by Andy McNab
‘It’s about a journalist who’s gone missing in Syria: Emma Warner, a highly regarded freelancer who does some of her own video reports for the web and TV. She’s won various awards and whatnot.’
The name clearly meant nothing to Rolt. ‘What’s it got to do with the Home Office if she went missing in Syria?’
‘Well, it’s to do with Jamal.’
Rolt’s eyes narrowed. ‘Ah, yes, “The Butcher of Aleppo”.’
Farmer winced at his use of the tabloid term, as if it was an official title. ‘Currently detained in Belmarsh.’
Rolt gave a curt nod and glanced at Henry. ‘Yes, until we can find a country willing to take him and his family.’
My God, he really was serious about this stuff. Farmer briefly lost his train of thought. ‘Er, in his statement to his lawyer, a fellow called Latimer, Jamal claimed he had been recruited by Warner to do some secret filming.’
‘Really. And?’
‘It turns out that a body has been found. Or, to be more specific, some parts of a body have been recovered. A parcel containing her head and hands was delivered to the British Consulate in a town in eastern Turkey a couple of hours ago.’ Farmer paused for the full impact of what he was saying to sink in.
Rolt frowned. ‘And?’
‘Well, it’s – she’s not been formally identified but the intelligence service inside the consulate are confident that it’s the remains of the missing journalist.’
Rolt sighed. ‘Well, that’s very unfortunate but, as we all know now, it’s just the sort of thing these people are capable of.’
Farmer nodded. ‘Very true, Home Secretary. However, Latimer is also saying that the offending video featuring his client, which you are familiar with, has been technically examined and found to have been doctored.’
Rolt shrugged. ‘So what? I’ve already heard this tale. Anyone mad enough to try to defend such a hideous criminal is bound to clutch at any old straw. I don’t see the worry.’ He eased his shirt cuffs out from inside the arms of his suit.
Farmer tried to pick his words carefully. ‘Well, sir, the fact is … How can I put it? It’s true.’
Rolt looked at him, disappointed.
Farmer decided to keep going. ‘The news of Warner’s death, coming just as there are suggestions that there’s doubt about the footage, does throw more of a question mark over Jamal’s guilt. And this could lead to speculation in the press. I mean, it almost certainly will.’
Rolt’s expression changed to one of dismay. ‘Then block it. Take out an injunction or whatever it is you have to do. A D Notice – isn’t that how you deal with these things?’
Farmer took a breath. He could feel his face heating up. ‘Sorry if I’m not getting you, Home Secretary, but are you saying that the truth about Emma Warner and the doctored video should be withheld?’
Rolt spread his arms. ‘It bloody well has to be. The public are clamouring for action. This isn’t the moment to be pulling back.’
Farmer noticed that Henry’s eyes were also fixed on him, his head moving almost imperceptibly from left to right, and mouthing, ‘No.’ It was usually at this point in an exchange with a recalcitrant cabinet minister that Farmer rolled up his sleeves and gave his speech, reminding them of some compelling reason, usually personal, invariably embarrassing, why they needed to do exactly what Farmer was telling them to do and not question it. Not this time.
Rolt got to his feet. ‘What we all have to come to terms with, Derek, is that we are in a state of virtual civil war. Society as we know it is coming apart. We have to act and we have to act fast. Normal service has been suspended. We are going to cleanse this country and eradicate the menace that is spreading through it. This is no time for inconvenient rumours and speculation.’
For the first time in his career Farmer was speechless. Rolt hadn’t finished. He gestured at the phone on his desk. ‘So do you tell the PM, or shall I pick up the phone and tell him what to do? Questions about this video or any other – imaginings about this woman journalist’s death – must be erased from the record. Make them go away.’
There was a look in Rolt’s eye that Farmer had seen before, at the press conference when he was replying to the question about the assassination attempt. Before, he would have dismissed it as typical of a politician getting carried away by the sound of his own voice. But this was something else.
