State Of Emergency: (Tom Buckingham Thriller 3)

by Andy McNab

  ‘I’ve lived in this country since I was eighteen.’

  So, a change of subject.

  ‘Why did you leave the Crimea?’

  She seemed surprised at the question. ‘The death of my father. We were very close.’

  ‘And your mother, is she here?’

  ‘She took her own life. Things became too much for her.’

  ‘But you got out.’

  She blinked. ‘In a sense.’

  She lit a cigarette, and blew smoke high into the air.

  ‘It was love at first sight. So I stayed.’

  ‘For your husband?’

  ‘No – that was a childish crush that didn’t last. For England. There are things about this country that are more precious than – than life itself.’ She spoke with unexpected vehemence.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Freedom. Tolerance.’

  Tom snorted. ‘Doesn’t feel as though there’s a lot of either around right now.’

  No response. She continued to gaze into the distance. Was his time up already? He pressed on: ‘Is that why you have so much security? In case the masses rise up?’

  She shook her head slowly. ‘I have nothing to fear from the British.’

  ‘Why did you agree to see me so readily? Helen said I should be honoured.’

  A trace of a smile. ‘I was interested to know more about Mr Rolt’s plans.’

  Tom frowned. ‘Plans?’

  ‘What he’s preparing to do next.’ She gave him what seemed to be a knowing look.

  The only problem was he had no idea what she was talking about. ‘Well, I suppose that’s a matter for him to work out with the prime minister.’

  She had leaned slightly closer, as if searching his expression for some other meaning. ‘And do you think he’s going to be able to satisfy his backers that way?’

  ‘You mean Invicta?’

  She shrugged. ‘Maybe you are sworn to secrecy. Honour prevents you being candid.’

  There was more than a hint of sarcasm in her voice. Tom was mystified. ‘Is there something you think I should know?’

  She looked away to the darkness outside. She was just as alluring from the side.

  Damn. He wasn’t about to give up yet. ‘Rolt had a visitor from your part of the world this morning. I didn’t get to meet him. Oleg, I think was his name. Left a nice present.’

  One of the guards who had been by the door stepped into the room, approached and whispered in her ear, then waited for her response. She waved him away. ‘Ckopo. In a minute,’ she hissed.

  He seemed reluctant to go. Tom detected a distinct lack of deference. He gave the guard a cold stare, which was met with an insolent smirk.

  Helen reappeared with another guard behind her. Xenia got to her feet. ‘I’ll leave you to your date. It was nice to meet you, Mr Buckingham. Keep looking out for your boss.’

  She gave him her professional smile and offered her hand. He took it, felt its chill.

  27

  ‘How was that for you?’ Helen steered him through the crowd towards the door.

  ‘I’m not sure. The security need to learn some deference.’

  She rolled her eyes.

  ‘She seemed quite distracted.’

  ‘She’s worried about what happened in Aleppo. I mean, as well as those poor girls – the reporter’s one of her oldest friends.’

  He surveyed the crowd of suits, who were starting to move into another room. ‘What’s happening? Is Xenia going to talk to them?’

  One of the guards approached Helen as if to hurry her towards the exit. Tom gave him a cold stare. Another guard joined him. The message was clear.

  ‘Who’s Oleg?’ he asked her, as they headed out of the room. Helen gave a small sigh, as if she wanted to be done with talking about Xenia.

  ‘I really have no idea.’

  They ate at Hawksmoor. He ordered a T-bone that was just slightly smaller than the table. She had the turbot – with chips, which at least put her ahead of those tedious women who only ever ate salad. She was amusing, attentive and chatty, which was just as well since he was preoccupied by the conversation with Xenia. What did she know about Rolt that he didn’t? Had he missed something, or had Phoebe? He had gone in search of answers and come away with even more questions.

  When the bill arrived it was past midnight. Her flat was a treacherous two miles away through the slush. His was nearby …

  But he would have to break it to her that he was too tired for anything. Maybe, if she stayed, he could make it up to her in the morning.

