State Of Emergency: (Tom Buckingham Thriller 3)

by Andy McNab

  Jamal nodded. ‘Yes, I see that very clearly.’

  Latimer was staring at him now. ‘Please, Jamal, don’t do anything rash. You can help us expose what Rolt has done, but it may take time. There’s someone who wants to meet you – the person who sent Emma to Aleppo. She also can help you or, at least, give you a safe place to be, here in London.’

  Jamal lifted his head and looked out of the window at people outside, hurrying by in the cold. ‘Is anywhere safe now?’

  72

  20.30

  Buckinghamshire

  To the south there was a sweep of open parkland, while to the north the house was protected by the rising ground of Beacon Hill and Combe Hill, the highest points of the Chilterns. On a clear day it was possible to see seven counties, from the Berkshire Downs to Salisbury Plain to the Cotswolds. But right now they couldn’t see shit. The cloud cover had blocked out the half-moon and the snow had shut visibility down to less than fifty metres. Good, thought Tom, that wasn’t a bad thing. More murk, better cover. But he still didn’t have a plan.

  As they drove towards their target all he could think about was how to stop this. In theory, he could throw a spanner in the works at any time, never mind the danger. But it wasn’t the consequences for himself that concerned him so much as what might happen to his father. Now that he had come face to face with Umarov, all lingering questions about his involvement had been answered. And Ashton’s veiled threat about Hugh had been reinforced. Tom had got himself into an impossible position – effectively having to choose between his country and his father. Added to that, he wasn’t just a ‘deniable’: his only connection with his true masters had gone silent, number unobtainable.

  He cursed his own curiosity for getting him into this. Mandler hadn’t ordered him to go this far – in fact, he had made it clear he would be on his own. But Tom hadn’t reckoned without having him to call on. What had they done with him? Was it Clements’s doing? It wouldn’t surprise him. Clements had taken an early interest in Rolt and it was he who had suggested putting him on the Party’s ticket with a safe seat. Tom felt the sealed documents in his pocket. Was Clements’s own name on that list? Perhaps he was too cunning to show his hand.

  The snow was coming down harder now. The Discovery shuddered, its wipers working at top speed, as the driver corrected a skid. The atmosphere among the men with him, which had started off so buoyant at the euphoria of being back in the game, had been overtaken by a quiet, nervous anticipation.

  Somehow he had to subvert the proceedings. He gained some advantage from being in the lead. Assuming he wasn’t compromised, and breaching the security in the grounds went according to plan, he would be the first into the house while the rest cordoned it off. He had memorized as much as he could of Ashton’s plans of the place. Perhaps there was a way he could separate the PM from Rolt long enough to brief him without arousing Rolt’s suspicions.

  He tried to think himself more deeply into Rolt’s mindset. Ashton was right that Rolt trusted him absolutely. Months of undercover work had ensured that he knew the man as well as anyone did. He would be nervous, that was for sure. The thought also occurred that he, too, was in awe of his Crimean backer. Would this be happening if Umarov hadn’t willed it?

  Bigwigs arriving at Chequers went in through the imposing lodge gates and up Victory Drive, so named by Winston Churchill. They were heading towards one of the two tradesmen’s entrances, the less conspicuous east gate, which was bordered by trees. The driver pulled off the road and the vehicle bounced a few metres down a woodland track before coming to a stop.

  The doors opened and they all jumped out. It was completely quiet and very cold as they moved in single file towards their start point. All the different teams had one and nothing would happen until they were in position and Ashton gave the go. Snow was still falling and crunched under their boots until the target came into view. The one light they could see in the distance coming from the grounds was blurred by mist, the house itself a distant ghostly image picked out by the lights in its windows. It looked so vulnerable, and the key members of the British government were inside, about to be taken hostage.

