by Andy McNab
Tom went into the room. ‘Mrs al-Awati, good afternoon. I’m Tom Buckingham. I work with Mr Rolt.’
She started to get up.
‘No, please.’
Her face was etched with grief, her eyes marbled with red, as if she had been crying for days. A handkerchief was balled up in her fist. Tom took her other hand as he sat down beside her. It was stone cold. He was tempted to keep hold of it just to add some warmth. ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’
Over the years he had had to comfort the parents of fallen comrades, but nothing like this. Her face crumpled. She lifted the handkerchief and pressed it to her eyes. ‘Thank you. Do you know you’re the first person to say that to me? I still can’t entirely believe it. Maybe I never will.’
‘That’s an understandable reaction.’
She began to cry again.
‘It’s very courageous of you to come here today.’
She said nothing to this, just stared into her lap.
‘Why don’t you tell me a bit about him? He was in Syria. For how long?’
‘Why he went – I’ll never understand. He had a good job with the Co-op, a pharmacist. Not medicine, as we’d hoped, but still – respectable, you know. Then last September I got a text. He said he’d flown to Turkey. I thought he’d gone on a last-minute holiday. He was there five months. They wanted him for his shooting skills.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Clay-pigeon shooting was his sport. He won a lot of cups for it – he was so skilled. They’re all still in his room.’
‘Did he come back to you when he returned to the UK?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what was he like, when he came back?’
‘He wouldn’t talk, wouldn’t see his old friends. He was on his phone all the time, I don’t know who to.’
‘And what happened – with the authorities?’
‘They came down on him very hard. Detention, took his passport away. Nothing excuses what he did, but I think that was the worst part, the treatment he got when he came back. He thought he had gone to do a good, courageous thing … and then that.’ She gazed up at Tom, with a look of desperation. ‘Do you know what fighting is like?’
He nodded. ‘And when he was back home, how was it?’
‘He went away for a couple of weeks, suddenly. Said he couldn’t stay there. I hoped his girlfriend would help.’
‘Did he avoid her as well?’
‘Oh, no, she was new. They only got together after he was back is my impression. I saw her just the once. He didn’t introduce me. She was very devout. I don’t know if he feared I would disapprove of that in some way, because we weren’t. But I thought it was a good sign, you know, that he had some kind of emotional stability in his life.’
‘Have you definitely not seen her since?’
‘After what’s happened? Poor thing, she can’t have realized what she was getting into.’
‘Do you know her name, where she was from? Perhaps you could track her down, support each other.’
She seemed not to hear this. ‘He always wanted to be in the Army. From when he was a little boy. It was his dream.’
‘Mine too,’ said Tom.
She looked up. ‘And did you fulfil your dream?’
’I’ve been very lucky.’
‘Nurul’s father wouldn’t allow it. He told him that after Nine/Eleven, they wouldn’t take Muslims. I knew that wasn’t true but you couldn’t argue with my husband. He died a few years back.’ She bowed her head and shook silently as more tears came.
‘Do you know where he was living? Nurul.’
She sniffed. ‘The last time I saw him, he had overalls on. He said then he’d been working at a garage in Hatfield.’ She shook her head as if that, too, was mystifying.
‘Was that with the girlfriend or any others, do you know?’
She was looking past Tom. He turned. Rolt was standing in the doorway. For a fraction of a second Tom felt a stab of pure hatred towards him, but he checked himself and made a mental note to be ready to show unswerving loyalty at least for now.
‘Thank you, Tom. Mrs al-Awati, I’m so sorry I’m late. It’s unforgivable.’
‘It is most considerate of you to invite me.’
‘It’s very courageous of you to accept the invitation.’
‘I’ll leave you to it.’ Tom put out his hand. ‘I’m glad to have met you. Again, I’m very sorry for the loss of your son.’
She took his hand and gave him a thin smile. He watched her and Rolt go down the corridor together. Rolt held out an arm is if to guide her along, then retracted it.
