Fortress

by Andy McNab

  ‘Well, you must have noticed.’

  ‘I’ve just been in America, remember, but go on. I’m interested in your point of view.’ Tom sat back, prepared for a lecture.

  ‘Well, if you follow his argument to its logical conclusion, it’s damn near forcible repatriation. Even Enoch Powell didn’t advocate that. And in some cases, because we’re also talking about people who were born here – there’s no other way of putting it – it’s deportation. And I’ll tell you something else.’

  He gestured discreetly at the other diners and lowered his voice. ‘It’s putting the jump leads on some of these old farts who’ve been minding their Ps and Qs, toeing the politically correct line and so forth. There’s all kinds of nasty stuff coming out of the woodwork. In fact,’ he jabbed a forefinger at the table, ‘it almost smacks of what went on in Germany in the thirties. And I don’t say that lightly.’

  What could Tom say? There’d been many times he and his father hadn’t seen eye to eye, but this wasn’t one of them. In fact, he agreed with every word.

  And he now saw very clearly where he stood. He had gone to Texas with an open mind, pissed off with the Army, with MI5, in fact the whole British Establishment, and had plunged head first into an entirely alien world, like nothing he had experienced before. Having seen what he had seen – and survived – he had emerged with a burning desire to get to the bottom of what Stutz and Rolt were up to and stop it in its tracks. He had successfully inserted himself into Invicta so was better placed than anyone to chase down what was going on. It would be madness to bail out now.

  But he couldn’t let on to his father, not yet.

  ‘Look, Dad, it’s difficult.’

  Hugh looked indignant. ‘I don’t see what’s difficult about it at all. You don’t owe the man anything. I apologize for ever having got you involved with him, but I’m not happy with the idea of my son going around with a man who’s talking up what amounts to ethnic cleansing. One more atrocity like that hostel and he’s going to have public opinion right alongside.’

  Hugh’s voice had risen a couple of decibels as it was apt to do when he was on a hobby-horse. A couple at the next table were staring at them.

  Tom raised his hands to his father in a placatory gesture. ‘Please, Dad, can we not discuss this now? I’ve had a pretty gruelling few days and I just need to chill. Okay?’

  But Hugh wasn’t looking at his son or listening to him: his eyes were fixed on something behind him. ‘Well, talk of the devil.’

  Tom looked round. Rolt had just entered the dining room. He seemed to be lingering in the doorway, as if to make the most of his entrance. Conversations petered out and there was a hush as everyone gradually became aware of his presence.

  All eyes were on him, the man of the moment. The whole atmosphere of the room had changed. Someone started to clap and soon a ripple of applause spread throughout the room. Tom glanced at his father, whose hands remained firmly clenched in front of him, a knowing eyebrow raised. Less than a week ago such a display of impromptu adulation would have been unimaginable. But Hugh was right: Rolt had picked a scab and uncovered a festering sore underneath. And it alarmed Tom to see just how vulnerable people were to his charm and charisma.

  He looked away, but it was too late. Rolt had spotted him from his vantage-point in the doorway and was striding towards their table, with another man in tow. There was nothing else to do: Tom got to his feet as Rolt bore down on them.

  ‘Tom, you dark horse! You slipped back to London without passing by. I’m crestfallen.’ Rolt pumped his hand.

  ‘You remember my father, Hugh Buckingham.’

  Hugh, ever the gentleman, stood up and they shook hands.

  ‘I really am in your debt for sending Tom my way. I don’t mind telling you he’s the best thing that’s happened to Invicta in a long while.’

  ‘Well, it’s very nice to hear that. Always good for a father to see his son getting rave reviews.’

  Rolt turned to the man he was with. ‘Alec, meet Tom Buckingham, my latest recruit, who’s been doing sterling work for me across the pond. Tom, Alec Clements, cabinet secretary.’

  From the Office of the Cabinet Secretary. The ‘Alec’ on the compliments slip in the book on Stutz’s coffee-table.

  ‘Delighted.’ Clements nodded to both of them, his lack of interest transparent.

