, according to the latest U.S. Census – only 23% of the American population under the age of 18 is WHITE. Already, four U.S. states are MAJORITY NON-WHITE, and 10% of all counties in America are MAJORITY NON-WHITE. World-wide, white women of child-bearing age comprise only 3% of the earth’s population. Do these FACTS disturb you …?
It was disturbing all right. But he put it down when he spotted a rectangular shape under the thin bedcovers: a laptop. He carefully lifted the lid and stroked the trackpad: it came to life. Nolene’s Escorts. Proudly serving Houston surroundings, available 24/7. A girl for every taste. What’s yours? Call now to meet one of our fifty luscious babes. So far, so normal. There was an AOL email account, one of the last in existence, but it needed a password. He clicked on the Search History. The last twenty or so pages were more of Nolene and her luscious babes, then some local news pages: UH tops Florida on Senior Night. Evidently his racial obsessions didn’t get in the way of his interest in basketball. Then Teen leads cops on high speed chase … Arms seized in South Houston drug bust … Grand Mosque nears completion. He opened it: a front page from the Houston Chronicle – Houston’s largest mosque nears completion. The photo: a group of men in suits and hard hats, posing in front of a tower of scaffolding, with a much shorter, smiling bearded man, olive complexion, in a white topi and white robes. The caption: City councilors get sneak peek at Houston’s newest Islamic Center Masjid As-Sabur, hosted by Mullah Asim Zuabi.
Asim Zuabi – this guy was Stutz’s ‘associate’, whose would-be assassin he had sent them to kill?
From down the road not far away came the sound of sirens. Blue and red lights flickered in the distance. Tom closed the laptop and turned his attention to Jefferson. He took a photograph of the corpse, then patted down the pockets. Then he relieved him of his phone, pulled the blinds down, closed the door behind him and stepped out into the night.
53
Whitehall, London
Cabinet secretary Alec Clements was in the chair. ‘Thank you all for making the time to be here. The PM sends his sincerest apologies but, as I’m sure you can imagine, he is rather busy just now. I will relay to him whatever comes out of our discussion. In any case this is a good opportunity for those of us who don’t know him to get to know Vernon Rolt.’
He indicated Rolt, who smiled and raised a hand. Clements went on, ‘There is no formal agenda, hence the mix of attendees. May I remind all those here that this is a background briefing? Chatham House rules: nothing said here leaves these four walls.’
Sarah Garvey scrolled through the emails on her BlackBerry. They were the same messages she’d read twenty minutes ago, but she felt the need to concentrate on something else while Clements was speaking. She was by far the most senior politician present – the others were all comparatively low level – yet she had been added to the list at the last minute. Was this some kind of slight, to get back at her for her robust chairing of the COBRA meetings? Whatever was behind it, she smelt a rat.
Clements referred once again to his star guest and this time put on his grave face. ‘I’m sure I speak for everyone present when I say how profoundly shocked we all were by the atrocity at the hostel. And may I add my personal compliments to you, Vernon, for the restraint and moderation with which you have chosen to respond. An example to us all,’ he added, with a glance at Garvey, whose short temper and fondness for rapid-fire expletives were notorious in Whitehall.
She focused on Rolt. She found it disturbing that opinions which would have been considered toxic a matter of months ago were rapidly gaining credibility. Before, just being in a room with someone holding his views would have been political suicide, yet now his presence was regarded as a lifeline, politicians virtually queuing up for a photo-opportunity.
He was very seductive, no question. Partly it was his looks. He was timelessly handsome. With his thick, short dark hair and clear blue eyes, he could have been a film star: Sean Connery in his Bond days. Also his composure, the apparent lack of outrage combined with the quiet passion, were all great attributes, all the more so when he was seated beside Clements, whose oily manner and imperiousness were so repellent to her. She suspected his sexual proclivities did not even involve other humans.
Clements was still talking, ranging over the events of the past few weeks, firing out statistics of casualties, damage. He was in his element, presiding over his favourite kind of situation, semi-covert, with the promise of confidentiality for all, so he could soak up whatever thoughts people were having and pass them back to the PM. She was alarmed at the extent to which he’d had the top man’s ear since he’d returned from Washington. And she was not a little piqued at how her own role seemed to have been subtly downgraded.
Privately the PM had been full of praise for her handling of the unrest, but publicly he talked as if he had been in complete charge – even while he was poncing about at Camp David. But what could she expect? With an election coming, if he didn’t look strong and decisive he could take them all down with him.
Early that morning she had called Mandler, MI5’s director general, to tell him about the Rolt meeting.
‘We’re still watching him, but I’d be lying if I said we had anything concrete.’
She was grateful for his honesty, something that seemed to be in increasingly short supply. ‘I thought you were putting someone inside his camp.’
He sighed. ‘Well, that’s proved more difficult than we expected. Our man didn’t exactly take the bait. And now I’ve just heard he’s buggered off to America. Woolf made a total dog’s breakfast of trying to recruit him. It seems they all underestimated him. On the other hand, his attitude makes him perfect for the job, since there’s no way Rolt would suspect him. I think we just have to play a slightly longer game.’