Phoebe came out of another door. ‘He’ll only be five minutes or so. He just wants the picture.’
‘Did you get any of that?’
‘Mm. I texted Woolf about the garage.’
It didn’t take Rolt long to dispense with the mother of the man who had allegedly bombed the Invicta hostel. A four-minute chat, a flurry of camera flashes and it was all over. By the time Tom entered Rolt’s office she was gone and he was shouting down the phone. As soon as he saw Tom he finished the call. ‘That fuckwit. He’s so going to regret this.’
‘What’s happened?’
The prime minister had refused to meet him. This was the first time Tom had seen him angry.
‘With the state of his popularity you’d think he’d have more sense.’
‘Perhaps he’ll listen to his cabinet secretary. You two seemed to be getting on pretty well the other night.’
Rolt frowned, as if his memory of their recent encounter at Hugh’s club had been obscured by whatever else had happened to him since. Then he brightened. ‘Ah, yes, at least he’s got some clarity about him. And the way things are going, probably a more useful ally in the long term.’
‘Can’t he get you in with the PM?’
Rolt shook his head. The PM’s stonewalling had evidently stung him deeply. ‘You know what? Fuck him. I’m part of the future, he’s not.’
There was something messianic about his gaze, deluded and disturbing.
‘That was a bold move, inviting Mrs al-Awati.’
Rolt sighed. ‘Well, we don’t want to completely alienate the Muslim community. And I had her thoroughly checked out first. She’s a GP – almost one of us, really.’
‘It’s strange, isn’t it?’ said Tom. ‘You’d assume that suicide bombers are poor and unemployed, with no hope and so forth, yet a lot of them come from decent backgrounds, which makes understanding it all the harder.’
‘Well, if things work out as planned we won’t need to be worrying about suicide bombers soon.’ He grinned. ‘So you were impressed with Skip and his vision for the future? I was worried you might be alarmed by it.’
Don’t overdo it, Tom told himself. ‘Well, it’s a bit 1984 when you first hear it, but it’s hard to argue against. The challenge is how you follow through, once you’ve isolated the people you want to move.’
Rolt moved to a sideboard and a tray of drinks. ‘What’ll you have?’
‘Not for me, thanks.’
Rolt raised his glass. ‘To order out of chaos. Who was it said that people don’t want to be free but safe?’
Tom didn’t know, but he tried to look as though he endorsed the sentiment.
‘You made a hell of an impression on Stutz. He certainly put you through your paces, I gather. And now we know what you’re capable of …’
Stutz had clearly briefed him about Jefferson. And since they both knew what he was talking about, Tom couldn’t resist the direct question that might take him closer to what he needed to find out.
‘You going to ask me to do more of the same?’
‘God, no, I’ve got far more expendable people who can take care of things like that for us, should the need arise. It’s the loyalty that matters and you more than passed that test.’
There was a manic gleam in his eyes. They had crossed a line. But who were the expendable people? Were the hostel victims expendable? Tom tried anot
her tack. ‘After what happened at the hostel, I imagine a good few of those lads on the Invicta campus wouldn’t half like a chance to get stuck into some serious revenge.’
‘They’re all right as foot soldiers but no more than that. And a lot of them are too winged, or too dim, to be of much use. Something I learned from Stutz, you need professionals all the way. Emotion’s useful but it’s hard to direct.’
Suddenly he veered off the subject – or appeared to. ‘Remember that fight at school? You gave me a damn good hiding.’
‘When I should have been doing my prep. I probably spent more hours in the ring than in the classroom!’
‘And why not? You were damn good. And it was a valuable lesson for me. Afterwards, I promised myself I’d start winning. Had to go to America to learn how to do that, of course. But who would have thought the day would come when you’d be working for me, eh?’
He was basking, gloating almost. Had that really been his motivation? The psychology was interesting – belittling and flattering at the same time.
‘Well, forgive my impatience but I’m used to action. I’m not wired for a lot of waiting around.’