  The assault group stood at the start line, plumes of vapour circling up from their breath into the grey snow-filled darkness. There was no more checking of kit, no smoking, no talking. Tom felt the documents Ashton had given him, protected by a thin plastic folder. He scanned the area. The huge old oaks overlooking the wall he’d seen in the drone photo had once famously provided a perch for a particularly enterprising tabloid paparazzo to get shots of the visiting Italian prime minister and his companion in their guest room. After the furore, the trees had been deemed a security threat and moves made to cut them down, until local conservationists mounted a vociferous protest. The trees had survived.

  Hanson got on to the radio attached to the front of his body armour and called in to Ashton. Once the other two groups were ready, Ashton would give the go. He spoke in a low tone: whispering would make too much noise.

  ‘Zero, this is Zero Three at the start line. Over.’

  Every man was still and quiet, waiting for the only thing that mattered: Hanson getting the go in his radio earpiece.

  Tom couldn’t hear the reply, but it was clear that the radio traffic was taking too long.

  Hanson squeezed the pressel and spoke. ‘Roger that.’ Then he let go of the radio. ‘Shit,’ he muttered through his teeth.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Tom murmured.

  Hanson put his mouth next to Tom’s ear. He replied in a low tone, clear and professional: ‘Zero One’s come off the road about fifteen miles out. They’re trying to retrieve the wagon.’

  Tom calculated. Zero One was the main call-sign of the team tasked with taking the main gate. Ashton had covered a delay like this happening in his orders. The cabinet would probably go into dinner at half seven or eight. They’d be eating and talking round the table until nine thirtyish, then carry on in the drawing room. There was still time for Zero One to get in position because the cabinet would still all be in one place until ten thirty or so. But after that, some of them were bound to split off and go to their rooms. Others might even head home or go back to London.

  Instantly, Tom saw an advantage for himself. ‘Give me the radio. I’ve got an idea.’

  Tom plugged in the earpiece. ‘Zero, this is Zero Three. Over.’

  Tom’s earpiece buzzed with the digital voice of Ashton. ‘Zero, send.’

  ‘This is Tom. It makes sense for me to make entry now, then be on standby outside the house. What if Zero One doesn’t make it in time? What if we have problems at the main gate when you give the go? No matter what happens, I’ll be ready at the house to carry out what I have to do. Otherwise the whole thing could fail. Over.’

  He released the pressel and waited. A couple of long seconds passed before Ashton came back.

  ‘No. All call signs will stay on their start lines and go as planned. I don’t want any chance of compromise before we move. Acknowledge, Zero Three?’

  Was there some underlying wariness? Tom wasn’t going to give in that easily, but if what he had in mind was to work he couldn’t afford for Ashton to get suspicious.

  ‘The mission’s all that matters. I can make it happen, no matter what, if I go in now. ECM will help get me in, easy. Over.’

  There was another pause. Tom could have ignored Ashton and gone for it without making the call but he needed two things to happen. He needed to behave as if he was part of the team, thinking ahead, trying to achieve the mission, and he also needed Ashton to get the ECM up and working so he could pass the perimeter undetected.

  Tom’s earpiece crackled into life once again. ‘Tell me how you plan to make entry.’

  Tom explained. There was another pause. Then came Ashton’s reply. ‘Roger that, go for it. However, do not enter the house until the cordon arrives. Remember, you all need to be together for this to work. Acknowledge.’

  ‘Roger that. Stand by.’


  Tom handed the radio back to Hanson who gathered the team round him so each man’s head was almost on top of another. Tom explained what was about to happen.

  Then he and Hanson headed to the right of the gatehouse to the edge of the wooded area. Hanson turned to him. ‘How does this work?’

  ‘You’ll see.’

  Hanson helped him up into the lower branches of one of the oaks; it must have been three hundred years old. He climbed steadily until he reached the level of the parapet above the brickwork and discovered his first problem. Since the security review a generous helping of razor wire had been applied to the parapet – presumably as an alternative to felling the trees. Great. In the distance, the lights of the house beckoned in the damp, snowflaked air. Tom managed to part the wire just enough to inch his head between the coils until he could see down the other side of the wall.

