by Andy McNab
He heard the steps about ten metres behind. At first it felt like a good sound, that he wasn’t alone on these deserted streets. The cops had the place on lockdown so surely there was no need for alarm.
But an unmistakable clack clack said the steps were boots with metal tips. A sound that, as a kid, he had read as a warning: trouble.
‘Hey, it’s Kovacevic the Arsehole.’
His first thought was to ignore it. But that word, one he had hoped never to be called again, meant he had been recognized. And he knew from the voice who it was. The steps quickened; he felt a hand on his arm, breathed the smell of alcohol and weed. The street was deserted, with no sign of the police van that had been at the bottom of the hill. Right. He stopped and turned.
There was a look of furious indignation on Dink’s face. He was still small, but he had filled out, a mixture of workouts, steroids and making up for all the calories he’d missed out on as a kid. His pink shaven head seemed to rise out of his tattooed shoulders like a plug amid the flesh and muscle, his features crowded into the middle of his face, as if they’d been grafted on from a much smaller head. His disconcertingly full, feminine lips parted and Sam saw the straight white teeth of a man with money to burn on dentistry, and the ability to manage a drug habit, a sure sign that he had got where he wanted to be.
‘What’s in the bag, Arsehole?’
Although he was three years younger – in the same year as Karza – age had never inhibited Dink from taking on his elders. He had two others with him, half a foot taller at least, heavily muscled, their heads identically shaved. One had no eyebrows, which gave him a misleadingly babyish appearance. The other had an unusually narrow skull and slightly sloping eyes, more likely a legacy of foetal alcohol syndrome than any exotic ancestry.
‘I asked yer a question, Paki.’
Indignation rose in Sam like acid. ‘I’m not a Pakistani.’
Dink’s approach to racial profiling: anyone who wasn’t pure white like him simply shouldn’t exist. His eyes blazed. He jabbed Sam in the chest. ‘You’re all Pakis to me, you Paki fuck.’
‘Okay, whatever.’
Sam knew Dink’s story – in fact, he had thought of him when he was preparing his last lecture, ‘The Gang as Family’. A textbook example of what he’d termed ‘Son of McDad’, the product of a ‘domestic void’, the child whose father only shows up from time to time to take the kids to McDonald’s, the mother on benefits, a stream of adult males through the home treating it like it was theirs, and Mum telling him to piss off out when she had company. The child, neglected and constantly out on the streets, falls prey to the gang, who brutalize him, then test him with tasks – at first relatively trivial, such as a mugging, then increasingly violent. As they absorb him, they put him to work, teach him how to steal, how to threaten, how to be feared. He gets respect, status. It’s addictive, like the stuff they’re dealing. The gang becomes his family, their values his.
Dink had done well. The teeth said it all. As the older members were picked off – killed or maimed or sent to jail – he had risen through the ranks until he was number one. Respected, feared and rich, everything he wanted out of life.
But right now, all of Sam’s insight counted for shit.
Dink snatched his bag.
‘Please – careful.’ Sam’s voice sounded more officious than he meant it to, a habit Helen had reminded him to check. Dink pulled out his conference ID.
‘Whooo! Doctor Arsehole!’
Sam was twelve again, hurrying back to do his homework, Dink and his posse blocking the pavement, his satchel grabbed, the precious textbooks emptied onto a waiting heap of dog shit. Only this time it was his brand-new MacBook Air.
‘All my work’s in that.’
Dink smoothed his hand over the surface of the lid, then flipped it open. ‘We’ll look after it, don’t worry.’
He passed it to one of the henchmen.
‘Now fuck off where you came from, Paki. You’re trespassing.’
‘Come on, this is my street.’
Dink stepped back in mock horror. ‘“My street”, is it now? Next it’ll be “my country”.’ He looked at his henchmen, who arranged their pudgy features into expressions of dismay. He waved a tattooed hand at the smashed shops. ‘Your lot started this. Who’s gonna clear it all up?’
‘My “lot”?’