  ‘Tom, can I have a quick word?’ Rolt put an arm round him and moved him aside, leaving Hugh with Clements.

  Rolt put his mouth close to Tom’s ear. ‘Well done. You really stepped up. As I said on the phone, Stutz filled me in. I seriously owe you. Come by first thing tomorrow, promise?’

  Tom had already agreed to meet Woolf for a debrief. ‘Can we make it the afternoon? I seriously need to catch up on some sleep.’

  Rolt sighed, then smiled. ‘Of course. But the pressure’s on now. Lots to do.’

  They made their farewells and Clements steered him away. Tom and Hugh sat back down again.

  ‘Well, that was extraordinary. I’ve never seen adulation like it in this room, apart from when Andy Murray came in. Proves my point. Something big is happening.’

  But Tom wasn’t listening: he was thinking about Rolt’s companion. ‘Tell me about Clements.’

  Hugh’s contempt was only too evident. ‘An operator par excellence. A ferociously bright Civil Service mandarin who’s clawed his way to the top post in the Cabinet Office by stabbing his rivals in the back. The cabinet secretary is basically the most powerful unelected official in government, the main source of policy advice for the PM. That means he’s at the very heart of where the most important decisions are made.’

  ‘So being seen with him is a vote of confidence for Rolt.’

  ‘You bet. Clements is the type whose every action is a calculation. Bringing Rolt to dinner is de facto his endorsement of the man, and that will reverberate round Whitehall. Shocking, really.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘People in Clements’s position don’t change when there’s an election. They’re in for the long haul. Chances are he’s laying down a marker for whoever is in power now or after the election.’

  ‘Aren’t you crediting him with too much power?’

  ‘Not outright power. Let’s call it influence.’

  ‘So Clements wouldn’t associate himself with anyone he didn’t regard as useful to him in some way.’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘So giving a present to or having himself photographed with the wrong kind of person …’

  ‘Just wouldn’t happen. He’s much too smart. But why the sudden interest in Clements? I thought this sort of political minutiae bored the pants off you.’

  ‘Maybe I’ve changed.’

  Hugh put down his glass and put his hand over Tom’s. They didn’t go in for physical contact: Tom had made that clear years ago. ‘All I can say is, I hope you’ve not got yourself into something you can’t get out of.’

  But he was already in, and in deep. It was time to move the conversation on. ‘I’ll do what I have to do, okay? Trust me on that.’

  Without knowing it, his father had just confirmed Tom’s suspicions. Stutz’s connections didn’t just stretch up through the Washington bureaucracy. They ran deep into Whitehall. But for now he had to keep this part of the jigsaw to himself. With some careful handling he managed to move his father to other matters while they ate their steak, but the relaxed evening he had been hoping for had turned into just the opposite.

  All through the meal, he noticed Hugh had been glancing at his phone a lot. As the plates were being cleared, it buzzed and he announced that Tom should head out to the front desk. ‘Someone’s waiting for you.’

  70

  She was sitting in a leather armchair with her back to him. When the porter announced him and she got up, his heart turned over. ‘Delphine!’

  She smiled, lighting up the lobby. Under her trench coat she was wearing a low-cut black dress and black boots. Her hair was glossy and her skin glowed.
>
  ‘You look amazing.’

  ‘Well, I’ve had some time at home, time to relax.’

  He was lost for words, still absorbing the surprise of seeing her.

  ‘And your mother’s been so kind. She’s offered me to stay for a few nights. I know you’re – busy.’

  Tom felt a flicker of irritation: he had had enough parental interference for one day.

  The possibility – myriad possibilities – hung in the air. She went on, ‘I’ve had a think.’

  Tom was aware of the porter shifting uncomfortably behind his desk. He gently touched her arm – sending an electric charge through him – and steered her down the stone steps into the street. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

  It was still light, though the street-lights had just come on. The air was cool on their faces.

  ‘I’ve been doing some thinking and I – I was wrong. Right to go home for a break, perhaps, but wrong to run away as I did.’

  ‘I don’t blame you.’