‘There isn’t time for a longer game. Rolt’s becoming a power to be reckoned with. It’s time you started joining up some dots, Stephen.’
She could hear the strain in his voice. She knew that sceptics in the Service were arguing – with some justification – that they were on a fishing expedition where Rolt was concerned. She had some sympathy for Mandler, being pulled as he was in different directions, but she could see the fight going out of him and it wasn’t an edifying sight.
‘This wretched hysteria about returnees isn’t helping. Pulling people off the streets with virtually nothing to go on, other than that they spent a bit of time in Syria, is just inflaming an already combustible situation. There aren’t the resources for much else.’
‘Well, give it another week,’ she had told him, ‘but don’t let Rolt go off your radar. I don’t have a good feeling about him.’
Watching Clements’s body language, it was clear that, as far as he was concerned, Rolt was the most important person in the room – after himself, of course. The cabinet secretary was positively fawning over him. She looked round at the young Muslim, Derek Farmer’s new find. He had a Bosnian name, but scrubbed up well as a Party man, the acceptable face of young Islam. What was he making of all this? She watched him as Rolt spoke.
‘All I’ve really said is that there are limits to tolerance if we are under siege from people who have different beliefs, many of which are entirely obnoxious to the vast majority of us. And may I add I’ve had numerous messages of support from a wide range of faiths and communities.’
‘Would you like to come in here, Sahim?’ Clements pronounced his name Saaheeem. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, for those who haven’t yet met him, Mr Kovacevic is doing sterling work waving the flag for the moderate Muslim. Our secret weapon, if you like.’
Sam scrabbled to separate the warring thoughts overlapping in
his brain. He felt he had lost control of his life, that he was being pushed and pulled in different directions. He had been hired as the voice of moderation, the young Muslim who could speak up for tolerance. Now he was torn. Before, part of him had agreed with Rolt; now what the man was talking about sounded like nothing short of ethnic cleansing, in which he, Sam, would be tarred with the same brush as Karza, and Bala, with his leg injury and electronic tag. To have escaped deportation in Bosnia then find it here, being openly discussed by supposedly civilized people? It was unthinkable. What could he say? His mind had become a complete blur. He opened his mouth, hoping fervently that what came out would not be too incoherent.
‘Thank you. Well, I think it’s a time for care, for restraint, for keeping open lines of communication with all sections of society. We should extend a helping hand to the returnees, rather than punishing them. We need to help them find a way back into society. And those who have been traumatized by their experiences, I think we should be helping them, just as Invicta helps ex-servicemen and -women, who’ve fought for their country.’
That seemed to make sense. So why was there an uncomfortable silence when he finished? He noticed that almost everyone was staring into their own laps. No one was looking at him. Had he crossed some kind of line?
Clements struggled to find the right response. ‘Well, that certainly sounded like it came from the heart. Thank you, Sahim.’
Sam’s heartbeat was hammering in his ears.
Rolt engaged him with a cold stare that sent a shiver through him. ‘It’s a laudable position, and I don’t doubt your good intentions,’ he began, ‘but I’m afraid we’ve passed that point. Where do you think you’re going to find the popular support, now we have seen what they – some extremists – are capable of? The people we are talking about are not the well-meaning Muslim running their halal business or corner shop. We’re talking about another thing altogether: the menace in our midst, who’ve taken all our hard-fought-for values of tolerance and free expression and crushed them underfoot. They want Sharia law. They want a caliphate. They want women segregated, shrouded, deprived of education. And they are prepared to blow up my men to scare us into making concessions. No, we need to be rid of them, whatever it takes.’
Sam’s mouth went dry. Those words would be Karza’s death sentence. Before, he had relished this sort of meeting, enjoyed the cut and thrust of the debate. Now he was lost for words, and terrified of what the future might bring.
54
Party Headquarters, Westminster
‘What the fuck have you been saying?’ Derek Farmer grabbed Sam’s arm, swung him round and pulled him into an alcove. Sam tried to edge out of his grasp. He didn’t like being manhandled by anyone, let alone a large, sweaty, shouting man – and, above all, not this one.
‘Sorry? What d’you mean?’
‘“Give returnees support”? What? Welcome them at Gatwick with tea and bloody sympathy, and sorry it didn’t work out? You’ve gone way off piste, matey.’
‘It was a closed meeting. Chatham House rules. They said so.’
‘Chatham House – what century are you in? You’ll be all over the papers tomorrow, I guarantee it. The Mail Online’s already got it: Government’s Muslim Poster Boy Goes Rogue. You are going to be in so much shit you’ll need a fucking snorkel.’
Where was all the ‘Thanks for helping us out here, Sahim’ and ‘Marvellous to have you on board’? What had happened to change their attitude?
‘Then I resign.’
Farmer wagged a chubby finger under his nose. It smelt of old cigarettes. ‘No way, José. Not an option. We’ll end up looking like the total muppets we were for ever taking you on. Here’s what’s going to happen, sunshine. You’re going to do an interview with the Sun, and I’m going to give you the script, which you are going to stick to, word for bloody word.’
