Fortress

by Andy McNab

  Stutz tilted his head and pressed his lips together in a way that implied both regret and finality: a man of integrity just telling it like it was. ‘We got a full house. America is closed.’

  And yet you had Jefferson killed because he was threatening an imam. This still didn’t add up, not by a long way.

  ‘Now, you tell me, son. Do you think Invicta’s up to the job?’

  It was clear there was only one answer he wanted to hear. Tom had come this far, he might as well keep playing the game.

  ‘Absolutely. You bet.’

  ‘God bless you. Britain and America should stand together. We’re done with being the world’s policemen, sending our best people to be blown apart. It’s way too costly in money and lives – and it doesn’t work. Let them put their own houses in order. We need to protect our borders, conserve our resources. This is what this century needs. The world’s changing. We got our own gas and oil now. We can cut ’em all loose – the Saudis, the Iraqis, Syrians, Afghans. All of ’em.’

  Tom looked at him steadily, letting none of his revulsion show. ‘Your backing will make all the difference.’

  Stutz put an arm round his shoulders. ‘You know, Tom, I had a good feeling the minute I set eyes on you. I don’t warm easy to people, but we put you in the line of fire and you came through. And you’ve been straight with me. I’m proud of you, and it makes me sick what you went through at Bastion.’

  He bent forward so his mouth was close to Tom’s ear. ‘That fuck Qazi, you say the word, he’s gone.’ He nodded gravely. ‘I mean it. One word, and it’ll be done.’

  From anyone else it would have been ridiculous bravado, but Stutz gave a convincing impression that in his world nothing was beyond his reach. Perhaps Stutz had another Kyle right there in Bastion, on standby, ready to do the job and not ask any questions. ‘Thank you. I’ll bear it in mind.’

  But behind all the talk, what was he actually planning? Never mind Qazi. What insane horrors were these people planning to unleash? Tom put on a calm smile. ‘So, what are the next steps?’

  ‘People on the front line, in command – at Langley, in the Pentagon, all over DC and in Whitehall too, for sure. Vernon’s got a lot of people quietly moving in the right direction. Quietly and determinedly. You can be sure of it. But we need to speed up the process, one more outcome that’ll be the tipping point.’

  Woolf’s claims, which had seemed so outlandish a day ago, were starting to look less and less far-fetched.

  Tom was about to probe for more on the ‘outcome’ when the door opened and there stood Skip, the rings round his eyes even greyer. ‘Hey, guys, we ready to close the deal?’

  60

  Tom declined the offer of a driver and walked back to the hotel, a lone figure on the sun-blasted sidewalk. The hot Houston air felt unexpectedly cleansing after the oppressive atmosphere in the Oryxis boardroom. Stutz had made the call to Rolt but Tom didn’t get to hear what was said. Now Rolt was calling him.

  ‘This is it! We’re on our way. I owe you, Tom.’

  ‘All I did was trot out a few old war stories and shake their hands.’

  ‘Stutz told me you did a lot more than that. I’m proud of you, Tom.’

  There was a beat while Tom absorbed this. But Rolt was still talking.

  ‘He says you passed with flying colours. He says you’re a great asset.’

  So that was what it took. It might as well have been an initiation into a Hell’s Angels’ chapter. Kill to order to get to the next level.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘It’s very flattering. I don’t know what to say.’

  He was in. Right under the wire. Woolf had put him there and he had come good. But where was Woolf now?

  ‘Look, give it some thought on the way home. You coming back tonight? We certainly need you. The bombing has raised everybody’s game.’

  Right now all he could think of was sleep. ‘I’ll keep you posted. It’s been a long twenty-four hours.’

  Tom dropped his phone back into his pocket. He was on the forecourt of his hotel, just a few feet from the revolving doors, when he was halted by an unfamiliar voice.

  ‘Tom!’

  He turned to see a stunning young black woman, dressed impeccably, if a little warmly for the weather.

  ‘Alicia. UNHCR, Baghdad. Remember?’

  She had a British accent and a beautiful smile: not the sort of combination a man would easily forget. He smiled back. ‘I’m sorry – who?’

