Fortress

by Andy McNab

  He left the car and crossed the road, then came round the side of the coach and joined the queue for kit. When he got to the front the guy doing the handing out gave him a strange look. His name tag said ‘International Confederation of Structural Engineers’. ‘You on the list?’

  ‘Roger Symes, Royal Institute of British Architects. I only just landed – got a bit delayed. They probably didn’t have time to add me. I’m most awfully sorry.’

  The guy handed him a hat and a vest. ‘Whatever.’

  Tom inserted himself into the group as they headed through the entrance, following an enthusiastic guide in a yellow hat, who was in full flow.

  ‘… and to produce the activation heat for this system, we’re using roof-mounted parabolic solar collectors, working on a higher than usual temperature …’

  Tom soon tuned out. He was in the building, which was what mattered. He smiled at a woman studying her BlackBerry, who rolled her eyes. ‘There’s only so much of this stuff I can take.’ She leaned towards him. ‘How many mosques d’you think there are now, operating in the US?’ He smiled again and shrugged. ‘Twelve hundred.’

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘And eighty per cent of them built since Nine/Eleven. How does that work?’

  ‘Are they all this big?’

  She shook her head. ‘Oh, no, this fella’s in a whole different league.’

  ‘Know anything about the guy behind it?’

  Another member of the party who appeared equally bored chipped in, ‘Got his hand deep in Saudi pockets. Which ain’t right.’

  At this point a third man, the only one of the party who looked like he might have actually built anything, waded in. ‘Hey, give the guy a break. He’s spending his dough here, not on guns for A-rabs.’ He drawled the ‘a’ so it came out as ‘Ayrab’. He waved in the direction of a cluster of men erecting a crane. ‘They’re all American workers too.’

  ‘Guy’s a refugee, came here with nothing.’

  ‘Yeah, so did my granddaddy, but then they start sending for their families an’ all.’

  ‘I heard it’s gonna be dedicated to his daughter.’

  ‘What happened to her?’ Tom asked.

  The third man shrugged. ‘Guess she didn’t make it. They got all kinds of trouble in Syria now, ain’t they?’

  They moved towards the scaffolding where the dome would be. Another man with a well-scuffed hat came forward and was introduced as the site manager.

  Tom tried to listen but his attention was caught by the purple folder under the man’s arm and the logo in the corner. It was the same castle design and the same colour as the one in Stutz’s apartment. He turned to the BlackBerry woman. ‘D’you know that logo at all?’

  ‘New to me. Some construction outfit, I guess.’

  67

  The Tijuana Motel had seen better days. A low, L-shaped structure, it had been painted a lurid orange, evidently some years past, perhaps in an attempt to attract the attention of passing trade. But time and the seasons had not been kind to it: so much of the orange had flaked away that the mottled surface now looked more like some misconceived kind of camouflage than the outside of anywhere people would choose to stay.

  There was no reply to his text so he waited another ten minutes. He chose not to call Beth’s mobile in case Carter was still with her. But after half an hour he began to get impatient. Her pick-up was still there, and the only other car in the lot, a beaten-up Ford, didn’t look like it was going anywhere. He decided to take a closer look at room forty-five.

  There was a do-not-disturb sign on the door. The curtains were closed and there was no light on, except from the blaring TV. He knocked once, then again. He tried the door. It was open.

  Beth lay sprawled on the bed. She was cold. He probed desperately for a pulse, hoping, yet knowing there was no hope. There was foam on her lips, and blood from where she had evidently bitten them. A needle hung from her arm below the latex glove that had been used as a tourniquet. On the bedside table there was a lighter, a spoon coated with residue, a syringe pack, bottles of hydrocodone syrup and promethazine, and an empty foil of oxycodone pills. Some of the powder clung to a small knife, which had been used to chop up the pills. On its side on the bed was a bottle of Streak vodka.

  Whoever had done this knew their stuff.

