by Andy McNab
‘Morally, no. She did kill them all herself?’
She leaned across, enveloping him in scent. ‘Have you killed a lot of creatures, Mr Buckingham?’
He smiled. ‘Where to, milady?’
‘Park Gate Place, Kensington.’
‘So we’re in?’
‘Seemingly she was curious to meet you too. Word of warning, though, you should probably know she’s not that big an admirer of Vernon Rolt.’
‘That’s not the impression given by the paper.’
‘She’s the owner and publisher, so not that involved with the day-to-day editing. That’s down to Bill McCloud. He’s real foot-in-the-door old school – poached from the Mail. What matters to her is for the paper to succeed as a business so she can pay for the stuff she really cares about.’
‘So McCloud’s the cheerleader for Rolt.’ He slowed down and skirted the nervous drivers moving gingerly along the icy road. ‘What else do I need to know so as not to put my foot in it?’
‘She’s a widow, but she kept the English surname – Dalton.’
‘Where does her money come from?’
‘Her father. He died some years ago.’
‘In the Crimea?’
‘That’s something she doesn’t talk about.’
A Transit in front of them braked suddenly, too hard, spun 180 degrees and slammed sideways into a phone box. Helen grabbed the dash to brace herself for a hard landing but Tom deftly twitched the wheel and took them safely past. She raised her eyebrows in exaggerated appreciation. ‘Nice driving. Did they teach you that in the SAS?’
He nodded. She’d done her homework too. ‘Anything else?’
She sighed. ‘She keeps her life very compartmentalized. She’s a very private person. And I don’t mean celebrity private, I mean truly not keen on a high profile, more towards the recluse end of the spectrum.’
‘No other blood relatives?’
She leaned towards him again. ‘I hope this evening isn’t going to be all work.’
He smiled at her. ‘So do I. But I work for Rolt and you want to report on him. Your turn.’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘O-kay. Is it true someone tried to assassinate him last night?’
Tom noted her use of ‘assassinate’ rather than ‘kill’. Rolt had truly gone up in the world. ‘Someone broke into his hotel room but he wasn’t there.’
‘Is it true that the assailant was not a Muslim extremist?’
‘He was wearing a mask. What does Newsday get in return for supporting him and his agenda?’
‘I don’t know. You’d have to ask McCloud. He’s very tabloid, not exactly into human rights.’
Tom looked mock-indignant. ‘Some of my best friends read the tabloids.’
‘Yeah, right. Okay, my turn. Can you confirm that the would-be assassin was a disaffected member of Invicta?’
That was a surprise. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Why shouldn’t I?’
Tom gave her a knowing look. ‘Because if I said yes, you wouldn’t print it – it would be too damaging to Rolt.’
She sighed. ‘I think that’s enough about work for now, don’t you?’
26
20.30
Park Gate Place, Kensington
The house looked Georgian, or even Queen Anne. But there was something not quite right about it. For one thing the ground-floor windows were uniformly black – as if there was a wall of brick behind the glass. And there were too many storeys for a house of that age. There was also a high perimeter wall that appeared to have been added recently.
‘Looks like she takes her security very seriously.’ He pulled up to the disproportionately large gates. There was a steel panel in the stone gatepost, which held a key pad, a microphone and a large touchscreen. He let down his window and the icy air rushed in.
Helen reached across and pointed. ‘You put your forefinger against the screen so it can read your print, then type in your registration number and your first and last names.’
He did this.
‘Good, then key in this code: ZZKLM5566S. That’s a company code, and the machine remembers your print if you come again.’
‘Now what? We wait for our burgers?’
‘It’s all automated. It checks we’re on the guest list, and that your vehicle is registered to you and so forth.’
The perimeter walls were, like the gate, far higher than any he’d seen in London and that included those round Buckingham Palace. The CCTV cameras were also unusual.
‘They’re linked together with these infra-red beams,’ Helen explained, ‘which activate the screens covering that particular bit to alert them inside if someone goes through them. And – this is really high end – the place is laced with microphonic cables that pick up any sounds and vibrations from anyone coming near the house.’