Farmer folded the file in his lap and got to his feet. He could feel his face reddening with suppressed rage. There were a number of things he could have said, most of which he would have had to retract, probably followed by a swift tendering of his notice before he got the push. Perhaps that was Rolt’s plan: evict the last members of the awkward squad who remained in the administration by provoking them into losing it. Farmer was famous for doing just that, and for his subsequent apologies, usually made through gritted teeth. But Rolt had done the seemingly impossible and shocked him into silence.
Farmer forced a smile. ‘Good to meet you at last, Home Secretary. Thank you for your time.’ And with that he headed for the door.
He hadn’t got far into the outer office when he felt a gentle touch on his elbow. It was Henry. ‘Ah, just to be clear, Derek. You understand he’s not joking.’
There was a supercilious smile on the little shit’s face.
‘Oh, yes,’ Farmer replied. ‘I got the message loud and clear.’
‘So you know what the home secretary needs to happen.’
Farmer looked at him, then nodded slowly. ‘Oh, yes. I know what to do.’
48
11.30
Central London
Tom pulled into a side-street in Soho to drop Mandler well away from his usual stamping ground, as he’d asked. He was still processing what he had just been told. Mandler had identified Rolt’s mystery visitor. He had admitted that Tom’s old CO had been involved in a covert mission backed by Umarov. But he was no nearer to knowing what Umarov wanted with the new home secretary. With the proper resources the man could be located and surveillance started. But Mandler wasn’t offering him any.
‘Don’t underestimate the extent to which my hands are tied, Buckingham. I’m under scrutiny myself. I’m afraid it may be down to you to put the pieces together.’
Those had been Mandler’s parting words. Tom had watched him make his way down Greek Street, Britain’s top spook, a cowed and frightened man.
The only person he could still count on for backup was Phoebe, though what condition she was in to carry on he wasn’t sure.
She picked up straight away. ‘Tom, I was worried about you.’
‘I’ll worry about me, you worry about you. What’s happening?’
‘It’s all gone pretty weird. Rolt’s shut down the office. Told everybody they’re on leave pending further instructions.’
‘And the campus?’
‘On lockdown. No one in or out till further notice.’
‘Something to do with the break-in?’
‘I don’t know. No one’s saying anything. Did you find anything in the Lake District?’
‘Just some dead wood. But I’ve got the name of Rolt’s mystery visitor. Oleg Umarov. Ring any bells?’
Phoebe went quiet for a few seconds. ‘I’ll go back through all my reports, see what turns up.’
‘Is Rolt finding time to keep in touch with you?’
‘He’s ultra-preoccupied with the new job. The guy who came back from Syria seems to be getting all his attention. It’s all he talks about. Tom, I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing. Woolf’s gone quiet on me as well. And you’re in hiding. Where are you anyway? Where are you?’
There was more than a hint of desperation in her voice. He wasn’t sure what impelled him to lie to her. ‘Lying low, as instructed by the powers that be. Find anything you can that Rolt had on Umarov. Any reference, any call, any receipt or message or cigarette end. Anything at all that connects them. Call me when you’ve got something.’
He rang off, turned the car rou
nd and headed back out of London.
49
14.00
Park Gate Place
Xenia Dalton stood at the huge picture window that was one wall of her office and glared at the grey murk below. She kept her back to her visitor and spoke without turning round, using the native tongue that she would gladly have forgotten, if only she could.
‘I did what I was told. I backed Rolt. He’s where you want him. Surely that’s enough?’
She placed her hands on the cold marble of the windowsill as if trying to absorb some of the strength from the fortifications she had built to protect herself, much good they had done her. She could see his shape in the reflection of the glass, just the silhouette, short, but with powerful, broad shoulders. She suppressed a shiver, reminded of what he had been like in her youth, and why she had run away. Then she adjusted her gaze so she couldn’t see his shape at all. But she could feel his eyes on her.