  He lifted the pillow beside her. The underside was speckled with blood. They had smothered her to finish the job. Tom thought of closing her eyes but thought again. Then he turned back to the door, pausing only to wipe the handle on the way out.

  68

  Washington DC

  ‘Dean Carter?’

  ‘Who wants to know?’

  Before following him up from the parking lot, Tom had been in and rung the bell to make sure that no one else was home. According to Phoebe, the FBI listed Carter as single, but he had to be sure they’d be alone for their talk. He had also recced the building for security cameras.

  Carter stood at the door, his key in the lock, as Tom came towards him. He was in his early forties, balding, but his hair was an unnatural jet black; his fierce little eyes had flabby bags under them. His thin beige raincoat hung off him and his shoulders had the droop of a man who spent a lot of time at a desk, carrying too much around in his head.

  Tom pressed the Glock into his right kidney.

  ‘Hey, what is this?’

  ‘It’s a gun. Let’s go inside, Dean.’ He gave him a shove so that he stumbled into the room, then quietly closed the door; no need to disturb the neighbours. It was stifling inside. There would be an AC unit but they tended to be noisy.

  He indicated the balcony doors.

  ‘Open them, just a little. Then sit down on the sofa. If you try to make any kind of noise I’ll kill you.’

  His flat, quiet tone seemed to get the message across. Carter slid the glass door open, then sat.

  ‘Okay, if it’s cash, you’re wasting your time, and there’s nothing of value here.’

  ‘Dean, listen to me. Do I look or sound like I’m interested in your crap? Why don’t you use some of that special-agent intuition and try to work out why I am here?’

  Carter turned his palms skywards; he couldn’t work it out.

  ‘Okay. Just answer a few questions honestly – that means without lying to me – and we’ll get this over with.’

  Carter flicked his head from side to side as if more mystery men might have come in behind them. ‘Who the fuck are you?’

  ‘I’ve just got in from Houston. I stopped by the Tijuana Motel on my way out of there.’

  Carter blinked but that was all.

  ‘And do you know what I saw there?’

  He wagged a finger at Tom. ‘Now let’s get something clear here. I’m a special agent of—’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. And Beth Adams’s CA.’

  His forehead creased into a frown. ‘Wait – are you Buckingham, the SAS guy?’

  Tom didn’t answer, which Carter took as a ‘yes’. Relief spread over his face. ‘Ah, okay, so, yeah, it’s a kinda complex situation we have here. Beth’s not been in a good way for a while. It started with the coke – as you probably know. And, basically, she went rogue on us.’

  He shook his head in mock-regret. Tom sat on the coffee-table opposite him, keeping close, while Carter improvised a few more details. ‘We kinda had to rein her in and she couldn’t take it. If you knew about her habit, she was on notice …’

  Tom remained impassive.

  ‘… and it all got too much for her. It’s really very sad.’ He looked up at Tom, seeking some sort of acknowledgement.

  ‘What? Oh, I get it. You actually think I believe this bollocks? This pack of fucking lies? My God, where do they find you people?’

  At this conclusive evidence that his performance had not won an Oscar and sent the gullible Brit obligingly on his way, Carter’s indignation got the better of him. ‘Now, I don’t know who you’ve been talking to, fella, but you’re a foreign national and this is US-government busines
s. You need to understand—’

  ‘What I understand is that she died between ten and twelve this morning in room forty-five at the Tijuana Motel.’

  At the revelation that Tom knew something – anything – a look of panic crossed Carter’s face. ‘Well, I don’t have any of that exact detail.’

  ‘Supposedly of an overdose.’

  Though his ordeal was far from over, Carter clung to this apparent concession on Tom’s part. ‘Yeah, that’s what I’m saying.’

  ‘Except she couldn’t have. Ask me how I know that.’ He shoved the weapon closer.

  Carter looked profoundly uncomfortable. Clearly he hadn’t been briefed on this eventuality.

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘There was blood on the pillow from where she was smothered when the “overdose” didn’t work. Where I come from we have a word for that.’