  In the lift, she leaned against him and put her face up to be kissed. The doors opened, letting him off having to decide. He felt for his keys. With a bit of luck Jez and whatever her name was would be safely tucked away in the other room, releasing him from any social niceties. He unlatched the front door and they stepped into the hall. She made a move to kiss him again, then froze, her mouth open. He whirled round to see what she was looking at, as her hand shot up to cover her mouth. She turned white, doubled over and crumpled to her knees. Jez’s bedroom door was open.

  Now he saw the sprays of blood, such an unimaginable amount that it looked as if someone had chucked a bucket of it up the headboard and the wall. On the bed, Jez was face down, the back of his head blown clean away. Brain tissue spattered the pillow and the duvet. The woman was on her back, still half under him, her eyes wide open, with a glazed look of dismay, an entry wound on the right-hand side of her neck. Whoever had done it had been there only moments before. Or, Tom realized, his mind racing, could be still in the flat. Helen clung to him, trembling. He gripped her, then lifted her into the bedroom – the only place he could be sure was safe.

  ‘Stay there.’ He moved further inside. As he approached the woman, checking the carpet and bed for any empty shell cases, her eyes opened very wide. She wasn’t dead – but soon would be. There was nothing he could do, but he went forward, and as her horrified gaze met his she raised a hand as if to stop him. Her mouth moved silently, then the hand flopped down and the little light left in her eyes went out. He wheeled round, grabbed Helen by the arm from behind the door where she had hidden, and pulled her into the room. She collapsed onto the floor beside the bed.

  Helen was frozen with fear, holding her breath, probably ready to scream the building down. He gripped her tight and pressed his lips to her ear. ‘Breathe out. Slowly.’

  Nothing happened.

  He looked at her hard. This was no time for pleasantries. ‘Do it,’ he hissed.

  She nodded, and did as she was told.

  ‘Good. Now, get under the bed. No matter what happens, do not move.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Now.’

  ‘I’m claustrophobic.’

  Tom gestured at the bodies, still scanning the floor for any empty cases. ‘Whoever did this may still be here.’

  She got the message. He pushed her down and she wriggled out of sight.

  There were no empty cases, which meant one of two things. If the weapon was a semi-automatic the shooter was being professional and had picked them up so there would be no forensics. But after what Tom had just witnessed, the shooter didn’t appear to be that switched on. So the weapon might be a revolver, the professional killer’s preferred choice because the empty cases stay in the chamber. So, a professional’s weapon in an amateur’s hands?

  There was a reading light on the bedside table. He grabbed it, smashed the bulb and plunged the exposed wires into a tumbler of water. There was a loud electrical pop, a flash, then darkness. That was the lights dealt with. Nothing now but the dull orange from the streetlights below. He moved back towards the door and listened.

  Jez’s bedroom was opposite the front door. The hall ran to the left, with the door to the smaller bedroom, Tom’s, on the same side as Jez’s. Opposite that was the kitchen and, next to it, the bathroom. He had to be in there, unless he’d legged it down the fire escape outside the kitchen window.

  Tom had about ha
lf a second to come up with a plan. He had left his weapon locked in the safe in his room – he’d assumed he wouldn’t need it on a date. Jez, he was pretty certain, didn’t keep one.

  Still crouching in the doorway to Jez’s room, he picked up a small carriage clock that was perched on a side table and chucked it down the hall. It made a solid clunk outside the three closed doors.

  Straight away, two suppressed rounds slammed into the kitchen door, which told him the shooter was in the second bedroom, and that he was the type who would shoot before he looked. Tom listened out for the metallic clink of empty cases making contact with the floor. It didn’t necessarily mean the weapon was a revolver, but it was another piece of information he would use to bring this shit to an end. One way or the other.

  He picked up the table and chucked it in the same direction as the clock.

  Another two rounds joined the first two in the kitchen door. With the two in Jez and his ladyfriend, that made six.