Tom decided he should sound sceptical enough not to alert Rolt’s suspicions that he was being recruited too easily, and keen enough for him to feel that his new team member was going to be a hundred per cent loyal. ‘Look, I have to know exactly what you want from me. If I’m going to be on the team, I need to be clear about what the structure is here and what you’re planning. Basically, I just want to know what I’m letting myself in for.’ He hoped to God he’d judged it about right.
Rolt put an arm round his shoulders and steered him towards one of the huge windows that overlooked the park. ‘It won’t be long before everything gets a lot clearer. It has to get worse before it gets better. The country’s had a couple of shocks, but it’s not enough. We’ve had some outbreaks of violence, a few folk are probably thinking about jumping ship for Spain and wherever, but most people are getting on with their lives, back to business as usual. We need another event, something that will really change the climate – politically speaking.’
We need another event. We. Tom was struck by a terrible realization, so terrible that he had to push it temporarily out of his mind in order to stay in the room. He tried to finish the conversation with his voice level. ‘Well, if there’s a seat, I want in.’
‘Tom, I really applaud your sentiment. But we’ve done our bit on that front for the moment. Stutz’s crew will handle the rest. He has the men and the means. His network – it’s fantastic. He’s got his people in over forty countries, for God’s sake. He’s been prepping them for years.’
Tom blinked with what he hoped resembled admiration while he digested this. Mandler need be in no doubt now about Rolt’s connection to Stutz.
‘I understand your impatience. I know what happened to you in Afghanistan made you thirsty for revenge. Come back in twenty-four hours and I’ll see about giving you a heads-up.’
Phoebe put her head round the door. ‘Sorry, Vernon, your four-thirty’s here.’
75
Vestey’s house was a new-build on an anonymous estate outside Basingstoke, one of four that sat at the end of a cul-de-sac behind neat, square lawns with no flowers.
The van said ‘Lawlor Landscaping’, with a green tree logo on the side. They left it on the main road, and walked up: one from MI5’s digital intelligence team and the other a forensics specialist, trained to work under severe time pressure. Woolf had asked Tom along on the grounds that, with his background, he might notice something they would overlook, though he didn’t need much persuading.
The two techies were kitted out in anonymous, greenish-hued overalls that suggested gardeners, and each carried a dusty rucksack that contained, inside sealed pouches, all they needed for the job: gloves, card readers, a pair of hard drives in case one failed during the uploading, and a lightweight forensics kit with all the essentials for the recovery of fibres, fingerprints and any kind of sample likely to yield DNA. Woolf had gone to town and had a folder tucked under his arm also marked ‘Lawlor Landscaping’, with the same tree logo as on the van. For a team so short on resources, they’d risen to the challenge quite impressively.
The house was like countless soldiers’ homes Tom had seen in the past, soldiers with OCD to be exact: the downstairs open plan and dominated by a huge flat-screen TV, the sofa and other furniture arranged exactly to line up with it, as if on a grid. Most squaddies were untidy, just like Tom. It was the NCOs’ griping that kept them in order. Otherwise most blocks would have looked like a gorilla had gone crazy during the night.
Even the magazine on the coffee-table, Autocar, was placed in one corner, the edges flush with those of the table. On the mantelpiece above the fireplace, a collection of memorabilia from Vestey’s army days gave the only indication of his previous calling: a nickel-plated SA80 bayonet with ‘Farewell and good luck’ engraved along the blade; a brass Arab coffee pot with the obligatory matching little goblets; a picture of his old rifle company. Three rows of men in their number-two service dress, medals glinting in the sun. The first row sitting cross-legged, left over right and closed fists resting on thighs, the centre row standing at ease, and the rear the same but with their legs cut off by bodies as they stood on chairs to give them height. Tom smiled to himself as he looked down at the company commander’s feet to see the obligatory yellow Labrador lying in front of him. Vestey was, no doubt, one of the young bloods standing proud, but the photo was years old, from his glory days.