  She laughed. ‘You really don’t remember me?’

  She was moving towards a side-street. As he rifled through all the faces he might have remembered from Baghdad, and that was a lot of faces, he followed her. She turned and came up very close as if she was about to kiss him, and as she did so her expression changed. Something made contact with Tom’s thigh and he heard the sigh of compressed nitrogen. He couldn’t do anything except take the pain as the Taser barbs embedded in his flesh and the force of the electric shock slammed him into the ground. Apart from fifty thousand volts, the only thing that went through his mind was the idea that he should try to curl up and protect his head as he tumbled off the kerb.

  As he tried to retake control of his legs, a blacked-out MPV screeched to a halt at the kerb and two men jumped out.

  They bundled him into the vehicle as easily as if he were a child and accelerated away.

  Tom had no energy left for any of this – whatever it was. ‘Look, it’s been a long day and I’m fresh out of moves. Could we just cut the foreplay and I’ll call you in the morning?’

  Tom turned to find himself in the centre well of the MPV. The memorable Alicia sat up front with the driver, and with their backs to them, facing the rear, sat two compactly built young bloods in shades, with blandly inoffensive faces, like shop dummies but with less personality. They looked alert and fresh from a good night’s sleep; just gazing at them made him feel weary.

  ‘Buckingham, listen up. Look at me.’

  Opposite them was the talker, a tall, patrician man with neat silver hair, the sort who might have been a prefect at his old school.

  ‘You are Tom Buckingham?’

  Tom struggled. ‘Who wants to know?’

  The patrician bent down and thrust his face close to Tom’s. ‘Don’t be tiresome, Buckingham. We’ve had the FBI on our backs, wanting to know why you’re here. They seem to know things we don’t and that’s not how we like it.’

  ‘Sorry, I can’t help you.’

  ‘They know all about Bastion.’

  ‘Yeah? Apparently so does everyone. Have you honestly got nothing better to do than swoop out of nowhere with – Ant and Dec here and bother a private citizen on his holidays?’

  The shop dummies looked at each other; clearly they’d been called worse things.

  ‘The FBI are concerned you may be seeking some kind of revenge.’

  ‘In Texas? That’s a bit paranoid even for them.’

  It was Alicia’s turn to chip in: ‘For fuck’s sake, Tom. Everyone’s on edge back home and there aren’t any easy strategies. We can’t put tanks on the streets. We’re not the Russians. We need all the support we can get from the US and stuff like this makes them feel we’re not playing the game.’

  Tom sighed. ‘Look, you can drive me around all day, if you like, but spare a thought for the poor old British taxpayer footing the gas bill for this barge, not to mention keeping these two in shandy and crisps.’

  The boss sighed heavily and rubbed his eyes. It was clear they were on a fishing expedition. They had no real idea why he was there.

  ‘Look. Just be out of here by tomorrow. All right?’

  This was madness, one arm of the secret service trying to employ him, the other trying to expel him. But in fact Tom was hoping to get out of there sooner than that.

  ‘Fine, whatever. Just let me out.’

  The car lurched to a halt. He turned to them. ‘There is one thing. Masjid As-Sabur?’

  The patrician frowned. ‘What’s th
at?’

  ‘“As-Sabur” is one of Allah’s ninety-nine names. Depending on your interpretation of the translation it means either the “Timeless One” or the “Patient One”. “Masjid”, I’m sure you know, means “mosque”.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Asim Zuabi, imam and Syrian refugee.’

  They all looked at him blankly. ‘Check him out. He’s building a big new mosque here. Some of the locals aren’t happy but he’s loaded so he’s bought off the authorities, apparently.’

  ‘What’s the significance?’

  ‘Honestly? I have absolutely no idea.’

  61

  Tom was in the bathroom doing some maintenance on the previous night’s damage when there was a knock at the door.

  ‘Room service.’

  He looked through the peep-hole: Beth, carrying a bottle of champagne and two glasses. He had been looking forward to some time alone and catching up on some much-needed sleep. Besides, he didn’t feel like celebrating; Kyle’s demise and the carnage at the gun shop had left him feeling deeply troubled. But maybe this was a chance to get another angle on Stutz. He reached for a robe. The accumulated damage had left him with a number of welts and angry-looking bruises.