‘All you Paki Muslim cunts gotta go back where you came from. It’s over, mate. You’ve had your fun.’ He nodded at the henchmen who each grabbed one of his arms while Dink patted him down, then pulled out his wallet. It flapped open, revealing the picture of Helen.
Dink’s eyes bulged with indignation. ‘You dirty Paki fucker.’ Dink flashed the picture at his mates, shaking his head with theatrical sweeps. ‘Big mistake, Arsehole. Big mistake.’
Sam was terrified and confused. This time indignation and rage overcame his fear. ‘Fuck you!’
Dink’s features seemed to crowd even further into the middle of his face. Then he grinned and put his mouth close to Sam’s ear. ‘Anyone doing the fucking, it’s gonna be me. Pakis fucking white women should know what they got coming from Dink.’ He pressed himself closer, the smell of the various intoxicants rising from him, thrust his hands into Sam’s pockets and pulled out his mother’s keys. He dangled them from his little finger. The flat was only a few metres away. ‘Is Mummy home?’
He shook his head. That much he was grateful for.
Dink reached into his pocket, pulled out a bunch of surgical gloves and gave a pair to each of his mates. ‘Then it’ll just be us chickens.’
32
He had no idea what time it was. Daylight streamed in through the kitchen window, which seemed to loom above him at an unfamiliar angle. His eyes widened as he realized where he was. There was a strong smell of piss and alcohol. He glanced at the floor. The lower half of his body felt cold. And wet. He looked at himself. He was naked from the waist down, his linen trousers round his ankles. With a jolt, it came back. As he moved, pain flashed between his buttocks. He turned his head and vomited.
He dragged up his pants and trousers, felt the pockets. His phone was gone. Then he remembered the laptop. Ignoring the pain now, he pushed himself up to a sitting position, pulled on his clothes. The fridge door yawned open. In the pool of water in front of it his bag and wallet lay open and face down. His cards were still there but the cash was gone. The bag was empty, the laptop gone. Using the table he had once sat at to do his homework, he hauled himself up, then slowly sat in a chair.
Then he remembered Nasima. She couldn’t see him like this. He got to his feet and saw himself in the mirror, his face bruised and bloody. Then he noticed the clock on the oven. It was seven a.m. He must have missed her – or maybe she hadn’t come, after all.
He threw himself into a frenzy of activity, clearing up the kitchen, mopping the floor. He stripped off his clothes and threw them into the bin. In Karza’s room he found a pair of jeans, a T-shirt and a hoodie. They would have to do. In the bathroom he did what he could to clean up his face, but tears of rage blurred his vision. When the doorbell rang he jumped.
‘Who is it?’
It was Nasima. He opened the door and her mouth dropped open. ‘What happened?’
‘What does it look like?’
He shut the door quickly and showed her upstairs, steering her towards the front room.
‘Who did this?’
‘Thugs.’
‘Whites?’
Waves of shame and embarrassment welled in him. He couldn’t hide it. His humiliation was complete. She stood in the kitchen and surveyed the scene. Then she came towards him and embraced him. He resisted at first, then gave in, put his head on her shoulder and cried.
‘Fucking bastards. Fucking white fascist bastards!’
She soothed him. ‘It’s okay, you’re safe now.’
He pulled back. ‘Safe? That’s about the last thing I feel.’
That he had been singled out made a mockery of all hi
s years of trying to blend in. But she held on to him. ‘For what it’s worth, I know just how you feel, believe me.’
Her words calmed him. He felt less alone. She sat him down and made him a cup of tea. Then she sat opposite and held his hand while he sipped. He tried not to catch her eye but when he did he saw how different she looked. She had lost the reserve she had shown when they first met.
‘I’m sorry I couldn’t come last night – I got waylaid.’
‘Maybe it’s just as well. You might have got caught up in this – this …’ He let out another anguished sob. ‘I hate you to see me like this.’
She smiled. ‘I saw you on the TV.’ She leaned closer. ‘You were very good. Does that mean you’ll be meeting members of the government?’