  Carter glanced up at him, and this time Tom detected a flicker of guilt pass across his features.

  ‘We call it careless.’ Tom whacked him across the head, not enough to knock him out but enough to quench, at least temporarily, his desire to rip the man’s head off and shoot several rounds down his neck.

  There was momentary silence while Carter took this in. He was cornered but he wasn’t throwing in the towel yet. Amazingly he came back for another go. ‘Ah, no, listen – she was a real car crash. She really was getting into all kinds of shit—’

  ‘Look, Dean. Let me stop you there before you make me want to hurt you even more badly than I already do. I’m giving you a chance to make a clean breast of things, but badmouthing Beth is only going to make me want to snap every bone in your pathetic, cowardly little body. She trusted you to look after her. And instead you had her killed.’

  ‘Look, I’m not gonna sit here and listen to any more of this shit.’

  Tom loomed over him and put the muzzle of the suppressor next to his left eye.

  ‘“The Contact Agent can provide physical and psychological support, can be available in times of danger … at any sign of danger the Under Cover Agent is extracted.” That’s straight from the FBI Career Guide, Dean. That means it’s your job. Maybe you need to go on a refresher course.’

  At the words ‘refresher course’, Carter looked truly frightened.

  ‘The FBI Career Guide also says that only one undercover agent has ever been killed on duty in the Bureau’s entire history, which I find hard to believe, and now you’ve doubled that. So, Dean, let’s discuss what leads an agent with an unremarkable record like yours to resort to having his own colleagues murdered. Let’s start with some names, shall we? Zuabi, Fortress, Stutz.’

  ‘I’m not – I can’t—’

  ‘You are and you can. This –’ he indicated the weapon ‘– says you don’t have a choice. Zuabi, Fortress, Stutz. Come on, join up the dots.’

  At the mention of the names again, Carter’s expression changed. His face was starting to glisten, as were his eyes, which were opened very wide, as if something was pushing his eyeballs out from behind. When he spoke again, his voice had gone up an octave and came out as a childish whine. ‘You think I can walk out of here if I tell you what I know? You have no idea what you’re dealing with, fella. No idea!’

  ‘Enlighten me.’

  Carter breathed deeply, as if he was trying to compose himself, as if whatever he was about to do there was no going back.

  ‘Zuabi doesn’t know zip about Stutz or Fortress, okay? Not a thing. He thinks his finance comes from the Saudis. He’s just the conduit to his people.’

  ‘What people?’

  ‘Sleepers.’

  Carter was panting hard, hyper-ventilating. ‘I gotta get some air.’

  Tom nodded. Carter struggled to his feet, a hand against the wall for support. His face was as red as a traffic-light. Tom kept his weapon trained on him as he felt his way to the balcony window.

  ‘So Stutz is running Zuabi without his knowledge?’

  Carter turned back to him, the desperation on his face that of a man who had given up his most precious secret and was trying to absorb the consequences of having crossed that line. He shook his head. ‘You can’t stop him. He’s too well connected.’

  Then, as if jolted by a freak burst of electricity, he darted forward through the open window to the wall of the balcony and leaped over. Tom lunged after him and wrapped his arms round his left leg. Carter shook his head frantically. ‘No, no! Let me go!’

  Tom fought to get a better grip but he was thrashing, gravity sucking his body out of Tom’s clutches. Tom grabbed the end of his coat but it was no good. The coat detached itself and he was absorbed into the darkness below.

  69

  Pall Mall, London

  There was something deeply comforting about walking back into his father’s club. After all that had happened in Texas, Tom felt calmed by the wooden panelling, the quiet, understated tone of the place. Even the frayed edges of the rug on the landing outside the members’ dining room was strangely reassuring.

  ‘There you are!’ Hugh rose to his feet. ‘I was starting to think we’d lost you.’