She forced herself to turn and face him. His colouring was florid and the redness showed through the thin wiry hair that populated his scalp. His features seemed to be trying to conceal themselves: his mouth was lipless, his nose flat and broad, his eyes little more than slits. Although he had the colouring and stance of a man who had endured a lifetime of physical labour, his finely tailored suit told a different story. And there was the smell: the acrid Balkan tobacco smoke, the abnormally strong aftershave that smelt of sandalwood. She’d always hated that smell. Even now it caught in her throat. He lifted his cigarette to his mouth and sucked.
‘I told you Rolt would be a good investment. Now you are reaping the harvest.’
She glanced at the page-roughs, the headline prepared by her editor, on paper, as she preferred, so she could handle it herself. But she didn’t want to touch it. She knew the horrible truth about Emma, the woman whose brave mission she had financed. And she knew that what she was looking at was a complete lie.
BUTCHER OF ALEPPO EXCLUSIVE – THE FAMILY SPEAKS!
McCloud’s sole access to them had been sanctioned by Rolt. He had done the deal with the family himself, without consulting her, and sent a freelancer she didn’t even know to talk to them. And the price? Flights for all the family to Lahore, one way.
‘I don’t want this in my paper.’
‘You supported Rolt. Think of it as a reward.’
‘I had no choice, remember?’
She could feel control of her paper slipping further out of her grasp.
‘Your mama always said you were an obstinate child.’
She seethed inside at his even mentioning her mother but she refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing it.
‘This is all lies. I won’t have it.’
She caught the flash of anger in his cold pale blue eyes, scanning her from their hideouts beneath the heavy brow.
‘You know perfectly well, my dear, that what’s mine is yours and what’s yours is mine. Everything I’m doing here is for you. So I think there has to be a little give and take, don’t you?’ He had switched to English, perhaps to show her how proficient he had become. He waved an arm in the direction of the window. ‘I understand now why you like this country. Before I thought you were just a stupid runaway seduced by the bright lights and Western music. But now I’ve seen the … possibilities, I agree. It has much potential, once order has been restored.’
The paper had been her project. She’d bought it from the administrators after it had gone bust, put it back on its feet and made it into a success. All with the money put away for her by her father. But Umarov didn’t see it that way. As far as he was concerned, that was money they made when they were partners, in which he had a share. And now he was here, back in her life, gradually assuming control. She had hoped that after she’d given in to him over supporting Rolt he would be satisfied, and back off. How wrong she had been, how naïve.
There was a knock at the door.
‘Not now!’ she shouted.
The door inched open. McCloud put his head round. ‘Sorry to butt in.’
‘I said not now.’
Umarov swivelled round and raised his hand in greeting. ‘Ah, Mr Editor McCloud.’ McCloud gave Xenia a mock-apologetic look and stepped into the room. Umarov clapped his hands. ‘Congratulations on your eksklyuzivnyy.’
McCloud came forward and shook his hand, Umarov gripping his forearm at the same time, as if he was a long-lost friend.
‘I’m glad you appreciate it. Circulation’s up another ten thousand, plus a million extra page views. What’s not to like?’
Umarov gestured at the desk. ‘Just a few differences to resolve.’
McCloud saw the paper on Xenia’s desk and shrugged. ‘It’s all their own words, straight from the horses’ mouths.’
Her humiliation was complete. She fought back angry tears but she could feel her face heating up, as if the years she had put between herself and the past had just shrunk to nothing. She was the petulant teenager again, powerless in her hateful stepfather’s presence. ‘It’s all lies.’
The two men looked at her.
‘I’m sorry you feel that way, Xenia.’ There was no trace of apology in McCloud’s tone.
She looked down at the page-rough that was laid out on her desk with its screaming headline. Somehow, she had to get even. The anger was boiling up in her now, ready to burst out. She picked up the page-rough, held it up for a second and, as the two men watched, she tore it into pieces.