He snorted. ‘I had a breakfast meeting with the home secretary. Now look at me!’
‘No one need know. Don’t give them the satisfaction of seeing your pain. Don’t give up on what you’re doing.’
He shivered at the thought of his words about restraint and the need for perspective. ‘Well, I don’t expect you to agree with any of it.’
‘You put your points very convincingly. I believe you’re sincere.’
‘I just want to make a difference.’
‘Maybe you haven’t found the right kind of difference yet.’
‘What do you mean?’
She smiled and reached for his face. Her touch was soothing. ‘Let’s not have this discussion now.’
‘What about Karza? Do you know any more?’
She put her hands into her lap. ‘Well, we’ve made contact with the group he’s with. He is alive, that’s been confirmed.’
He felt a huge rush of relief. ‘So he’s safe?’
‘Well, no one is safe in Syria right now.’
‘Of course – stupid.’
She laughed. ‘I can see you’re new to all this.’
‘So you might be able to get him back?’
‘It’s not as simple as that. We’ve yet to make direct contact. MI6 monitor all emails and Twitter feeds now so the fighters have gone quiet. I should know more in a few days.’
Sam felt a twinge of irritation. ‘So you asked me to come up here just to tell me you might know more?’
She focused on the cut on his cheek. ‘You’re bleeding again. I’ll sort that out.’
In the bathroom she dabbed the wound with a piece of lint. Her bag seemed to contain a substantial medical kit.
‘You came well prepared.’
‘Well, I am a doctor, and I do work for a medical charity.’
She produced a small plaster, unwrapped it and applied it to his cheek. ‘I hope that’s better.’ She bit her lip and dropped her eyes, but her fingers lingered on his face. ‘There’s a favour I wanted to ask.’
‘Name it. After all you’re doing for me it’s the least I can do.’
‘It’s a big favour.’
‘Well, go on.’
‘You saw we’re closing down here. I have to come to London, but I don’t really know anyone there and I was wondering if you had a spare room where you could put me up.’ She gave a small laugh.
‘Well, I’m staying at a friend’s myself.’
She gazed at him. Her whole persona, so cool and reserved when he had first encountered her, had softened. Her eyes were wider, her lips slightly parted. Then she looked away. ‘I’m sorry, it was inappropriate …’
‘No!’ He felt a surge of pleasure at her attention. Helen suddenly seemed like a world away. ‘I’d be happy to help.’
33
Victoria, London
From the edge of St James’s Park, Tom had a clear view of Invicta’s headquarters, and the Bentley parked outside. He hadn’t got back to Rolt yet. He wanted more time and he needed some answers, some that the boss of Invicta couldn’t give.
Once Rolt had left the office with Jackman, Tom approached the door. The police waved him away.
‘Closed for the day, sorry.’
‘I left my glasses here yesterday – just wanted to pick them up.’
‘Okay, ask at the desk.’
Inside, the receptionist made a call to Phoebe. ‘She’ll be down in a minute.’
Tom settled himself in one of the big leather armchairs and picked up the Evening Standard. Rolt had made the front page.
Invicta Founder: ‘Send Them Back.’
Before he could read on Phoebe appeared at the top of the stairs, wearing a big smile.
‘So how was your visit to the campus?’ She took her time descending, her skirt swaying compellingly as she moved. Her hair looked as if she’d given it a quick brush before she left her post.
‘Nice of you to ask. A learning experience. Your boss has quite a thing going on up there.’
She reached the bottom of the stairs. Tom noticed his gaze was starting to make her feel self-conscious. She gave a small, very attractive laugh. ‘Is there something I can help with?’
Tom pretended to look blank. ‘Oh, yes – I thought I’d left some glasses here but then I remembered I don’t wear any.’
She gave him a mock-scolding look and laughed again, her eyes shining seductively. If he hadn’t been so preoccupied he would have had to admit he was powerfully attracted.
‘I’m staying at my father’s club. I wondered if you’d like to join me for a drink.’
She put on an apologetic face. ‘I’ve got something on.’