  She looked down uneasily at the ground. ‘I do! I do blame me.’ She smiled again: that intoxicating beam of light. ‘I think we should try again. I know it’s very forward of me but you know what we French are like when we want something …’ She giggled flirtatiously, but there was an underlying nervousness.

  Part of him would have liked nothing more than to leap into a taxi with her there and then and head off into the night, into the future.

  ‘I’ve missed you.’ That much he could say. ‘Life has been … rather complicated lately.’

  ‘I’ve missed you too – very much. Can we – go somewhere? Alone?’

  Tom gestured back at the large old doors. ‘I’ve left Dad in there.’

  ‘No, I mean away. Somewhere hot and relaxing and …’

  He could see the disappointment starting to cloud her gorgeous face. ‘Please believe there’s nothing I’d like more …’

  ‘But?’

  She was clearly heartbroken. He fought with himself. Looking at her, standing on the damp pavement, her face so full of hope, he realized this was something he wanted now, had wanted all along, without knowing it, and it had come at the worst possible time.

  ‘But I can’t go anywhere right at this moment. It’s very complicated.’

  ‘Is it the man you’re working for? The fascist, Vernon Rolt? Your father told me.’

  ‘He did? It’s not how it looks. I’ll be able to explain, but not yet.’

  He knew, even as he said it, that the last thing he could do was explain, probably ever.

  ‘So it’s true, then. In France in the papers they say he’s like Le Pen – even worse. What’s happening to you, Tom? Is this some kind of revenge for what happened with the Regiment?’

  What else could he say? There was no explanation that would work right now. He was in too far and too deep. He reached out to her. If he could just get closer, maybe he could communicate how he felt, transmit the truth of his emotions without using words. But she pulled away.

  ‘I’m sorry, Tom. I’m sorry for this country, which I did love. And I’m sorry for you.’

  She turned and walked briskly towards Piccadilly. He knew it was useless to follow.

  71

  Westford Airfield, Oxfordshire

  ‘And that’s everything?’ Mandler peered at Tom over his half-glasses, his arms tightly folded over his chest.

  ‘Chapter and verse.’ Well, sort of: he’d glossed over some of the more extreme moments and left out any mention of the Clements connection. He wasn’t going to share that with the group. It had to be for Mandler’s ears only.

  ‘Quite a frantic little city break you seem to have had.’

  As Tom sat down he scanned the listeners. There were seven of them round the table: Woolf on his immediate left, looking like he had neither slept nor changed his clothes while Tom had been away; Rafiq and Cindy, his sidekicks, whom he had contrived to keep from being reassigned; and Deakin and Brandeis, a pair of geeky analysts on loan from MI6 for their expertise in US affairs. The draughty hangar groaned and creaked in the wind.

  ‘Was it really necessary to dispatch Carter?’ asked Mandler.

  ‘He dispatched himself.’

  ‘And if he hadn’t?’

  Tom gave Mandler a cold look. They both knew the answer to that one.

  ‘Either way, you risked blowing your cover.’

  ‘My judgement at the time was that it was worth the risk. Beth was killed because she’d asked him about Zuabi. Kyle Pope decided I had to die because I’d heard the same name. For God’s sake, Zuabi’s connection to Stutz is one that people are prepared to kill to hide.’

  Brandeis raised a finger. ‘If I could come in here, our reading of the reaction in Washington suggests the Bureau haven’t exactly put the flags at half-mast for Carter. He wasn’t top of anyone’s Christmas-card list. They seem content with the conclusion that it was suicide. More than content, I’d say.’

  Mandler gave a grudging nod.

  Woolf was wagging a finger to get attention. He looked like he badly needed some sleep. ‘But it still means we have to be extremely careful with the Americans. We don’t know how far Stutz’s influence spreads into Washington. We go to them for help, we risk blowing it all. Could we please turn to what we’ve got on your imam?’

  Brandeis got to his feet and plugged his laptop into the screen. A long-lens shot of an elderly man appeared, partly obscured by the crowd around him. He was swathed in white, with a stiff embroidered hat, and had a bushy grey beard. His heavy-lidded eyes were lowered as if in prayer. The same man Tom had seen on Jefferson’s computer in the trailer.