  Immediately below there was sign: prints in the snow from the foot patrols. Keeping his head down among the wire, where he was unlikely to break any infrared beam or motion detector protecting the perimeter, he gave the agreed signal that he was ready – a simple snap of his fingers. A second later he got one back from the base of the tree. All Hanson had to do now was get on the radio to tell Ashton he was in position, and to activate the ECM, but for no more than twenty seconds. Any longer might suggest there was a breach. The razor wire cut into his clothes and skin as he bent it back and moved through it. But there was no choice: he had to get over the wall.

  He also had to hope that in this weather the patrols had their heads tucked well inside their hoods or were back inside, relying on the CCTV. Either way, he was about to find out.

  He disentangled himself from the wire, climbed over and dropped, propelling himself out as far as he could, to land on the already displaced snow. Immediately he moved to his left, towards the gatehouse, in the footprints left by the patrols.

  Next to the gatehouse a 110 Land Rover was parked up with about a centimetre of snow on it, the crew inside, hunched around a gas fire, enjoying a brew.

  Once he was on the service road, Tom got into his stride and legged it up to the western end of the house. From memory, and his recollection of the drone photo, it was where the deliveries came in and unloaded – close to the kitchens.

  As he approached the house he changed course to try to get confirmation that the cabinet were having dinner. Coming up close to the windows he moved along until he found one with a curtain open just a crack. Shapes crossed the gap and blocked his vision, then moved. A steward in a white shirt was serving and, just visible behind him, people he recognized from the cabinet were sitting at the table.

  He moved back towards the service road and followed it into a kitchen yard. There were four huge wheeled bins, stacked crates of empty bottles, and flattened cardboard under an awning waiting to be recycled. He stood in the shadow between two skips to get a good view into the kitchen and watched.

  The stewards were Royal Navy – the only one of the three services that supplied the Chequers serving staff – all in pressed white shirts and ties, the females in straight black skirts.

  It didn’t take him long to see which of them was the boss. She was small, maybe early thirties, with light brown hair pulled back in a bun. She checked the plates that the chefs were placing on a long glass preparation counter and hustled the staff along. He couldn’t remember the navy’s ranks; her epaulettes showed an anchor surrounded by laurels and crowns.

  Tom moved out from the shadow between the bins and headed for the door. Then he took a deep breath and bowled into the kitchen as if he belonged there. The smells of sweet and savoury instantly made him hungry. It was hours since he had eaten.

  He scanned the room and looked at the oldest of the chefs, a guy in his fifties, his hands covered with breadcrumbs.

  ‘Who’s the boss?’

  He wore his grave, self-important face in the hope of countering the rips in his jacket and wet jeans, radiating confident authority as he waited for an answer. His look broadcast that he felt at home where he was, that he knew these people, they were his tribe, and he had a reason to be there. If that wasn’t enough, his accent should swing it. To a navy man like the chef, who was gazing back at him, uninterested, Tom could only have sounded like an officer.

  The chef pointed at the female with the anchors on her shoulders. ‘She’s in charge of the service. I’m in charge of the kitchen. Who do you want?’

  ‘I want her. Thanks.’

  He lifted a hand to attract her attention, but she was already looking at him – and not much liking what she was seeing. He gave her his best this-is-important-so-listen-up expression, and reminded himself that the further behind the enemy lines you are, the safer you are. It’s just the getting there that’s the problem.

  Tom called to her over the din of the kitchen, stern but not hostile. ‘I need you a minute. It’s important.’

  In most other walks of life that would have gone down like fresh turd but this was the forces.

  She glanced at the head chef, who shrugged, and headed towards him through the landscape of stainless steel and bubbling pans to his position by the door. As she came forward he moved back out into the yard.

  He stopped a couple of metres by the bins but this time not in shadow. Then he prepared to give her his best officer voice, but she got in the first shot. ‘Who are you?’ She was from the northeast, and sounded just as she looked: short, sharp, and to the point.