He touched the edge of the frame with a gloved finger: not a speck of dust. Even the bin in the kitchen, for which Woolf made a beeline, was spotlessly clean.
‘Nothing,’ he announced, when he had taken out the bin liner, shaken it carefully and replaced it, taking care not to rearrange the single fish-finger packet and used teabag he had found within. Tom watched him with interest; his kind were easier to admire when they were quietly deploying their core skills, i.e. doing the actual physical snooping, than when sitting round boardroom tables blustering at each other.
‘I must say it’s been a while since I’ve done this,’ he said. ‘I’ve rather missed it.’ He winced as Tom moved the kettle to look behind it. ‘Just make sure –’
‘– it’s in exactly the same place. I know.’
Woolf opened the oven and the microwave while Tom took the fridge.
‘Careful when you open the freezer. That’s when you get bits of ice on the floor that thaw out into puddles and give you away.’
Tom knelt down and opened both of the two freezer drawers: nothing other than a box of Iceland burgers and a four-pack of Cornettos. No ice to drop. ‘He defrosts regularly. My mother would be impressed.’
The venture was beginning to look futile to Tom.
‘Hard to look for something when you don’t know what the fuck you’re looking for.’
The digital techie had already done Vestey’s computer, a laptop he found under some socks in the bedside drawer. He plugged in his gear and sucked up the contents of the hard drive in less than a minute. Tom didn’t have a lot of faith that it would reveal anything, apart from porn. His gut feeling was that if Vestey was their man he would have covered his tracks very carefully.
While Woolf worked through the bookshelves, drawers and cupboards, moving items and carefully replacing them, Tom stood in the middle of the room for a few moments and tried to imagine Vestey at home, here, the sort of life he lived, his routine. Did he have any girlfriends, or any friends for that matter? A lot of men didn’t and, once out of the beehive that was the services, became loners, adrift from the normal social networks. He looked in the bathroom cabinet for any evidence of female visitors: nothing. The only other room was a spare bedroom that looked as if it was never used. Nonetheless he went in and studied the single bed, the small bedside table and lamp, and the narrow wardrobe, empty except for five hangers and two spare blankets.
The only other item in the
room was a mat beside the bed, the default souvenir brought home from Iraq or Afghanistan by countless service personnel. Tom had given his mother at least three over the years. In the pattern of this one were images of a comb and a jug, reminders to the faithful to perform wudu: to wash their hands and comb their hair before coming to pray.
Woolf appeared in the room beside him. ‘Nada, I’m afraid. He doesn’t even have any dirty socks.’ He bent down to lift the mat.
For a moment Tom was lost in thought, staring at it. ‘Wait!’
Woolf looked up. ‘What?’
‘It’s not straight.’
‘So?’
‘Everything in this place is lined up exactly or at a right-angle to everything else.’
‘Ye-es … And?’
‘This is out by least a hundred mill.’
Woolf’s face showed his confusion.
Tom took out his phone, touched the compass icon, and held it out for Woolf to see. ‘This mat’s facing Mecca. Someone’s prayed here.’
76
‘What’s going on with you?’
That was Sam’s mother’s way of starting a conversation. Not a hello or a how-are-you. Since she’d discovered Skype it was even worse.
‘Hello, Mother. How are you?’
‘How do you imagine I am? All these days I’ve texted and you don’t reply back.’
She was dressed in a beach robe and her hair was wet, as if she had just come in from a swim. So she was managing to enjoy herself a bit, then.
‘I’m sorry, it’s been frantic.’
‘Frantic? I’m the one who’s frantic. Worrying myself to a frenzy about your brother while you’re doing God knows what. What you dressed up for?’
Sam had on a suit and tie from another of the Party’s endless policy reviews. They always placed him somewhere prominent for the cameras but seldom asked for a contribution.
‘It’s just a suit for work.’
The truth was, he felt guilty for not keeping her informed, but explaining Karza’s situation was out of the question. She would just blame him, then hassle him even more for news.
