by Andy McNab
Mandler sighed heavily, his exasperation with Woolf plain for all to see. ‘I don’t have to remind you that this is an extremely sensitive time for our relationship with the Americans. The PM has staked the election on this summit with the President. We’re all going to have to be on our best behaviour for this wretched event. If it comes out that my Service is intimately connected to the deaths of not one but two FBI agents, a lot of toys will be thrown out of the pram, even more if they find we’ve withheld information because we don’t trust them. I hope you follow my line of thinking – I’m only stating the bloody obvious.’
Mandler paused. To Tom, it looked as if MI5’s DG had let too much of his own exasperation with his political masters show. Mandler turned back to Woolf. ‘So how do you propose to get further on with Invicta?’
Woolf had been caught off guard. He hadn’t bargained for Mandler’s dampener. It was time for him to come to the rescue. ‘Go back to Vestey and the shooting in Walthamstow. We know about his connection via his brother to SCO19. I know I said that in my judgement he’s not a good enough shot to have been the perp, but maybe he’s the connection to whoever did the job. You either need to eliminate him or find a stronger link.’
They all looked at him.
‘You have his entire history. He’s at the shooting range most days, isn’t he?’
‘Or doing security for one of his VIP clients.’
‘Right. So why don’t you get him out of the way? And we’ll go and have a look round his place. And the supposed hostel bomber. Are you still sitting on the evidence that he was DOA at the scene?’
Woolf glanced at Mandler and nodded. Mandler shook his head.
‘You do realize the consequences for our relationship with Scotland Yard when they find out? So, the sooner you have something concrete the better. What else do you know about him, other than that he’s one of the returnees?’
Rafiq, who had been studying something on his phone, looked up. ‘We’ve only just tracked down his family. They went to ground after his name was published.’
‘Well, if he did die before the blast, how come he was there at all? And what about survivors? Do any of them remember anything?’
No one spoke. It was becoming horribly clear to Tom why these questions had gone unanswered. It wasn’t for any lack of commitment to the investigation but a consequence of Woolf’s lack of resources. What had changed, Tom realized, was his own position. Having been furious with Woolf at the start for his clumsy attempt to recruit him behind his back, he now had a grudging respect for his staying power. He could also see how Mandler was between a rock and a hard place, knowing he would have to carry the can for a wayward investigation that stepped all over the toes of the other services and pissed off the Americans.
Mandler folded his glasses and slipped them into his top pocket. ‘I’ll have to go to the home secretary if we’re going to be turning over Vestey’s place without the Plod.’
‘Well? Can you?’
Tom felt his frustration with all this procedure getting the better of him.
‘All right. But if you draw a blank there, I’m shutting you down.’
He turned to Tom. ‘Sorry to be a killjoy, but these are hard times. Thanks, all.’
The meeting was over. Mandler was on his feet and heading for the door. Tom followed him out.
Halfway to his car, Tom caught up with him and put a hand on his shoulder to turn him round. Mandler stepped back abruptly as if he thought he was about to get a fist in his face.
‘Barely a week ago I was made to carry the can in Bastion. You fold on this, I’m going to be right back where I was, in the shit for sticking my neck out, but this time I’ll have the wrath of Rolt and Stutz to deal with, and after what I’ve seen of them, I don’t fancy my chances. You’ve got to come off the fence and get behind this. Woolf’s operating with one hand tied behind his back.’
Mandler sighed, as though the fight had gone out of him.
‘And there’s something else you need to know.’ Tom told him about the gift from the Cabinet Office in Stutz’s penthouse, and the photo of Clements.
Mandler listened without comment, which Tom could only hope was a sign that it had sunk in, then shook his head mournfully. ‘Do you have any idea what pressure I’m under? The country’s in uproar, the PM’s polls are flat-lining, and he’s only a few months away from an election. Plus the cabinet are all scheming against each other, and most of the Whitehall departments are at each other’s throats. The home secretary and the Met are barely on speaking terms. Now we’ve got this bloody summit, which the PM’s staked his survival on, so London’s going to be on lockdown. I’ve got a lot bigger worries on my plate than what happens to you.’
