Fortress

by Andy McNab

  The guard waved him on. ‘Thank you, sir. Enjoy your evening.’

  Tom moved up the stone steps and, once inside, instinctively scrutinized the layout. The hall was dominated by a grand, sweeping staircase, with a balustrade of wrought iron. The vast reception room ran the depth of the house to the french windows that opened onto another terrace and garden at the rear. The drawing room was to the right, the state dining room to the left, the kitchen and staff offices evidently beyond.

  The strains of some Bach wound their way through the crowd from a chamber orchestra. A greeter swooped down on him. ‘Hi, my name’s Charlie. Can I help you with anything tonight, sir?’

  ‘You could tell me the order of ceremony.’

  ‘Sure. So, in about a half-hour the President will be joining us for a few minutes’ walkabout. Then, with your prime minister, he’ll do a short welcome speech and there’ll be a line-up for a few handshakes with selected guests.’

  ‘How do I get on the list for that?’ Tom wasn’t too fussed about meeting the prime minister, but it wasn’t every day you got to shake hands with the President of the USA.

  ‘Aw, I’m real sorry. That won’t be possible this time.’ Charlie looked genuinely disappointed on his behalf. ‘The President and prime minister’s staff do the list. It’s prepared well in advance.’

  ‘Of course. As long as I get to see them, I’ll be happy.’

  A waiter with a tray of drinks swept towards him. ‘We have a Californian champagne from Sonoma County.’

  Tom knew that wines from outside that region of France weren’t called champagne, but let it pass.

  ‘And a very fine 2007 rosé from Gloria Ferrer.’

  Tom declined. He needed to keep his head clear. ‘I’ll take a Coke, please.’

  But he could sample the food: orange morsels of Alaskan salmon – so said the woman in the Stars-and-Stripes waistcoat serving it – with pickled ginger on ‘wild rice blinis’, seemingly some kind of tiny pancake. Another was carrying a tray of dates stuffed with almond, wrapped in bacon. Pass on that one. He swallowed two of the salmon things, then took a mini steak sandwich with a little American flag on a cocktail stick in it. Not bad.

  ‘They’re steak and Stilton,’ explained the waitress, ‘to represent the Special Relationship between Britain and the United States.’

  And sure enough, after the delicious steak, an unwelcome lump of cheese dissolved on his tongue. Special Relationship – perhaps, in an unsubtle, blundering way.

  He sipped the Coke as his gaze swept the crowd. A couple of retired generals he recognized were deep in discussion with a former British ambassador to Kabul, now an academic. And the home secretary who had a crowd of suits round her, was looking as if she wished she was somewhere else. He caught sight of Mandler, who raised an eyebrow a millimetre.

  Tom decided to let his guard down and came up alongside him. ‘Rolt’s not coming. He was pissed off about not getting a one-to-one with the PM.’ He nodded in the direction of the home secretary. ‘You briefed her yet?’

  A gale of laughter exploded around Sarah Garvey. She managed a wan smile.

  ‘Somewhat,’ Mandler replied, with a guarded look. ‘We got an A-plus for the garage, but I chose not to spell out all the loose ends. She’s got enough on her plate as it is.’

  ‘Did you mention Clements?’

  ‘Mm. She didn’t react. They’re not exactly each other’s greatest admirers. If we were to start poking around in his dark corners, it might look as though she’d put us up to it. Westminster’s a very small village.’

  He deposited his empty glass on the tray of a passing waiter. ‘Anyway, I can’t hang around. It doesn’t do for Madam to think I’m bunking off at this hour of need.’

  ‘She’s not exactly looking overworked herself.’

  The suits had moved off and Garvey was now talking to the old generals. Mandler shrugged and, with another raised eyebrow at Tom, melted into the crowd.

  He would hang around for the President, then make his escape. He could call up his dad, see if he was still free for dinner. He had been a bit sharp with the old boy about his scheming with Delphine, and owed him an apology. He was musing on whether he could ever come clean with him about his true role at Invicta when he felt his phone vibrate. He moved through the french windows onto the terrace.

