State Of Emergency: (Tom Buckingham Thriller 3) (13 page)

They squeezed into the back behind a phalanx of cameras. Dick Allard from the
Telegraph
, a seasoned hack who’d seen eight home secretaries come and go, swivelled towards them as if his top half operated independently of the rest. ‘Shouldn’t you be up there, keeping him on a tight leash? Or
any
leash …’

Farmer gave him a bland, confident smile, hoping he looked as if he was in control and not like a child who’d been asked to walk a snarling bull terrier and accidentally let it loose in the playground. Allard’s infallible radar would almost certainly have detected that Rolt was uncontrollable, but Farmer did his best. ‘We’ve decided to let him have his head while he finds his feet.’

The journo gave him a withering look –
Is that the best you can come up with?
Still breathing heavily from the walk, Farmer knew that his excuse was crap but he was too knackered to think of anything better.

Beside him, Pippa glowed as if she’d just come from a spa. ‘Yes, that’s right, Dick. Not everyone constantly needs their hand holding. He’s the Real Thing, not some manufactured PR product.’ She smiled at Farmer.

Allard ignored her. He looked like a dog with a fresh bone. ‘You’re not going to get this genie back in the bottle – you do know that, don’t you, Derek?’ He looked at Farmer gleefully.

Farmer swallowed uncomfortably. The PM had wanted him to move over to Rolt’s office and keep a close eye, but he wasn’t about to give up his cushy place at Number Ten, not after all the work he’d put in to keep the bloody man in power. In any case, although he knew Rolt had saved their bacon, he had a nagging feeling that he was not only toxic but would soon have become a liability. He’d been in the game too long to fall for these populist ‘Trust me, I’m not a politician’ types, who always had to be paid off – or sacked, when they inevitably revealed their true nature. So he had offered the post to Pippa, sugaring the proposition with a juicy uplift in pay, but she’d reminded him wearily that she was going on maternity leave in a couple of months. That explained the tummy he’d been so careful not to mention. Bloody women – should have their eggs frozen before they came into these jobs, he thought. Or, better still, go back to the good old days when they could quite legally be let go. But his thoughts on that, like more and more of his thoughts these days, were best kept to himself. That was the difference between him and the likes of Rolt. He knew when to button it. And thus he would outlast them all.

So here they were, hurtling towards a live press conference, the country’s most controversial new politician on stage,
unspun
. Allard was sickeningly right. They had not only had no control over him but, given his popularity, they might never get him to sing from the same hymn sheet. Hell, he wasn’t even in the same church.

Rolt strode into the room to loud applause, waving and pointing at people in the crowd, like an American.

‘Who the fuck does he think he is? Bill Clinton?’ Farmer whispered.

‘And who are
they
?’ Pippa whispered back, nodding at a pair of heavy-set men with shaved heads who seemed to be with him.

Farmer peered at them. ‘Probably some muscle from Invicta.’

Not far behind, the precocious intern, Henry Mead, was looking very pleased with himself. Farmer nudged Pippa. ‘He’s thrilled, the poncy little prick.’

There was a ripple of applause, which Rolt silenced with a sweep of his hand. Now he seemed to think he was the Pope. Farmer was also dismayed at the way the man seemed never to show the tiniest trace of fatigue. What the hell was he on? He hopped onto the podium. He had no notes with him and there was no autocue.

Rolt waited for the crowd to fall silent. Then he began, his voice low. ‘First of all I want to thank the British public for giving me this opportunity to serve them.’ He turned and looked straight at the cameras. ‘From the bottom of my heart, I thank you. I will not let you down.’

‘Fucking hell,’ said Farmer, under his breath. ‘It’s like he thinks the entire bloody nation voted him in.’

‘They might as well have done. He knows we wouldn’t be back in if it wasn’t for him.’

‘And he’s not going to let us forget it.’ Farmer shifted his considerable weight onto his other foot; his shoes hurt and he was desperate to sit down.

‘“The world is a dangerous place to live in, not because of the people who are evil but because of the people who don’t do anything about it.” Albert Einstein said that, a Jewish refugee from Nazi Germany.’