‘I’m not just thinking of myself. Don’t you understand that? The stability of the whole country’s at stake.’
Mandler nodded at the hangar. ‘Get me some red meat and you’ll get the resources to fight your battle.’
‘Our battle,’ said Tom, but Mandler was already in the car.
72
10 Downing Street, London
Everything about the prime minister should have suggested a man at the top of his game, thought his home secretary. Sprawled over his sofa he was tanned, with not a single grey hair and no unattractive bags under the eyes, the signature facial feature of anyone in the top job. The neck was developing a bit of a wattle, Sarah Garvey noted, a hangover from a crash diet he had embarked on a year ago. And he was doing his best to look relaxed in a polo shirt, lightweight chinos and loafers. The trouble was, he was in the shit and he knew it.
‘Okay, Derek, hit me with it.’
Farmer glanced at her. ‘Sure you wouldn’t like to clear the room first?’
The PM smiled grimly. ‘I think Sarah will have heard worse things about me than anything you can deliver, and said them too, most probably.’
She gave him a grim smile back, relieved that she was still a confidante, that she hadn’t been eclipsed – yet.
Farmer sighed and launched in. ‘Okay, so this sample’s taken from the party faithful, which is what makes it particularly worrying as they were giving you a pretty easy ride before all this chaos. Sixty-five per cent of those polled said they thought the PM had not handled the crisis well, seventy per cent say you should have broken off your meeting at Camp David and come home to take charge.’
The PM showed no reaction.
‘And seventy-three per cent say they don’t believe the enhanced Anglo-American relationship will deliver either prosperity or security.’
Garvey noted a pink tinge spreading over the PM’s cheeks. He lurched forward and jabbed the air. ‘Yeah? Well, bollocks to that. And POTUS and I won’t be announcing any detail before our summit anyhow. How the fuck do they think they know? Honestly, Derek, where do you find these people?’
His neck quivered, causing her to wince inwardly. She also disliked his un-ironic use of the presidential acronym, one of his other less attractive features being his fondness for diminutives and nicknames to denote new best friends.
Farmer ploughed on. At least he didn’t mince his words. ‘Understood, Prime Minister. But the fact remains that, with an election five months away, the other figures are troubling.’
‘But, as you say, the sample is just the party faithful. They’re always at their worst when there’s a bit of bother on the streets.’
This was too much for Garvey. ‘Geoff, really, you can’t go around downplaying what’s uppermost in people’s minds right now.’
‘I know, I know. It’s just a turn of phrase. You know me, never knowingly overstated.’
And this with half the country going up in flames. He really was the limit.
Farmer looked up from the pages of figures perched on his knee. He had evidently detected an unexpected ally in his midst. ‘Well, to the home secretary’s point, there’s a further question in the same sample it’s worth drawing your attention to.’
‘Go on. Hit me while I’m down.’<
br />
‘Eighty-five per cent of those polled said they believed that Vernon Rolt’s call for a crackdown on suspected terrorists should be heeded by the government.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake—’
‘And if I could just finish? Sixty-five per cent of them said they would vote for the opposition if they were to adopt the same measures.’
‘Well, bollocks to that as well. Five months is a very long time in politics.’
Farmer wasn’t backing down. ‘We can’t overlook it. The party chairman has been onto us about it.’
‘Well, he can sod off.’
The PM got up and started moving round the room, fiddling with his many knick-knacks – evidence of his supposed popularity in various parts of the world the voters weren’t interested in – but Farmer wasn’t to be deflected. Garvey braced herself for what was coming.
‘Look, just as a holding measure, how about a meeting – you and Rolt? Nothing formal, just so we can get a photo of you together. You don’t have to show your hand, just listen to him for ten minutes.’
The PM didn’t seem to be paying attention. Farmer added: ‘All right, five. It might help check the rumour that you’re not receptive to fresh ideas.’