  Tom picked up an umbrella leaning in the corner behind the front door, a classic old-fashioned one with a curved wooden handle. Then he opened the front door and slammed it so the shooter might think they had left. It was an old trick but better than nothing as he moved down the corridor. He was about to find out if the weapon was a revolver and the shooter had run out of rounds.

  Shooting through the door was speculative. Whoever was firing wasn’t a class act. They had given away their position. If Tom had been in the same situation he would have fired only when he had a clear target. That didn’t make his opponent any less dangerous but it did give him more options as he flattened himself against the wall and edged towards his room.

  The only other way out of that bedroom was through the window into the air shaft, with a three-storey drop. The drainpipes were too far from the window to reach unless the shooter was Spiderman. His only viable escape was past Tom to the front door. In the murk he saw the hazy shape of a head lean out. Just visible were the eye and mouth holes of a balaclava. Tom had the umbrella ready, holding it horizontally, at head height, parallel to the wall. He jabbed hard and almost got it into one of the eye-holes. The shooter yelped, crumpled and fired. The bullet passed Tom’s temple so close he felt the air as he ducked. He had to stop another round heading his way. He threw himself onto the dark shape and they both went down, flailing in the darkness. Tom found the arm with the weapon at the end of it and snapped it back hard as a fist smashed into his left ear, then fingers clawed at his nose and eyes. Tom rolled them both over so he was on top but a head butt right on the bridge of his nose lost him a second and the shooter was up again, the pistol still in his now useless right hand. Tom lunged for him but the man dodged and fell into Jez’s bedroom, landing half on the bed.

  Two more rounds and Tom felt a hot stinging on the apex of his left shoulder. The shooter sprang up, smashed a knee into his crotch as he tried to recover from the pain and pushed past him into the hall. Then he was out of the front door. Gone.

  28

  01.00

  Woolf met him on the landing, which was now choked with police. A couple of medics were looking after Helen.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Tom. Poor fuckers. What shit luck.’ Immediately the sympathy evaporated as professional necessity took over. ‘Any ID?’

  ‘Didn’t get the balaclava off him.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Thirty-five, forty maybe. Hundred and forty pounds, five ten. Fit, though – very agile, well versed at working in cramped spaces. A crap shot, luckily. No empty cases but the rounds should be embedded about the place. Not that it matters. I doubt the weapon has a history.’

  Woolf nodded at the bedroom. ‘Better have a look.’

  There was a very remote possibility that something in Jez’s work might have provoked this, but as he and Woolf stood there in silent resignation, Tom knew that whoever had done this had in all probability come looking for him.

  ‘Either they knew I did Randall or …’

  ‘… you’re a target because of your proximity to Rolt.’

  Tom bent down, took out a pen and used it to pick up Jez’s Breitling, which had fallen on the floor beside the body. ‘Well, that rules out burglary.’

  He glanced at the team who were swarming over the scene. This wouldn’t be secret for long. Woolf guessed what Tom was thinking. ‘Don’t worry, he’s decreed a total blackout.’

  ‘So he knows?’

  As if on cue Tom’s phone buzzed. He showed Woolf the screen: Rolt.

  Tom didn’t feel like talking to anyone, especially him, but Woolf urged, ‘Go on. See what he says.’

  Rolt seemed surprisingly calm. ‘I just heard. I’m very sorry, Tom, and so relieved you’re safe.’ His voice sounded full of concern.

  ‘Well, thanks. Good of you to call.’

  ‘I’m going to deal with this situation, rest assured. And you’re going to have a guard round the clock. It’s all arranged.’

  There was a new tone to his voice. How quickly the cloak of office had taken effect.

  ‘How exactly?’

  ‘They should be with you any minute. They’ll take you to a safe house and keep a close eye. I must get going. Stay safe.’ He rang off.

  ‘Better do what the man says.’

  Three men appeared in the hall. The M&S suits, practical shoes and earpieces said it all. Tom glared at Woolf. ‘You knew about this?’

  Woolf shrugged. ‘He’s the boss now.’