  Tom glanced at his watch: thirty minutes late. It was odd that, after all his years in the Regiment, his father should fret about his being half an hour late for dinner; ridiculous, and rather endearing. He felt surprisingly happy to see the old man.

  ‘Sorry, I was in the bath.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘I needed a serious soak to get some of that oily American grime off me.’ He didn’t say that he had stood under the shower in his hotel room before he flew home, watching the last flecks of blood floating off him: his own, Jefferson’s, Kyle’s, Colburn’s and, most distressingly, Beth’s. A lot of people’s blood, not to mention the memory of Carter going over the balcony. It wasn’t the sight of blood per se, or death, that was shocking to him, but the world he seemed to have stepped into. The rules were different. And he didn’t like the people who made them. Worse, he didn’t trust them.

  His father peered at him. ‘You look exhausted. But never mind. Sit down and have a drink. This Cabernet Sauvignon’s really quite good. A Le Bonheur 2006. Or would you prefer to open with a G and T?’

  ‘No, pour me some of that. Thanks.’

  ‘Did you have a good trip?’

  Tom couldn’t think of when he had ever been more glad to be back in London. He sniffed the wine – it smelt like an old cigar box – then drank. It was rich, dark and oaky.

  ‘Hey, take your time, we’ve got all evening.’

  ‘Don’t tell me to slow down, Dad.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  Tom could see his father’s concern etched on his face. He knew he must seem tired and distracted, as his eyes roved around the room.

  ‘Tom, is everything all right?’

  Tom looked at his father, his worried, careworn face. ‘I can’t begin to tell you how good it is to be back.’

  ‘Was it successful – your mission?’

  He had told him it was for Rolt but hadn’t gone into any more detail than that. ‘You know I can’t talk about it.’

  ‘Oh, come on, it was only a PR job for Invicta – wasn’t it?’

  ‘PR job?’

  ‘Oh, come on! You’re not in the SAS now.’

  ‘Look, it was and it wasn’t. It’s complicated, okay?’

  All his working life he had made a point of never lying to his parents. There were many things he could never tell them about his work but he refused to lie about it.

  Hugh looked uncomfortable as he took another gulp of wine.

  ‘Dad – what is it?’

  ‘It’s just that … I rather feel I owe you an apology.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Getting you involved with him.’

  Tom put his glass on the table. Yes, he probably did need to slow down. Right now he felt like getting well and truly shitfaced, but that wouldn’t do at all, not here, and definitely not in this company. ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘I think I may ha
ve been a bit – premature.’

  ‘Well, you weren’t the only one pushing me in his direction as it turned out, but why the change of heart? You were so gung-ho before.’

  Hugh Buckingham paused while the wine waiter topped up their glasses. ‘I think we’ll need another of those when you have a moment.’

  The waiter nodded and glided away. Hugh leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘The last few days, seeing him all over the media and so forth, I mean it was terrible what happened to his hostel, awful – those poor men – but it’s put him even more in the spotlight.’

  ‘And?’

  Hugh blew out a long breath. ‘Well, he’s very presentable, very calm, very reasoned. But when you actually add up what he’s saying – well, stop me if you think I’m wrong – it’s pretty inflammatory.’

  Tom found himself on the spot. He played for time while he worked out how to respond. ‘Go on, then. Get it off your chest.’

  ‘Well, in the past people like him were always on the fringe. They’d make a bit of a noise, get a few headlines, then disappear back into the swamp they came from. But Rolt, with his reasoned tone and presentable looks, he’s gone mainstream, if you like. And instead of putting a cordon sanitaire round him and giving him a wide berth, everyone seems to be climbing on his bandwagon. Half of Westminster is queuing up for a photo-opportunity with him, as if he’s some kind of magic bullet for their fading popularity. I have a bad feeling in my water that something quite fundamental is happening and I don’t like it one bit.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Tom knew he was coming over as defensive when he had no need to be. Was it that he didn’t want to go down in his father’s estimation – even if it had been his idea in the first place?