The PM’s face was very shiny now. ‘It’s his ideas I’m not bloody receptive to. I’ve nailed my colours to the multicultural mast and I’m not taking them down, especially for that – I know it’s terrible what happened to his hostel and after all he’s done for our boys and so on, but I refuse to be associated with a proponent of deportation. Derek, I’m disappointed in you. Sarah, where do you stand on Mr Rolt?’
‘I’m with you, Prime Minister – sorry, Derek. We’re a nation of moderates, and whatever the polls say, when the chips are down, we don’t like extremists. I say, stand your ground. Besides, everyone knows that the right message at a time like this is one of unity – the very opposite of what he’s trying to promote.’
Farmer gave an almost inaudible grunt of reproach.
Garvey glanced at her watch. ‘We need to cover security arrangements for Friday.’
The prime minister was clearly glad of a reason to get shot of Farmer. ‘Sorry, Derek, let’s pick this up later.’
Farmer gathered up his papers and got to his feet. ‘So you’ll give it some thought? Only we’re inundated by press enquiries about where you stand …’
Garvey knew this was a bridge too far. When the PM flipped he turned an alarming heart-attack red, reminding her of an angry tomato.
‘I’m not going to be pushed around by some Oswald Mosley wannabe with delusions of grandeur. Make it go away, Derek. Do your job.’
Farmer collected up his papers and shuffled out of the room. The PM shook his head as the door closed. ‘He may be right. A handshake would probably suffice. He can be invited to some low-level do or other and they can get their picture – but I’m buggered if I’m going to give him a personal audience. You know, they’ve got the same problem in the US, the rising tide of bigotry. The President and I compared notes.’
There was a wistful look in the PM’s eye, as if he was remembering a romantic weekend, before he’d had to come home to his wife.
‘Yes, and on that note, I really must give you a rundown on the security for the summit.’
The PM groaned. ‘Must you, Sarah? I’m sure you’ve got it marvellously under control.’
What was wrong with the man? He was hopeless on detail. Besides, she was going to tell him whether he wanted to hear it or not. Then if anything went wrong, God forbid, he couldn’t say she’d kept him out of the loop.
‘Basically there’ll be a total exclusion zone around Number Ten and Whitehall for the whole day. All the roads will be closed around the ambassador’s residence in Regent’s Park for his motorcade, or if he’s delayed he can helicopter in from Stansted, once they’ve parked Air Force One, and land in St James’s Park. Any hiccup at all, we have the place secure. Every pedestrian within a mile will be stopped and, if necessary, searched. The police have authorization to turn away anyone they don’t like the look of. We will also be closing Westminster, Charing Cross and Victoria tube stations and rerouting the buses. The only press invited will be ours and theirs, staff only, no freelances.’
The PM’s eyes had already glazed over. ‘As I said, I’m sure you’ve got it all under control.’
A senior PA put her head round the door. ‘The cabinet secretary’s here, Prime Minister.’
The PM sprang to attention. ‘Jolly good.’
Garvey got swiftly to her feet. The last thing she needed right now was to be cross-examined by Clements in front of the PM.
‘And, ma’am, Stephen Mandler’s waiting for you in your office. He said it’s urgent.’
73
Westminster
Mandler was perched on the edge of the sofa, half folded over as if he had a stitch.
‘You look like a man who’s painted himself into a corner.’
He shrugged dejectedly. The comment had hit home, as Garvey’s comments usually did.
‘So, let me see if I’ve got this right. You’ve got Rolt being funded by people in the US who do surveillance software and private security. And you’ve got an Invicta man whose house you want to turn over without tipping off the Met.’
‘All I’m doing, Sarah, is keeping you in the loop.’
And possibly looking for somewhere else to lay the blame, once it came to it, which it usually did. ‘Thank you, Stephen, that’s most considerate. What is it you actually want?’
‘Leave to keep going, but without involving the police. We may need to lift a few people and question them without sending any shockwaves that might alert Rolt’s friends.’