Farmer leaned closer, brushing her ear with his mouth and causing her to back away a little. ‘In case he’s about to be accused of being a Nazi, that’s what that’s for,’ he whispered. But her attention was fixed on Rolt, along with the rest of the crowd’s.

‘There have been attempts to explain away the strife that has torn our country apart as the work of just a few extremists. Excuses have been made in the name of multiculturalism, calls for tolerance of different values, for broader minds. And where has it got us? That tolerance has merely allowed the open preaching of hatred. Words that are in direct conflict with democracy. Tolerance has not worked. And it stops here. Intolerance must be met with intolerance.’

His voice had risen several decibels, as if he was addressing a gang of tattooed men in the back room of a pub in Essex, not the world’s press.

‘They won’t like being preached at,’ whispered Farmer.

‘He doesn’t care about the press. He’s talking straight to the people at home.’

Farmer knew that, as was so often the case, she was right.

Rolt gripped the lectern, then moved dramatically to the side, as if symbolically rejecting the old texts. ‘To those who don’t like this country’s values I say, “Take your leave.” To those who have gone abroad to fight for extremist causes, I say, “Don’t bother to come back. You have forfeited your right to citizenship.” I’m here in front of you today to make a pledge that very soon this land will be rid of all those who are not patriots, who do not love this country with their hearts and souls. Be under no illusion, whoever negates their allegiance to this country with some faith or connection to evil values like these, not only are they not welcome, they will forfeit their right to British citizenship.’

He paused for a few seconds, nodding to the crowd.

‘Yes, it
is
that simple. And our country
will
once more be safe from terror. In the coming days and weeks I shall be devoting my time as your home secretary to piloting the legislation through Parliament that will end, once and for all, the right of individuals to live here, to enjoy Great Britain’s freedoms – not to mention its generous welfare provision – who do not support its values one hundred per cent.’

He turned to the cameras again.

‘And for any of you who are not willing to give your loyalty to this great nation of ours, and embrace its democratic values, I’ve got one simple message. Start packing.’

That was tomorrow’s headlines sorted, thought Farmer, as a mixture of awe and fear spread through him, prompting more sweat. The atmosphere in the room was electric. Every word was great copy and would be quoted verbatim, a veritable banquet of sound bites. How the fuck was the PM going to control the man?

He had to hand it to Rolt: he knew how to connect with an audience, right over the heads of a hall full of cynical hacks. But he wasn’t speaking like the new member of the government he now was. Allard was right. The genie was well and truly out. Be careful what you wish for, he thought as he leaned towards Pippa. ‘The PM’s going to love this – not.’

Pippa raised her neatly tweezered eyebrows. ‘Well, he’s made this particular bed, hasn’t he? He’ll have to lie in it.’

Farmer guffawed. ‘Yeah, with Rolt’s dick up his arse.’

She cringed.

Something about her head-girlish manner made him talk dirty – he couldn’t help it.

They watched as Rolt started to leave the stage, apparently not intending to take questions. But all the scribblers and TV reporters leaped to their feet, shouting and jostling with camera operators and photographers. Farmer felt a wave of relief as he saw that Rolt was not going to attempt to answer them, but then Allard got onto his chair and yelled above the cacophony: ‘Home Secretary, can you tell us what else happened in the early hours of this morning, after your victory?’

Somehow this question – completely out of the blue as far as Farmer was aware – penetrated the wall of sound and stopped Rolt dead in his tracks. The room fell silent. He looked straight at Allard, his mouth half open, as if lost for words.

‘What the fuck’s he on about?’ growled Farmer.

Rolt closed his mouth, then smiled. ‘What happened last night? I’ll tell you.’ His voice was almost a whisper. He stepped back into the centre of the stage. ‘An attempt on my life was what happened, the first shot in a war that I intend to win. Because, make no mistake,
we are at war
.’

He stood for a few more seconds as the cameras flashed, then stepped down.

The room erupted in a roar.