‘Vernon’s offered me an assignment. To be honest, I’m in two minds. Thought you might give me the lowdown on working for him.’ The work angle should swing it, he calculated, and as she hesitated, he gave her one of his trademark looks, designed to melt the most obstinate woman at fifty paces.
She lifted a stray strand of hair and tucked it behind her ear. ‘I’ll make a call.’
Job done. He watched her go back up, taking in all her movements. A few seconds later she reappeared at the top of the stairs, tapping something into her phone. She dropped it into her bag as she came down.
‘Who did you have to put off?’
‘Oh, a girlfriend. It’s not a problem.’
‘Not a boyfriend, then.’
She frowned slightly. ‘As it happens, no.’
‘Sorry, just being nosy, forgive me.’
‘I’ll let it go this time.’
Formality was slipping away. He needed her nice and relaxed to maximize the element of surprise.
He turned into the street and gently took her elbow as he steered her through the traffic. ‘Your boss is a very persuasive man.’
She nodded eagerly. ‘I’ll say. He really motivates people.’
‘You enjoy the job?’
‘Oh, yes, very much but it pretty much takes over my life.’
‘Judging by the headlines, you’ll be having to work even harder now.’
‘It looks like it.’
The doorman greeted them as they entered the club and climbed the stairs to the foyer. Tom hoped his father wasn’t around: the last thing he needed was parental disapproval of his chatting up another woman behind Delphine’s back. He guided her to what had been called the smoking room, then to a table in the darkest corner. ‘They do a particularly mean mojito here.’
‘I’ll have a lime soda …’ She sighed. ‘Oh, all right.’ She grinned guiltily. She was good, thought Tom, but not too good.
He summoned a waiter, who took their order, then leaned forward and gave her all his attention. ‘You must forgive me for seeming so forward but I’ve been away in the most godforsaken place, surrounded by hairy, perspiring males with varying standards of hygiene, on a military base totally devoid of any beauty.’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘So you’ve got me here under false pretences. I thought this was strictly business.’
‘I’ve always had difficulty finding the line between where business ends and pleasure begins.’
Tiny movements around her eyes suggested to Tom that she was torn between attraction and wariness. Fair enough, he thought. Sh
e has no idea what’s coming.
‘But I really do want to talk about the amazing Mr Rolt. He’s shown his hand with that interview. I expect your life’s about to get a lot more complicated, as a result.’
The waiter arrived with the drinks. Phoebe took a tiny sip and sat back in her chair. ‘It’s been relentless today. He’s going to get a lot of flak but he’s very resilient.’
‘Are you a big fan of his views?’
She seemed taken aback by the question.
‘It doesn’t take much to see what he’s saying adds up to a pretty extreme position.’
‘He’s never said he has any personal political ambitions.’
She hadn’t answered the question but he let it go for now. He picked up his glass. ‘What shall we drink to?’
She grinned at him, waiting for him to choose.
‘To Invicta? And all who sail in her!’
‘To Invicta.’
They each took a sip.
‘That’s better.’ He resumed his probing. ‘Rolt does seem to have taken control of the political agenda. The government must be reeling. He’s just come out and said what half of them think but are too scared to admit in public for fear of being labelled racist. How long have you worked for him?’
The question tacked on to the end of his speech seemed to take her by surprise. ‘Oh, not long. Only a few months.’
‘And before that?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘A stint for the MoD press office, then an attempt to be a freelance journalist, God help me.’
Her answer had slipped out too easily, Tom thought. He took another sip of his mojito while she made an attempt to deflect the conversation from her. ‘So what’s he offered you?’
‘Oh, a sort of envoy role.’
‘Gosh, wow.’
Her excitement seemed out of proportion.
‘I thought you would have known that.’
She shrugged. ‘He keeps his cards very close to his chest.’
‘He’s been very open with me.’
‘He makes up his mind about people very quickly. Everyone’s either friend or foe. Nothing in between. I’m sure you made the right impression. Besides, he’s been looking for someone like you for a while.’