  It was Woolf.

  ‘Tom. The man in the hole: he’s been stabilized and is able to talk. His name’s Karza Kovacevic, a Bosnian by birth, now a British national and a returnee from Syria. He’s not making a whole lot of sense yet. He claims he wasn’t a member of the group in the garage – says they abducted him.’

  ‘Okay …’

  ‘But here’s a thing, we’re checking out his family and – get this – his brother’s working for the government. “Speaks on multiculturalism”, according to the Party’s blurb.’

  ‘If they lifted him, they wanted something.’

  ‘Anyhow, we haven’t got to him yet.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Sahim Kovacevic.’

  Tom stood, the mobile to his ear, thinking. The only reason to lift someone and keep them is leverage.

  ‘Tom? You still there? Tom?’

  ‘Forward me a mug shot. I’ll find out if he’s here.’

  88

  Tom went back inside to find Garvey. An admiral was now bending her ear.

  ‘Excuse me. Good evening, ma’am. I’m Tom Buckingham.’

  She peered at him. ‘Do I know you?’

  ‘Not exactly. I work for Stephen Mandler.’

  The admiral looked particularly perturbed at the interruption. Tom ignored him, keeping his focus on Garvey.

  ‘Do you know a Sahim Kovacevic? Do you know if he’s here? I need to talk to him.’

  Garvey’s frown deepened. ‘Oh you do, do you.’

  ‘You know if he’s here?’ Tom repeated the name. ‘This is important.’

  The admiral stepped between them. ‘Look here, I don’t know who you are but the home secretary does not want to be interrupted.’

  Something about the directness of Tom’s look and tone must have made her realize that he wasn’t wasting her time. ‘He’s with a pretty girl in a blue dress. Should I be concerned?’

  ‘Not for the moment. Thanks.’

  He snaked back into the crowd and wove his way through the guests, searching for a blue dress. The throng was getting thicker as the minutes ticked down to the President’s appearance.

  The woman in the blue dress – the one he had seen in the queue – was about fifteen feet away, with a young man, black hair, who could have been from Bosnia or Blackpool or a hundred other places. They weren’t with anyone else. Tom’s phone buzzed: a photo from Woolf of Sahim in a TV studio. Definitely the same guy. When Tom looked up again, the woman was alone.

  Tom stepped left, then right, and got eyes on him moving off to the left and away from the main crowd. Tom followed. Sahim went out into a wide carpeted hallway with fancy Regency-type lampshades on the walls. He seemed to be heading for the Gents. Ahead of him was a security guy, easily identified by his shoulder epaulettes, carrying a white cardboard box gift-wrapped with red ribbon. He went through the door to the cloakroom and Sahim followed.

  Tom waited outside. He wasn’t going to let Sahim see his face. There might come a stage when he had to get up close to him. But for now there was no need: he knew where he was; he wasn’t going anywhere. Tom carried on to the other side of the door, where there was a row of chairs. Before he got there, the security guy came out again, but he was no longer carrying the box.

  Tom was committed to passing him. The security guy was walking with purpose, and as soon as he’d disappeared, Tom went straight to the door and stepped inside. He was confronted by a bank of four cubicles, all with beautifully varnished, full-height wooden doors.

  The door at the far end was engaged, so he stood at a basin, ready to wash his hands if someone came in.

  He stood stock still, list
ening, but couldn’t hear any sound at all. He walked very slowly and quietly into the cubicle next to the one that was occupied and closed the door. He put his ear to the partition, eyes closed to help him focus. Clearly the one next door was not being used for its intended purpose. There was far too much body movement, and too many rustling sounds. And then the unmistakable sound of Velcro.

  That stopped the instant the door from the corridor opened and the hustle and bustle of the outside world filled the room.

  Tom heard a guest go into the cubicle at the end, the seat being lifted, and a stream of urine fired into the pan. The flush was activated, and there was a quick wash of hands before a burst of hustle and bustle from outside as the door opened again, then silence.