‘The postman must love it.’
‘Oh, they don’t have any deliveries here.’
‘Isn’t this overkill?’
‘As I said, she’s very private and doesn’t like the place teeming with guards. With all this hi-tech security, she doesn’t need to have any heavies hanging around. She doesn’t trust them.’
After several seconds the gates opened – Tom saw they were far thicker than they appeared – and he drove towards the front door.
‘Not there – bear left. See that yew tree? Just in front of that.’
Tom put the Range Rover where he was told, and opened his door.
‘Uh-uh,’ said Helen. She reached across him, lingering a moment, and pulled it shut.
‘Where are all the other cars?’
‘Aha! Wait and see. Trust me, you’ll love this.’
He stayed put, feeling a bit foolish. Then his eyes widened as he felt the ground beneath them vibrate.
‘Well, if anyone asks, I can say the earth definitely moved.’
She wagged her finger at him in mock disapproval.
There was an almost imperceptible jolt, and he realized that the ground around them was getting higher – no, they were descending. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘I’m impressed.’
The whole front section of the drive pivoted downwards until, with a slight shudder, it came to rest level with a large underground garage. Tom expected to see a couple of Lamborghinis, maybe a Bugatti Veyron, but no: just a Jaguar XJ, a Mercedes G-Wagen and a couple of nondescript SUVs.
‘All hers?’
She shook her head, then pointed at a classic Mercedes 230 SL parked apart from the rest.
‘What now? Do we strap on jetpacks or is it a monorail?’
They headed for a narrow door flanked by CCTV cameras. So far that made twelve, and he’d only seen the front.
‘Bulletproof,’ she volunteered. ‘They all are.’
Even newspaper proprietors weren’t that unpopular. The woman was afraid of something a bit more menacing than her readers. ‘What’s she hiding from?’
Helen was busy going through the same routine with the key pads – using a different finger this time. The door slid open.
The building was three hundred years old on the outside, but that was just the façade. As soon as they were through the doors Tom saw it was newly built. He almost heard his mother’s sharp intake of breath at such wanton modernization. The lift took them to a hall that was beyond minimalist: dove grey carpet with matching walls.
‘Weird, isn’t it? Like stepping through a wormhole.’
‘Is it a home or an office? It’s hard to tell.’
‘Both. She does pretty much everything from here.’
‘And this is all hers?’
‘That’s right.’
Standing by a black marble plinth that seemed to be a reception desk as styled for Cleopatra were two solid men in suits, one part head waiter to three parts roadblock. Tom gave them a cheery wave. ‘Evening, gents.’
He whispered to Helen, ‘I thought she didn’t like on-site muscle.’
‘They must be for tonight’s reception. Normally it’s deserted.’ She t
ook his arm and started towards the lift.
Tom turned back and went up close. The two men retracted their heads and puffed out their chests. ‘Vladimir Putin takes the prime minister and his cabinet to dinner. The waiter asks, “What’ll you have?” Putin says, “I’ll have the steak.” The waiter says, “What about the vegetables?” And Putin says, “They’ll have the same.”’
There was just the flicker of a reaction, then one snorted and guffawed. The other smirked, thought better of it and changed his expression to one of disapproval.
The lift arrived and Helen pulled Tom in.
‘Which worthy cause is this in aid of?’
‘Orphanages in Crimea, apparently.’
The lift whisked them smoothly to the fifth floor, with just the minutest vibration of the silver fox coat to reveal they were moving.
‘So she has a conscience, despite the wealth.’
Her pink lips tightened. He was pressing on a raw nerve. She frowned at him. ‘You’re not such a fan of Vernon Rolt yourself, are you?’
He weighed up the pros and cons of conceding this round. Maybe giving something back would be useful. ‘Is it that obvious?’
‘You hide it well, but I don’t get the sense you’re much of a zealot for his brand of politics.’
‘On our first encounter, I thrashed the living daylights out of him.’
Her eyes lit up.
‘In the boxing ring at school.’
She was about to ask a follow-up question when the doors opened to reveal a second pair of men almost identical to those downstairs.