  He opened the door and she strode in on those endless legs.

  ‘Courtesy of Mr Stutz. I believe congratulations are in order!’

  She looked different today, less of the efficient PA, more Jack Wills at the Beach. She had on a vest that clung nicely, shorts and trainers, evidently her off-duty kit. He took the bottle from her: Krug, Clos du Mesnil 2000.

  ‘Mr Stutz says you Brits know your champagne.’

  ‘Very thoughtful, thanks.’ He glanced down to see that one of the cuts inflicted by Colburn and Co was oozing onto the carpet. He pulled the robe closer round him. ‘Just give me a minute.’

  She brandished the bottle. ‘Would you like me to open it?’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  He went back into the bathroom and put on a long-sleeved fleece and trousers to cover the evidence.

  ‘Where did y’all get to last night?’

  He laughed. ‘I’m afraid I don’t remember. We rather overdid it, I’m ashamed to say. I think I might have come off his bike at some point.’

  He heard her turn the inside lock on the door. That wasn’t right.

  He was only halfway through the doorway when a jolt stung him on the thigh and he went down for the second time in less than an hour.

  What was this, Groundhog Day?

  He lifted himself up a little and, without even turning, she jabbed her left elbow into his chest, forcing all the air out of it. Then her face followed, like thunder, as if she’d just ripped off her happy mask to reveal the scary android beneath. She smashed the back of her hand across his face. This helped him focus just enough to grab her wrist and pull her down. He didn’t see the foot heading for his left temple until it was too late.

  He was on the carpet. His limbs felt like sludge, but he grabbed the foot and twisted it hard. She rotated with it, trying to avoid the crack, and crashed into the side of the minibar. He grabbed her ponytail and pulled her head down. She fought hard with her fists, hammering his face, chest, shoulder – wherever she could land them – twisting all the time like a hooked marlin. With a huge effort of will he forced her off him, but as he did so, she used his momentum to send him smashing into the wall.

  He tried to open his eyes. The room was on its side, a blur. He twisted to try to see the right way up, but it was painful. When he recovered a little, he found he was on the floor and she was standing over him, the Glock in one hand, a small black wallet open in the other. He focused on the wallet, in particular the three white letters: FBI.

  62

  ‘What happened to the nice, smiley Beth? The one who doesn’t Taser guys in hotel rooms.’

  No sudden moves, he told himself – at least, not until you know if everything’s working.

  She glared at him with contempt. ‘What are you – some kind of one-man crime wave?’

  He lifted himself an inch. She pushed him back down with her heel. ‘Okay! Okay!’

  The muzzle of the suppressor was less than two feet from his face. ‘Believe me, I am more than capable of using this.’

  ‘I believe you. Can you just move it out of my face?’

  ‘I’m calling this in, Tom Buckingham – if that’s even your name. You just booked yourself a long-stay cell in Huntsville.’

  Tom had never heard of the place but he was pretty sure it didn’t have sun loungers and a pool. He adjusted his sore leg. She raised the weapon again.

  The thought flashed through his mind that this was another test, commissioned by Stutz, but the badge and the wallet looked like the real thing, as did the way she handled the weapon.

  ‘Can I at least straighten up a bit?’

  His head was wedged half under the table and his zapped leg was smarting unpleasantly.

  ‘What do you know about Zuabi?’ She took a half-step back.

  ‘What’s that?’ Tom tried to straighten his legs.

  ‘You don’t know? How long did you say you’d been under cover?’

  He gave her the heads-up on the mystery mullah.

  She listened, saying nothing, which suggested that it was all new to her. Since he had her attention, he went on: ‘What’s in this for Stutz? Seemed to me his thing is sending people like Zuabi back where they came from.’

  She sighed, her patience running on empty. ‘Okay, you’re still fucking with me, Tom. You need to get yourself a better scriptwriter.’