  ‘Okay, we think this is the most recent shot of Asim Zuabi, taken four months ago. And here’s his mug shot when he first came on the grid.’

  An emaciated figure, his head shaved, eyes sunken. He looked nothing like the later shot.

  ‘It’s early days so what we have is sketchy. In 2004, he walks into the US Consulate in Beirut. Why they didn’t spit him straight back out is still a mystery. It suggests he had names or some information that gave them cause to hang on to him. We don’t yet know where he was born or raised. He told them he was based at a mosque in a village north of Aleppo, which has since been shelled to fuck. But another source tells us that, prior to becoming a cleric, he spent some years working oil wells round the Gulf. Maybe that’s where he hooked up with Stutz. Whatever and wherever that connection occurred, the speed with which he was processed suggests that someone had a hand in fast-tracking his exit. He had an American passport and a green card in two weeks.’

  ‘What about family?’ asked Tom. ‘The mosque is supposed to be dedicated to one of his daughters.’

  ‘There are five known children by three different wives, none of whom accompanied him to America. We don’t know where they are now. If they’re still in Syria it’s going to be hard to get any reliable data but we’re working on it. He’s believed to live in a house close to the mosque. He has a couple of servants and a secretary, all men, who live there as well.’

  Brandeis flicked through several more shots of the mosque under construction, the Houston Chronicle photo-op Tom had seen, the house and neighbourhood: it all looked very suburban-American, all incredibly normal.

  ‘There’s nothing ostentatious about his lifestyle. This is his car, a ’ninety-eight Chevy Impala. He lives a very low-tech life. Just a landline into the home, no Internet on site. And no email ID that we’ve found so far. We think this is significant.’

  Mandler peered at Brandeis doubtfully. ‘There’s a lot of “maybes” to this story.’

  Woolf came straight back. ‘Doesn’t that strike you as odd? That he’s in charge of the biggest new mosque in the area, the focal point for the Muslim community across Houston and for miles around, yet the guy has no email account? Terror networks are bypassing electronic communication altogether to the extent that they’re using messengers and couriers. His lack of visibility makes him all the more suspicious.’

 
Brandeis was clearly relieved to have his point endorsed. ‘And as Tom told us, before Carter inconveniently jumped to his death he said Zuabi was a conduit, didn’t he? That he had some kind of network.’

  Mandler’s impatience, which Tom had been aware of all through the briefing, was starting to make itself felt. ‘Well, thank you for that rather inconsequential appraisal.’

  Brandeis, cowed, sat down again as Mandler took the floor. ‘So, if I might sum up, we have Rolt and Invicta handsomely financed by an American benefactor, with deep links to the military industrial complex, whose company is also pioneering – what was it?’

  ‘Predictive tracking,’ said Tom.

  ‘Which, frankly, strikes me as voodoo but there you are, call me old-fashioned. And Lederer and Stutz seem to be singing from the same hymn sheet as Rolt – that some kind of mass deportation is the answer to all our ills. We have Stutz’s dark hints of something around the corner but we’ve no idea what, and tenuous links to an obscure cleric with no form who seems to be a virtual recluse yet has apparently nothing particular to hide. What’s more, there’s nothing whatever to connect Zuabi to the UK or Rolt and Invicta. I’m sorry to have to bring you all back to earth, people, but if it’s not domestic, it’s not MI5’s responsibility to chase it up. Can we please move on to more pressing matters closer to home?’

  ‘Suppose Rolt is just an appendage of Stutz’s operation? Stutz is where the finance is coming from.’

  Mandler eyed Tom wearily, then unfolded his arms and raised his hands heavenwards. ‘Which strengthens the case for briefing the Americans about what we have.’

  Woolf was almost out of his chair. ‘If we do that, we lose all control of what we’ve got! There’s every chance it will get straight back to Stutz and all our leads will go cold. Tom – who’s risked his neck to get on-side with these people – would be blown. We’d be back to square one. Can I ask that we, please, park talking to the Americans at least until we’re further on with Invicta?’