‘And they say good things never come in fours.’
The men waved wand scanners over them and nodded them through without cracking so much as a smirk.
‘Hey, why aren’t you at work?’
They both turned in the direction the strong Scottish accent had come from. A man in his late fifties, with a florid face and thin, sandy hair, was putting on a coat and scarf. He looked at Helen without any trace of warmth.
‘Bill McCloud, my editor. Tom Buckingham, from Invicta.’
McCloud eyed Tom with amused disdain. ‘Watch out for her. She’ll have your trousers off before you can say “sexual harassment”.’
Helen snorted. ‘Don’t mind him. He’s drunk.’
McCloud scowled at Tom, his lips disappearing so his mouth became no more than a scrawled line across his weathered face. ‘Your man’s only been bumped off the front page once this week. Even he couldn’t upstage a schoolgirl massacre in Aleppo. Ciao.’
He disappeared into the lift. Tom watched him go. ‘Does he always talk to you like that?’
‘It’s scarier when he’s sober.’
There were about thirty people in the room, all men, all in dark suits.
‘It looks like an undertakers’ convention. Who are these guys?’
She took his arm and propelled him forward. ‘Donors to the charity, I suppose. Men of high net worth with deep pockets.’
Tom recognized one of them, Vic Sanders, an ex-SAS Rupert who had made a pile supplying security to oil installations. He caught Tom’s eye and bounded over. ‘Blimey, they’ll let anyone in these days!’ He pumped Tom’s hand, evidently remembering him with a warmth and enthusiasm that Tom struggled to reciprocate. ‘Where was it last? Helmand? Kandahar?’
‘Godalming, I think. Davidson’s wedding.’
‘Shit, yes. Poor Davidson.’
Davidson had joined Sanders’s outfit in Libya and been kidnapped. The Regiment mounted their own operation to spring him but he had died in the firefight with his captors. They shared an impromptu few seconds’ respectful silence, which Tom broke with a question. ‘So, what’s your connection to Xenia?’
Sanders bridled. ‘Ms Dalton to you, I think.’ Then, clearly regretting his pomposity, he added, ‘Well, that’s how we mere mortals address her. I just come to drool like the rest of them. Pour a fortune into her fund in the hope she might … deign to look upon me.’ His voice drifted off. Sanders had plenty of money but almost no charm.
‘For the orphanages?’
‘That’s right.’
Tom lowered his voice. ‘And what are they a front for?’
Sanders leaned closer. Tom caught a gust of wine breath as he spoke quietly into his ear. ‘A word to the wise. This isn’t the place to make cracks about things like that.’
The man Sanders had been talking to was now looking his way, frowning. ‘You’re Buckingham’s lad, aren’t you? SAS?’
Tom put on a smile. ‘I work for Invicta now.’
‘Ah, yes, good show.’
Part of his face seemed frozen and his left eye floated free of its twin. He put out his hand but the frozen-face man didn’t seem to notice it. ‘So you know my father, Mr …?’
‘Whitworth. We had a little venture with our Russian friends a few years back. It didn’t quite come off. One lives and learns. Won’t make that mistake again. Hugh not coming?’
‘Why would he?’
Whitworth gave him a slightly surprised look. ‘No reason. We’re all very keen on your Vernon Rolt, aren’t we, Sanders? We’ve got high hopes for him.’
Sanders nodded.
Whitworth wandered away.
Tom watched him go. ‘So why’s he here?’
Sanders eyed Tom as if he was a man who hadn’t been let in on the secret. ‘Dear me, you are out of the loop. Put it this way, Xenia’s just the tip of a very formidable iceberg.’ He pointed at Helen, who was beckoning. ‘Uh-oh, looks like you’re in demand.’
She scooped him up and propelled him quickly through the crowd. ‘You’ll get about five minutes. Less if you bore her, so be careful not to outstay your welcome. Don’t shower her with praise or compliments, and keep in mind, she doesn’t do small-talk.’
‘I like her already.’
She gave him a warning look. ‘And, really, don’t try to flirt.’