  ‘Syrian refugee builds mega-mosque in downtown Houston. Nazi nutter plans to kill him. Stutz sent me with Kyle. What else could I do? You know the score. Under cover, you get to do all kinds of surprising stuff – like being filmed by Skip, yeah? How does that feel?’ He thought he had crossed a line but she didn’t rise to it. ‘He was testing you. That’s what he does.’

  ‘Then I guess I passed.’ She sat down on the edge of the bed, keeping the Glock trained on him, not letting down her guard, but at least she was responding. Tom pressed on.

  ‘MI5 think Invicta is deliberately provoking the unrest in the UK. They put me in to see if I can join up some of the dots. The dots led to here.’

  ‘And a lot of collateral.’

  He shrugged. There was no point debating that. ‘Okay, I showed you mine. How about you show me yours?’

  She shook her head in mock-disbelief. ‘Jeez, you Brits are something else.’

  ‘Well, go on. Why have the FBI got you running around for these creeps?’

  ‘That’s none of your fucking business.’

  ‘But maybe what I have is your business.’

  She shook her head again. It was getting to be a habit. ‘I just don’t get it, what are you trying to do here?’

  ‘We can help each other.’

  Her eyes narrowed.

  ‘Look, we both know Stutz’s ambition is for Skip to deliver the software equivalent of ethnic cleansing. Rolt’s been talking up something similar in the UK – and he’s getting an audience. There’s evidence he’s been helping the process along – stirring up ethnic hatred. Stutz talked to me about the Invicta hostel bombing like it was preordained. What if it was planned – by them? The FBI could be missing a trick here.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘That you and I may have a chance to stop the biggest orchestrated terror initiative since Nine/Eleven.’

  She looked at him for several seconds. Tom could almost see the debate going on in her head. Is this guy for real or some fuckwit?

  He noticed the Glock wasn’t pointed at him now. Beneath what was left of the shiny gloss of her cover, he detected the frustrations of her assignment coming to the surface. She looked at him for a long time. When she spoke again, it was through gritted teeth.

  ‘Stutz is impenetrable. He’s very meticulous, and very secretive. He’s got all the detail in his head. Maybe working with Skip has convinced him that, no matter
how many firewalls you put in, nothing is safe. He hardly uses the phone, he doesn’t do email. Everything’s word of mouth. He has people from his security outfit couriering messages all over. And they’re all totally loyal to him, just like Kyle was.’

  Tom looked at her afresh. She was in deep, risking her life, putting up with everything Stutz and Lederer threw at her for the Bureau. He bet her paymasters had never imagined, when they had instigated the War on Terror, that they would be tracking the likes of Stutz.

  She put up a hand as if to wipe out the previous thought. ‘Wait, roll back. You talked about Rolt, the Invicta guy?’

  Tom nodded.

  ‘Rolt was here a month back. He met with Stutz at his penthouse. That’s not usual – he takes work there sometimes but doesn’t do meetings there. He had me bring up a package, and when I went in he had this purple folder open, stuff spread all over the table. They looked like résumés, mug shots on them. The men with beards, women with headscarves. Never saw Stutz with anything like that before or since. Anyhow I’d come in without knocking and he went apeshit. I didn’t get near enough to see names or anything but I saw letters on the corners of some of them: SAR.’

  ‘Syrian Arab Republic.’

  ‘And we know he’s not hiring them – doesn’t even want them here. So why’s he looking at their details?’

  ‘What was the Bureau’s interest in him, originally?’

  She gave him a withering look.

  ‘Okay, hand me over to the authorities, if you want, but I guarantee you, no one wants a fuss right now. They’ll most probably ship me back to the UK and pretend it never happened.’

  She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. ‘Before Nine/Eleven, Stutz was in the oil business, supplying infrastructure and personnel to the high-risk fields: Iraq, Libya, Azerbaijan, Nigeria. With the Iraq invasion in 2003, he teamed up with the CIA to supply contractors. As the war dragged on, the demand for all kinds of off-book operatives increased. Congress got interested in how much public money was flowing to these private contractors, but they were protected with all kinds of National Security provisions that meant there was a whole bunch of stuff they didn’t need to declare. Langley and the Pentagon closed ranks to protect Stutz, which pissed off the Bureau.’