  Tom waited with his hand on the door as a bit more Velcro was ripped and there was more movement. The cubicle door opened, and footsteps went past. The door to the corridor opened and closed, Tom came out of the cubicle. In the waste-bin below the basins was the white box, collapsed and neatly folded, along with the red ribbon.

  Tom followed Sahim Kovacevic as he joined the crowd heading for the ballroom. The mobile in Tom’s pocket vibrated but he put his hand in and cut it. Woolf was surplus to requirements just now. He had got his target. All Tom’s efforts now, both mental and physical, were focused on the man who was gently and politely edging his way through the throng. He didn’t appear to be hurrying; he wasn’t even sweating; he was perfectly calm. He was even smiling his thanks to people as he split up their little cliques to move through.

  Sahim Kovacevic being calm meant nothing. It didn’t mean that nothing was going on. He could be on a high, in a good place in his head because he thought he was doing the right thing. He could be almost floating on air at the moment – either because he’d been promised a place in Paradise or because this was what had to be done to get his brother released. This must be what the leverage was about, Tom thought. It had to be.

  Sahim was still easing his way through the crowd. Tom focused not on his head – he didn’t want to risk eye-to-eye with him – but on his nicely polished black shoes under the dark blue suit, on his way to his place in history. Stutz’s ‘outcome’; Rolt’s ‘gesture’. This was what was playing out right in front of him, right now.

  Sahim’s jacket wasn’t bulging at all. Whatever device he had attached to himself didn’t have to be that big. He was there to kill one man – maybe two, if he did it well. All he had to do was make contact with his targets and they would be history. A couple of thin slabs of PE, no more than a kilogram each, rolled out over him like pastry, a battery and a detonator: that was all it took to do the trick. All he had to do was bide his time, then run, barge, push, whatever it took, to get within a couple of metres, make a grab for his target and detonate.

  As Tom followed the polished black shoes through the crowd, nothing else mattered. He barely noticed when, from above him somewhere, a band struck up the rousing chords of ‘Hail to the Chief’. The President had arrived.

  The shoes stopped next to a woman’s. Tom looked up at the blue dress just in time to see Sahim hand her something half the size of a mobile phone. She didn’t look down, just palmed it. The initiation device. He almost smiled: it was such a simple plan. Sahim would do the running and grabbing; she would do the detonation. He might get only halfway to his target before he was shot; he might grab hold of the President but be unable to detonate because he was restrained at the last second. It was a simple plan and a perfect one. She was detached from the action, had a clear line of sight … She was using him as her own personal human drone.

  Tom shifted his attention. All his focus now was on the woman and the small device she’d been given, which she held in her left hand. All he could hear was his pulse pounding in his temples.

  The President and the prime minister were stepping up onto the podium at the far end of the room, doing a stilted double-act as they each encouraged the other to speak first.

  There was an eruption of polite laughter as the music stopped and the prime minister said something amusing to the people in the front row, which they heard before all the mics went on.

  Sahim looked at the woman and they stared into each other’s eyes. She finally broke the spell and kissed him on the lips, just as the prime minister began to welcome everybody to the event.

  Sahim eased his way forward again and Tom let him go. The monkey didn’t matter, only the organ grinder. She was the one with the fate of the world in her hands.

  The nearer he got to her the more tightly packed was the crowd. Some people were almost on tiptoe as they jostled to get a look at the most powerful man on the planet. It wasn’t so easy any more to pass them. Nobody likes queue-jumpers. Tom had to be careful: he didn’t want to alert her.

  Yet he had to be very fast. She had to be dropped – instantaneously – to have no chance whatsoever of detonating. It was no good fighting her, no good trying to grab the device. If it was just a button that had to be pressed, she had to go down immediately.

  He didn’t worry where Sahim was: he just had to keep pushing forward without her being aware. If he was too slow, he would find out very soon, when bits of president and prime minister sprayed the room.

  The glimpses of blue were now three deep away from him and the mobile was vibrating once more in his pocket. The blonde woman to his right, standing immediately behind the woman in blue, gave him a smile and took a sip of champagne.