Sam attempted to breathe slowly. He thought he had spoken sensibly and moderately, and now he was being vilified by yet another faction. Or, to be more precise, the people he was meant to be working for. It had all started so well. And now everything – everything to do with his life in Britain – was turning to shit.
‘What if I refuse?’
‘We’ll comb through your history, your family, your uncles, your aunties, your girlfriends or boyfriends and pets until we find some dirt. And don’t tell me there isn’t any because there always is. We’ll go to town on you. We’ll make you so unemployable you won’t even be able to get work as a fucking cabbage picker with all the other immigrants.’
He held onto Sam’s arm with one hand while he gesticulated with the other. ‘Think about it. You think about the one thing you wouldn’t want the world to know about – and imagine it as a headline. A nice big one. Then imagine your mother reading it. We’ll ruin you.’
Sam didn’t have to think about it. He was trapped.
‘And not only will you be out of a job, you’ll have nowhere to live. And I don’t fancy you and your bird’s chances of finding any room at the inn with a name like yours right now.’ Farmer sighed and let go of his arm.
‘Look, Sam, we’re on a war footing, and we can’t have any deserters. Rolt knows this is his moment. Right now. And if we don’t bring him into the tent, he’ll go to the opposition’s and piss into ours. As it is they’re already sniffing each other’s arses. We have to nip that romance in the bud before they get into each other’s Y-fronts and right up the fucking aisle. Capisce? We’ll craft you some well-chosen words about the merits of what Mr Rolt’s been saying and we’ll forget all about your little – diversion this morning. All right?’
And he was gone, with a rush of air like a train roaring out of a tunnel.
55
Victoria
Sam watched her as she read it, his heart sinking to new depths.
‘They made you say all this?’
‘I didn’t have any choice.’ He told her what Farmer had said. ‘They would have found out about Karza. And that would have been his death sentence. I did it for him.’
He searched her face for some expression, something to show she understood. One by one he was disappointing everyone who mattered to him and he couldn’t bear it if she was next. ‘I hope you don’t think any the worse of me.’
‘You need to be careful. You shouldn’t have got their backs up in the first place.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Your position, right inside the Party, the contact with the prime minister and his officials. From now on, do nothing to upset them. Stay on message: remind them what an asset you are. That’s the way you’re going to save Karza and make a big difference.’
Sam didn’t know what she meant.
She came and sat close, put a hand on his face. The effect was electric. ‘You are very alone, aren’t you?’
He felt the tears welling again. This so wasn’t the image he wanted to project right now. He nodded. Yes, he did feel desperately alone.
She smiled. ‘That’s how we all feel. This is how it is. Before, you were getting on with your life without a thought about your brothers. This has brought you closer to them.’
‘I have just one brother.’
‘No, you don’t. You have thousands of brothers – millions – and they feel like you. But they are with you. You’ve got them – and they have you. Do you understand that?’
‘Maybe.’
‘And you have me.’
She looked at him with a gaze that melted his anguish. But then he was jolted with another realization. He slapped the newspaper. ‘The people who – the men I met, they’ll see this and they’ll …’ He felt ineffectual and weak.
‘I know what you’re thinking, but that won’t happen.’
He wanted to believe her, but couldn’t begin to imagine how this could end other than badly. Very badly.
56
Texas
Tom got to the van just as the cops came past in their cruisers, three of them, in a big hurry, bouncing across the ruts. Tom p
ut himself in plain view: appearing to skulk furtively wouldn’t help him. He raised a friendly hand and smiled as they went by.
As soon as they were past he jumped into the van, fired up the engine, yanked the shift into drive and floored it. If the police were definitely there for Jefferson he needed to put as much distance as he could between them and himself. He kept going south until he hit the Loop, went east to the next exit, then dropped into a side road and pulled up at the kerb.
He turned on the interior light and checked himself over. There was a fair bit of Jefferson’s blood on him. He looked into the back of the van, evidently Kyle’s mobile headquarters. There was a stack of listening kit, a bunk, some cabinets and a fridge. He helped himself to a Coke, which felt wonderfully cool to his parched throat. Then he checked the closet and found a pair of camo cargo shorts and a khaki T-shirt. He changed into them, then took out the pay-as-you-go phone and dialled Woolf. It went to voicemail. He didn’t fancy risking that so he tried Phoebe.
‘Tom!’
‘Can you talk?’
‘I’m just on my way to Invicta.’
‘I need a name checked out. Asim Zuabi. He’s an imam based in Houston, Texas. Whatever you have on him.’
‘Okay, hold while I text that in.’
‘How long does it take?’
‘Only a few minutes. Tom?’
‘Yes?’
‘Thanks for not blowing us. I do want to say how sorry—’
‘Never mind, it’s fine. Just get me the info. How’s Rolt?’
‘I’ve hardly seen him. He’s been caught up in a whirlwind of meetings in Whitehall. The hostel bombing has changed everything. They’re taking him very seriously. There are some in the cabinet wanting him to join some kind of crisis task force. Hang on while I see what we’ve got on your man.’
While Tom waited, he took out Jefferson’s phone and looked at the call log. All the names in his contacts were abbreviated to one or two letters. One number he had dialled twice, and received four calls from, in the previous twelve hours belonged to a CF.