  ‘My name’s Tom. That’s all you need to know – apart from I’m friendly forces. Who are you?’

  ‘Chief Petty Officer Warren.’

  ‘What’s your first name?’

  ‘Gemma.’

  ‘OK, Gemma, listen in: this is very important.’

  He wanted her to recognize him as from a military background. He pointed at her to emphasize the words, but did so with an open palm and straight fingers. In the military it was a sign of respect, and she would know that.

  ‘I work for the Security Service, MI5, whichever you call it. I don’t have any ID on me so don’t ask. But what I do have, in fact what we have, is a national security threat that is going to need your help. Roger so far?’

  Tom waited for her to register. The woman was switched on: she was frowning but she wasn’t flapping.

  ‘OK. I’m not going to tell you what the situation is, for your own protection. But you must do as I ask or we’ll all be in a world of shit.’

  Tom sensed her hesitation. He needed to climb aboard her now and get control of her. He lifted his hands and gripped her shoulders to be sure she didn’t decide to make a run for it. ‘Gemma, all I need you to do is get the PM to step out of the dining room. Nothing else.’

  Her eyes drilled into his, demanding more.

  ‘I need to get him away from the rest so he hears it first. No other cabinet, no security, just him.’

  He gave her a cold stare to drive the words home, but at the same time leaving her with the sense that it was her choice, that he was asking, not ordering, so she still had some sense of control. Since she looked like the sort of woman who didn’t take shit from anyone it helped that these were times of heightened tension and unprecedented events.

  Her eyes narrowed. ‘If it’s so fucking important, Tom, why are you bothering with me? Why don’t I just get security and you get them to sort it out? Eh?’

  She moved her head from left to right, looking at nothing in particular, and put her hands on her hips. She exhaled hard and her vapour mixed with all the others gushing from the wall pipes.

  ‘Gemma, I can’t tell you anything else. I’m trying to keep this as low key as it needs to be. The PM’s got to know about it first so it can’t be filtered through security. There’s about to be some shit and he needs to know so he can make his decisions. I’m asking you to help me do that.’

  And because she had to be thinking it, he added, ‘If I was here to kill him, I would have just gone for it.’

  Tom took a step back, but he had to k
eep the momentum going. ‘I need an answer, Gemma.’

  She took a deep breath and looked back up at him. ‘Fuck it – all right.’

  She turned to move, then stopped. ‘What if I don’t?’ Her face suggested she’d known the answer before she’d even asked.

  ‘Just do it, Gemma. OK?’

  She stared hard at him with a mixture of anger and disgust. ‘You fucking people.’

  She stepped forward, so he had to move out of her way, and headed back towards the kitchen door.

  73

  None of the kitchen staff looked up as the two of them re-entered: a good sign. Gemma wasn’t letting any pressure show as she carved her way through the chefs and the boiling stoves.

  She reached the serving counter. A line of stewards was preparing to go into the dining room, each in the process of collecting a dessert plate in each hand. One frowned at Tom. Gemma gave him a look and he turned away. ‘Don’t worry about him, worry about me. Whose turn is it to serve the PM?’

  ‘Ma’am.’ A young blond man who could have been a teenager stepped forward.

  Gemma took the dessert from him, an enticing apple tart. Tom’s mouth watered. Not tonight.

  She had to get a move on. He needed to make contact with the PM immediately. He had no idea – and no means of finding out – when Invicta were going to start screaming across the grounds to put in the cordon. But he couldn’t rush her. She was the boss of her domain and he had to respect that.

  Her crew were all waiting for her to give the word.

  ‘OK, everybody into the corridor. I’ll follow you in.’

  As the stewards shuffled to the far right-hand corner of the kitchen and the double doors with their faded In and Out signs, Gemma turned to Tom. ‘Right, you come with me.’

  He did as instructed, but she wasn’t heading for the swing doors. Instead she turned towards a service corridor. At the end of it there was an open door into the main entrance hall.