50
17.00
HMP Belmarsh
Jamal stared at the note: Empty your toilet bowl. 1 a.m. He had found it under the drinking cup on his meal tray.
For the last day he had asked to be left in his cell. News had spread round the jail that the so-called ‘Butcher of Aleppo’ was in Belmarsh. It didn’t matter that he was only on remand. The world of the prison was no different from outside. He was guilty. He was a target. Never mind that he hadn’t been tried or even charged. He turned the slip of paper in his fingers. It was a piece of toilet paper, the message written in pencil.
Two hours ago the governor, Alan Thompson, had paid him a visit. Jamal stood to attention when he entered. Thompson gave him a pitying look and told him he didn’t need to do that. ‘I’ve got some good news. Your sister has been granted permission to visit you. It seems your Member of Parliament has taken an interest in your case and requested that I give you the news personally, so there’s no danger of it getting lost or – forgotten.’
Jamal looked into Thompson’s face to see if there was any indication of whether he thought this was a good thing or not. But the man’s features were devoid of expression. In spite of that, tears of joy welled in Jamal’s eyes. ‘Thank you, sir. Thank you very much.’
‘You’ll get twenty-five minutes in the communal meeting area.’
Twenty-five minutes. He must think what to say to make the most of it.
‘Try to stay out of trouble between now and then, eh? You don’t want to give the Home Office a reason to rescind.’
The governor left and Jamal was alone with his fears.
It was twelve forty-five. He hadn’t been able to sleep. What would happen if he emptied the toilet? He had no idea.
He presumed it was from Isham. He was the only other inmate who had said anything to him that wasn’t a volley of threats and abuse. He had avoided him in the prayer meeting but here, in the darkness of night, with the mounting sense of his own total solitude, he had begun to think that the offer of friendship was not to be rejected.
He had a plastic cup and a water bottle that was almost empty. He knelt down and began to scoop the water from the toilet bowl with the cup, pouring it carefully into the bottle. As the bowl emptied he became aware of a sound coming through the pipe. A sort of hum or chant, very distorted and indistinct.
‘Hello?’ he called softly.
‘Brother.’ The word came back so clearly it might have come from the next cell.
‘Isham?’
‘Brother.’
The voic
e was hard to recognize, transmitted in this way, but he was sure it was the man he had prayed beside.
‘Are you praying, brother?’
‘Yes, I am praying.’ It was a lie: Jamal had intended to pray again but his pleas to God for help sounded pathetic and weak.
‘Do you have hope?’
He didn’t like to say no. ‘My sister is coming. They’ve allowed her to visit.’
Isham went silent for several seconds. ‘When does your sister come?’
Jamal told him. There was no response. After a few minutes of calling softly and no answer Jamal carefully replaced the water in the bowl.
51
10.00
Newland Hall, Malvern Hills, Worcestershire
I’m at my parents’. Give us a shout. Tom pressed send.
Ashton’s reply came back in seconds. The Flying Horse: 16.00.
A pub about ten miles away.
Tom’s mother was bent over the unstitched dog bite on his forearm. She knew better than to ask how he had come by it. He was seated at the kitchen table, her first-aid kit open beside him. He had arrived late last night, given her a hug, collapsed into his old bed and slept solidly for sixteen hours.
‘So, will you be here for dinner?’
‘Maybe. I’ll let you know.’
She sighed. ‘You turn up without any warning and I don’t even know if you’re just going to disappear again.’
‘I know. I’m sorry, okay? It’s like this right now.’
She squeezed his shoulder. ‘Still, it’s wonderful to have you back after so long. Sit still while I finish this. It’s quite nasty. I suppose you’re not going to tell me what happened.’
He smiled. ‘Afraid I don’t remember a thing. Must have had a few too many.’
She rolled her eyes. He knew she didn’t believe him. It didn’t matter. Long ago he had trained her to accept that he was always going to be economical with the truth about his life. But after the madness of the last few days it felt very good to be back in the comparative sanity of home.