  Tom knew that the woman in blue would be doing exactly the same as he was, only she would be focusing on Sahim, all her attention on that drone of hers delivering his payload to the front of the crowd, waiting for the moment when he would jump onto the podium and she would complete the mission.

  A scream sliced through the crowd as it surged back. Members of the presidential protection team were leaping from the podium. Sahim must have broken free and was making his bid.

  Tom grabbed the blonde woman’s champagne flute and snapped off the base as he zoned in on the right of the exposed neck of the woman in the blue dress. With his left hand he grabbed a handful of her hair to keep her head in position and rammed the shaft of glass deep into her neck.

  The screams around him were joined by gunshots. Sahim was being taken down. But it wasn’t over yet. Tom kept all his focus on the deep gash in her neck as he plunged the glass down again and again into the mess of tendons and flesh. Blood spurted like a geyser from her disintegrated jugular and arced into the air. She buckled straight away but he kept ramming and twisting the glass stem as she went down. If she could move, she could detonate the device. If he had to sever her entire head to be sure he’d stopped the threat, then so be it. He fell with her, leaving the stem in her neck, both hands scrabbling for her left arm. He ended up on top of her and saw the detonation device by her hand on the carpet. As he went to grab it and get control, three weapons carried by dark suits bore down on him.

  ‘Freeze!’

  EPILOGUE

  The first reports to emerge from the US ambassador’s residence were confused and contradictory: a shooting, a frenzied stabbing, a bloodbath. All three were true.

  Throughout the night, Downing Street and White House press officers vainly attempted to impose news blackouts, which simply fanned the flames of rumour online as well as on TV. By the end of the night people at home on either side of the Atlantic could choose from at least twenty interpretations of what had just happened.

  By seven a.m. London time, some of the rumours had solidified into confirmed reports. The frenzied attack of a lone female guest had been eclipsed by a much stranger and even more compelling claim. The Mail Online dubbed it a ‘Romeo and Juliet attack’, the suicide pact by a pair of doomed lovers who had given their lives to jihad.

  At ten a.m. a joint press conference was convened, but only after several hours of wrangling had taken place between the two governments over what could be said, should be said and definitely could never be said. The agreed line was that the US Secret Service had magnificently
thwarted an audacious attempted suicide bombing. But nothing could be done to cover up the fact that the young male bomber had actually been in the pay of the UK’s governing party. As for his lover, the woman known only as Nasima, her identity remained a mystery.

  Five thousand miles away, Aaron Stutz stood alone in his penthouse, watching multiple screens featuring TV and online attempts to get to grips with the story. Either way, for him it was a win: whether the two premiers died or survived, both outcomes guaranteed that anti-Islamist tensions would escalate to new heights. Public demand for stiffer measures against Islamist extremism was inevitable. Getting the incumbent President and prime minister off the stage would have ushered in successors who would be obliged to consider the case for the digital fortress – and almost certainly act on it. But even if they survived, and in any case both of them were up for election within the year, they would have to be seen to act. The digital fortress would become a reality now.

  Stutz helped himself to a tumbler of Jim Beam Black and turned away from the screens to the picture window that ran along the whole side of the room. He looked in the direction of the mosque rising in the south-east of the city and raised his glass to the memory of the young woman who had given herself so bravely and so audaciously for the cause.

  In Thames House, inside Mandler’s glass refuge, Jonathan Rhodes, his opposite number from Vauxhall Cross, was just finishing his briefing. It had been an awkward encounter.

  ‘Our conclusion so far, Zuabi doesn’t exist. He’s a clever construct. Someone’s been fucking with the systems, some digital über-geek has created a persona for financial purposes. But we’ll keep digging.’

  There were also a lot of difficult questions about Buckingham and his antics in Texas. ‘Your man pissed in our tent big-time.’

  Mandler didn’t attempt to protest.

  ‘And now he’s untouchable, I suppose.’

  Mandler gave him a curt nod, not wishing to rub it in. ‘I think that’s the right attitude.’