They went through a pair of piano-black double doors into a smaller room with two full-length windows overlooking the park. Perched on her own on a very long leather sofa, Xenia Dalton was examining some papers on an equally long glass table. Her blonde hair was gathered into a loose bun that displayed to maximum effect a long, slim neck. Her face was pale, as were her eyes, an almost mauve shade of blue, but her eyebrows were darker and seemed set in a slight frown. She was talking into a phone but ended the call as they approached. She didn’t get up but as she lifted her gaze to Tom her eyes widened slightly. She offered him a hand that was surprisingly chilly. ‘Mr Buckingham. I’m so glad you could join us.’
‘Thank you. Quite a place you’ve got here.’
Xenia picked up her glass and waved it at Helen. ‘Would you give us a few minutes, darling?’
Helen disappeared back through the doors into the crowd.
Xenia put her head on one side and eyed him, frowning. ‘So, why did you want to meet me?’ Her English was completely fluent with only a hint of an accent.
He sat down on the sofa at a polite distance, about a dining table’s length away. ‘Oh, curiosity, mainly.’ He gave her a winning smile, which she didn’t return.
‘I hear you watch Vernon Rolt’s back most assiduously.’
Tom smiled at the compliment with more restraint this time. ‘Do you know him well?’
‘I know who you are. That you were thrown out of the SAS after an incident in Afghanistan and joined Invicta on the rebound.’
She’d completely sidestepped the question, which only made her more intriguing to Tom.
‘Yeah, that’s about right.’ Well, it was, sort of.
‘Are you one of those troublesome men who don’t like to take orders?’
‘I’m really quite obedient when the mood takes me.’
‘And what does it involve, working for Vernon Rolt?’
‘Nothing very thrilling. I’m a sort of glorified minder, really.’
‘Don’t be so modest. Surely you don’t let all that expensive training go to waste.’
�
��Let’s just say I help anticipate risks and … handle them. Try to keep him out of trouble.’
Her eyes widened. Was she sizing him up as a potential conquest, or something else? She already had more than enough muscle around the place.
He nodded at the copies of Newsday arranged on the table. ‘It’s done wonders for his campaign, all the space you’ve given him.’
She shrugged, as if she was barely aware of it. The paper she owned had gone all out to get him elected, and had greeted his appointment to the cabinet with undisguised euphoria. Her lack of interest was baffling. ‘Sometimes one has to stoop a bit to keep the circulation up. My views aren’t necessarily those of the editor.’
He smiled. ‘Yes, I met him.’
A blank look from her. ‘Do you doubt my sincerity, Mr Buckingham?’
‘Tom. Not at all. It’s just a surprise that you backed Rolt, yet you also win awards from Amnesty. How do you square that?’
‘Newspapers are a business, human rights aren’t. One pays so I can invest in the other.’
‘Those men out there don’t look like they go much on human rights.’
She ignored the comment, reached forward and spread out the front page about the murder of the girls in Syria. ‘A freelance journalist I hired risked her life to get us this story. We’re waiting for news of her. Forgive me if I seem a little preoccupied.’
‘Dangerous place, particularly for a woman,’ said Tom.
‘You disapprove?’
‘Good God, no. How else would we find out about these things?’
She nodded approvingly. ‘Well, I’m glad we agree on one thing. And the more papers I sell, the more I can finance reporting like this.’
‘So backing Rolt was all about circulation?’
She gazed into the darkness. The lights of the city were dulled by the heavy cloud that had descended. ‘Sometimes, in order to survive, one has to make compromises. The challenge is to remain true to oneself in the process, and over time that can get harder. I think we both know what I mean, Mr Buckingham.’
Tom looked at her. Another time he would have come on a lot stronger. Quite where he had got to in terms of remaining true to himself was a question he had been avoiding for some time. The way she looked at him, with her eyes very slightly narrowed, was both seductive and threatening. He certainly did understand. Every day, working for Rolt while under cover, he was grappling with the same thing. But he also sensed that she was sending him a signal, that there was more she wanted to say but something was stopping her.