‘Are you saying Rolt is somehow complicit in the bombing of his own hostel?’
‘Not in so many words – but you’re aware of what we know about the supposed “bomber” and that’s still under wraps for now. But if we take the two incidents together, the shooting in Walthamstow and the bombing, what do they have in common? It would now seem that both were planned specifically to deceive us about who was responsible. The first outraged the Muslim community because it appeared that the police had shot an innocent man, and the second got the rest of the population very worked up – not just over Syrian returnees, but just about everybody with a Koran in the house. If anyone wanted to split the public and turn the two communities against each other this has done it, and Rolt has stepped into that divide. It’s extremely bad news.’
‘But apart from your belief that trouble always comes in threes, and a nasty feeling about Rolt, this doesn’t amount to much.’
‘Look, can I just say, re the location for the summit—’
‘Stephen, there’s no way that’s going to change. The PM has staked his reputation and, indeed, his political future on pulling off a deal with the US that should put the economy back on the rails. What’s more, moving it away from Downing Street will, he thinks, make him look weak. I don’t like you going behind the backs of the police. As it is, there’s too much friction between you lot.’
She held his gaze. They both knew what she was talking about. 9/11 might have been averted had there been better communication between the US security services. 7/7 had caught them unawares here, yet the perpetrators were found afterwards to have been on the watch lists. And with Al Qaeda urging returnees from Syria to make lone-wolf attacks on any significant targets this was no time to be fomenting disunity between MI5 and the Met.
‘How’s your man inside Invicta? Has he made any headway?’
‘It’s a little early to say, but he’s certainly got stuck in. He’s the reason I’m here basically.’
‘His name wouldn’t be Tom Buckingham, would it, by any chance?’
The blood drained from Mandler’s face. ‘Wherever did you get that idea?’
She gave him a wry look. ‘You’re aware that our mutually esteemed cabinet secretary has a soft spot for Rolt. Turns out they dined at Clements’s club and Rolt was w
axing lyrical about an ex-SAS man of that name. If he’s your man, and Clements is aware of him, I fear his number may be up pretty soon.’
74
Tom walked past the SO6 cops outside Invicta’s headquarters and through the front door, held open for him by another cop with an MP5. Inside, the security guard gave him a friendly nod. No questions, no search. And the receptionist greeted him as if he’d worked there for years.
‘I’ll sign you in, Mr Buckingham. Just go straight up,’ she said, with a sunny smile.
‘Thanks. It’s Hattie, isn’t it?’
She beamed.
Phoebe was waiting for him at the top of the stairs. ‘Hello, Mr Buckingham. How nice to see you again.’
She was so convincing, he wondered for a moment if she had just had a serious attack of amnesia. ‘Good to see you too – er?’
‘Phoebe.’
‘Of course, how could I forget?’
He took her hand and gave it a discreet squeeze.
‘Good trip, I hope?’
‘Yes, thanks.’
A couple of Invicta staff came past and smiled at him.
Phoebe was staying in character. ‘We’ve lost Vernon, I’m afraid. He went off to see a group of MPs and he’s not back.’
‘No problem, I’ll wait.’
Phoebe’s eyes shifted pointedly towards the doorway of the room next to where they were standing. Inside, a woman was sitting on a chair, facing the desk: fortyish, attractive, with dark shoulder-length hair, in a dark coat and low-heeled shoes; professional, he guessed, educated. Phoebe leaned towards him. ‘Mrs al-Awati, the mother of the hostel bomber. Vernon invited her.’
If she heard them talking about her, she gave no indication of it. Instead, she stared into the middle distance, as if to avoid focusing on anything.
‘How come?’
Phoebe leaned closer. ‘He wants to show some magnanimity. He thinks it’s a good message to send out that he’s capable of forgiveness – and, of course, it’s a great photo-opportunity.’ She gestured at a photographer sitting on a bench further down the corridor, surrounded by his kit, reading the Sun. ‘Give me a sec, will you?’