Farmer pressed his phone to his ear. The PM needed to know about this – if he hadn’t already seen it broadcast live and passed out from the shock.

Pippa was giving him a thunderous look. ‘What attempt on his life? What’s he talking about?’

Allard looked round at them and grinned broadly as the heavies who had accompanied Rolt cleared the way for him to quit the room. The swarm of media followed, waving microphones and mini-recorders while some of the TV reporters set up hurriedly to deliver breathless pieces to camera as their colleagues pushed past.

Farmer felt his face heating, his pulse racing. Right now a heart attack would be a mercy. His usual
sangfroid
had deserted him. He grabbed Allard by the shoulder. ‘Where did you get that?’

Allard smirked. ‘Just doing my job, Derek.’

Farmer was struggling. He couldn’t remember a time when he’d felt less in control.

23

20.30 local time
Turkish-Syrian border

The border was just as Hakim had described, except that it wasn’t deserted. Twenty metres from the wire, blocking his path, four or five people stood in a tight cluster, lit by the headlights of a small four-wheel-drive truck.

This is where it all goes wrong, Jamal thought. This is where I get recognized and sent back to Abukhan. Word could have spread about his disappearance. Their militia had links with other groups all over the north-west of the country. He was weak with hunger – he hadn’t eaten since early morning and was starting to feel light-headed, as well as numb with cold. But this new threat gave him a useful surge of adrenalin.

A woman was kneeling on the ground. Three men were standing around her, while a fourth, smaller, maybe a child, was trying to get her to stand. But she wouldn’t; he could see even at this distance she was hysterical.

There was no way of getting past them without being noticed. He could wait until whatever was happening played out. He was unarmed. He should keep his distance. But something about the scene compelled him to move closer. The woman on the ground in her hijab reminded him painfully of the girls that morning, their brief lives cut short by men who had no humanity.

In the truck, the driver was sitting at the wheel, smoking and gazing at his phone, showing no interest in the commotion. Jamal, screened from the group by the headlights, came alongside him. The driver glanced up at him, then returned to his screen. Jamal addressed him in Arabic.

‘What’s happening?’

The driver didn’t look up.
‘They want money.’

‘
For what?
’

‘They’re saying they want their cut for bringing her through the border.’

‘Did they?’

The driver gave him a look and returned to his phone.

‘
Are you with them?’

He shook his head.
‘I’m just the driver.’

She was talking very fast in what sounded like French. Although he couldn’t make out what she was saying, the emotion in her voice, the desperation, was only too clear. She was waving something in her hand, a small square. Reflections of the headlights bounced off it. As he came closer the group all turned to look at him, squinting through the headlight beams.

The woman waved at him and pointed at what he could now see was a photograph.

‘
Mon fils!
’ she cried. ‘
Je dois le voir
.’

The smaller figure tugging at her was a boy who could have been no more than eleven. They were both dark, Jamal guessed North African. He replied in French. ‘
Où est votre fils?
’

She was too distraught to answer.

He tried again in English. ‘Where is he?’

‘Hospital. Aleppo.’

He turned to the group. The men were all young, late teens. One was brandishing an AK, waving it around like a kid with a toy. They each had on thick padded gilets over their hoodies.

He addressed the gunslinger in Arabic. ‘
What’s the problem
?’

‘
Go away
.’

He waved the weapon at the path to the border, urging him to move on. Jamal could have gone through. The wire was just metres away. One of the gunslinger’s pals had opened the woman’s bag and was emptying the contents onto the ground, a pathetic scattering of a comb, two oranges, a piece of bread and a few banknotes, pushing the boy away as he tried to intervene.

‘They take my money – I cannot go, cannot pay driver. Please. My son!’

Jamal held out his hand and she passed him the photograph. He held it up in the truck’s headlamp beam. Étienne. Jamal recognized him instantly, even though the picture was a few years old. He had been in their platoon but had lost a foot to a landmine. The last he’d heard of him he was in an underground hospital somewhere outside Aleppo. When he looked again at the young boy and the mother there was no doubt. They were all so alike.

Jamal turned and walked a few paces back to the truck.