  29

  07.00

  Terminal 3, Heathrow Airport

  The wheels of the Airbus let out a sharp squeal as they touched the glistening tarmac and went from nought to two hundred miles an hour in one hundredth of a second. Either side of the runway a soft carpet of snow gave off a ghostly glow.

  Jamal leaned his head against the window, peering out at the night. The engines roared as they reversed thrust to bring the aircraft down to taxiing speed. A mixture of relief and fear entangled inside him. Sleep had been in short supply as he’d made his way through the chaos of Syria into the comparative order of Turkey: whenever he closed his eyes, the memories flooded back, images that would stay with him all his life, as if they had been etched inside his eyelids, never to heal or fade.

  ‘Cheer up – nearly home.’

  He looked at the woman beside him. She had given him a big smile as she’d sat down in Istanbul – the first smile he’d seen in months – then fallen asleep before they were off the ground. How deeply, how peacefully she slept. What must that be like?

  He gave her a weak smile. She leaned closer. ‘I love my homeland, don’t get me wrong, but every time I get back to London I breathe a sigh of relief. Your family here?’

  Jamal nodded.

  She beamed. ‘Aaah. Are they coming to meet you?’

  ‘Maybe,’ he lied.

  He’d once imagined a hero’s homecoming, his father proudly coming forward to embrace him now he knew what his son had achieved. His own naïvety shocked him. But he clung to the idea that he might find forgiveness, especially after what he had done for Emma.

  The woman wasn’t waiting for him to elaborate. Her eyes were glazed with excitement. ‘My boy’s coming to fetch me. He’s a medical student – final year.’ She oozed pride and nodded emphatically, as if to underline that her son had stayed the course, and she somehow knew Jamal was a dropout. ‘And the Lord knows the world needs doctors.’ She put a hand on his. ‘He’s already doing shifts at A and E in Chepstow. Sometimes he’s on call up to thirty-six hours.’ She shook her head mournfully. ‘He says on Friday nights it’s like a war zone.’

  He peered into her eyes. You have no idea what a war zone looks like, he wanted to say. But he didn’t. What overwhelmed him was this mother’s pride and love for her son. He knew of women like her and sometimes he had wished his own mother was as proud of him. But he had never given her cause to be. Whatever she felt she had to keep to herself: that was how his father wanted it. He felt something welling inside him and she must have sense
d it because she let her hand drop onto his.

  He flinched. She frowned, glanced down and saw his fingers were purple and swollen. She moved her hand away. ‘Have you been in a fight?’

  ‘Frostbite.’

  The ride on the bike and the trek to the border had taken its toll. The woman stared back, mystified, searching for a follow-up question, then perhaps deciding not to go there. Instead she beamed again. ‘Well, you’re safe now. Home sweet home.’

  Home. He had never realized how much he would miss it. Everything he had taken for granted, even railed against as decadent and corrupt, now seemed uniquely precious. All that he had previously kicked against he saw now as something to be treasured: the most mundane things, like traffic keeping to the correct side of the road, postal collections and deliveries, fresh milk on the doorstep … all these now seemed like wonders of the world.

  As the plane came to a halt on its stand there was a ripple of clicks as everyone undid their seatbelts, but an announcement from the captain asked them to remain seated for a few minutes while airport security boarded the plane. The cabin staff moved down the aisles pacifying those desperate to get off. A pretty stewardess glanced at Jamal, then quickly looked away. He watched through the window as the jet-bridge was manoeuvred into position and docked with the plane. As soon as the door opened, two uniformed police with MP5 carbines appeared at the door. With them was a third man in a hoodie with a shiny shaved head and small eyes. He looked more like a villain than anyone in law enforcement. Jamal tried to tell himself that their presence was some new measure on account of heightened international tension but, deep down, he knew there wasn’t anything normal about this.

  The three came purposefully down the aisle, the bullet-headed one in the lead, his eyes sweeping the rows of seated passengers. Then they locked on Jamal. ‘Okay, Jamal, let’s not make this any harder than it needs to be. Put your hands on top of the headrest in front of you and stand up.’