State Of Emergency: (Tom Buckingham Thriller 3) (14 page)

‘
Hey, get going
,’ the gunslinger yelled. Jamal ignored him. He and his pals were clearly preying on people coming through the border, taking whatever they could. He approached the driver.

‘
You armed?
’

The man shook his head, but Jamal could see the grip of a handgun sticking out from under the dash. ‘
Not my fight, this. But if she doesn’t pay me I’m not taking her
.’

Again, Jamal felt naked and useless without a weapon. The gunslinger was still waving his gun at Jamal, gesturing at the border.

‘
Get going, now.
’

Jamal turned back to the driver. ‘
You wait. Don’t go yet.
’

Jamal half raised his hands as he came back towards the group. ‘Okay, okay.’ He walked towards the gunman as if to go past him and on his way. But as he came alongside, with a lightning move he made a grab for the hand with the weapon. Gripping the barrel, he wrenched it upwards, twisting it sideways at the same time. He heard the forefinger crack but it squeezed the trigger. The round zinged past Jamal’s shoulder and just missed the other two who dived for cover. The woman let out a piercing scream but she wasn’t hit. Jamal’s instinct was to jump back but he overrode it, keeping his grip fast on the gun hand, twisting it with all the force he could muster, until the weapon came free. The gunslinger dropped to his knees, let out a long, shrill screech, more like a bird than a man, and curled into a ball clutching his broken hand.

The driver, seeing the commotion, fired up the truck. Jamal whirled round and faced him.

‘
No, you wait. You’re taking them.
’

He revved the engine, saw the weapon in Jamal’s hand and thought better of it. One of the gunslinger’s mates still had the woman’s bag in his hands. Jamal signalled to the boy to help his mother into the truck, then shouted to the other two: ‘
Pack that bag. Put everything back. And give it to me. Now!
’

The one holding the upturned bag was slow to move so Jamal stepped forward, pressed the muzzle hard against his left ear then fired a single shot above his head. Both of them bent down and scooped up the contents of the bag that were strewn over the track.

The boy was having trouble persuading his mother to get into the truck. She was still hysterical. ‘
Il a mon argent, tout!
’

Jamal turned back to the balled-up gunslinger. ‘
The money. All of it
.’

He didn’t move at first. Jamal fired another round that went between the two others. They fell on their injured leader, yanking out the wad of notes buried inside his hoodie, and passed it to Jamal. He waved the money so the driver could see it, then gave it to the boy. ‘Go now. Get away from here.’

The boy and his mother climbed into the truck. It took off at speed, the wheels kicking up a cloud of dust as the tyres scrabbled for grip, then bounced up the rutted track Jamal had just come down and disappeared into Syria. He didn’t much fancy her chances of finding Étienne. Perhaps the driver had some clout with the men at the roadblock, but how many more thieves would demand her money before she reached her son? The whole thing sickened him.

He had temporarily lost focus. Suddenly the two came at him, one holding a knife. He was not much older than Étienne’s little brother. A few seconds ago they’d been cowering. Now they seemed to have discovered some real balls. There was no alternative. Jamal aimed, and squeezed.

All he heard was the dead man’s click of the weapon firing off the action but with no round to strike because the mag was empty. They must have known how many rounds were left. Jamal feinted as the knife man closed in, flipped the AK so he gripped the muzzle, and smashed the butt into the side of his head. As he went down the knife flew out of his hand and disappeared into the darkness. The second man hesitated, just long enough for Jamal to repeat the action with the AK.

They were all down. Four months ago, he wouldn’t have had any idea what to do. Now out here alone, just a few metres from freedom, he eyed the three he had just felled, and realized with a shock how much in him had changed.

24

19.00
Piccadilly

Back at Jez’s flat, Tom ran a bath, put the iPad on the laundry basket and started to watch a replay of the press conference. He’d known the incident at the hotel would leak out one way or another and couldn’t help admiring the way Rolt had spun it. He’d let it run, not paying very close attention, until he noticed the two pumped-up security men standing to one side of the podium, almost off-screen. They weren’t from Invicta, that was for sure. They reminded him of the two heavies who had blocked his way to Rolt’s office that morning. He froze the image, then played it back several times and zoomed in on them, but the image broke up: the shot was too wide for him to be certain.

He searched through the hundreds of images of Rolt that had accumulated over the last few weeks of his campaign: visiting schools and hospitals, inspecting a street that had been virtually burned to the ground in riots, fending off a furious man in a white
jubbah
, being cheered by some old ladies and at several photo opportunities with the prime minister, who was doing his best to make it appear as if Rolt was his oldest pal. Phoebe was in several of the pictures, looking for all the world like the ideal politician’s wife.

He dialled her number.

She sounded upbeat. ‘I got hold of Heron. He’s a real craftsman all right – thousand-quid toy chests, presentation caskets, that sort of thing.’

‘Good. Any ornamental sabres?’

‘Interesting. He wasn’t about to divulge his client list but I charmed one name out of him. He’s made several for the same customer.’

‘And they are …?’

‘Superior Swords, of Hatton Garden.’

‘Keep going.’

‘Ah, well, there it gets a bit tricky. They don’t disclose any data for reasons of commercial sensitivity, blah blah blah, so I had to get the techies to hack their bank account. I found five listed as Crimean Ceremonials. So, made for a company, not a person. Anyway, I pressed on. Are you bored yet?’

‘Far from it.’ This was Phoebe at her best.

‘So the company that commissioned the daggers, or whatever they are, is UA Holdings. Just a property business, nothing odd or unusual about it at first sight.’

‘Except?’

‘It’s registered in the Bahamas, one of a number of firms belonging to an umbrella company, which also owns Lancaster Media.’

‘Surprise me.’

‘Ultimate owners of
Newsday
.’

‘Any other parties connected with the company, preferably with the first name Oleg?’

‘It’s all privately owned and that’s as far as I got.’ She was starting to tire of his torrent of questions.

‘Okay, thanks. You get some rest.’

Having established that she was going away for the night, to visit an old friend, Tom reassured himself that she was safe for the moment and sank down in the water. He was no nearer to knowing who ‘Oleg’ was – but at least he now had another line of attack.

For the second time, he Googled Xenia Dalton. At one red-carpet event, the London première of a Hollywood blockbuster, she was standing just behind the prime minister: the same striking face, but more serious this time, the only woman there not hoping to get in front of the paparazzi. He zoomed in closer. She was beautiful in an understated way, with the sort of face that needed no makeup. He searched for more shots and found one of her being introduced to a royal. The only others showed her at a Crimean school surrounded by kids, opening an orphanage with an unpronounceable name, and at various functions – with no obvious man in tow, he noted. Finally there was one, from a couple of years ago, of her collecting an award from Amnesty International with Helen, the
Newsday
reporter who had tried to make a date with him that morning. Not a likely event for a supporter of Rolt to attend.

He searched the digital edition. Rolt wasn’t the main story: he had second billing to an item about the mass execution of a group of schoolgirls in Syria – more fuel for the new home secretary to pour on the already incendiary situation. He made one more search, for any commentary about the paper itself, and found nothing except a small piece in the
Guardian’
s media section from some weeks before:
Newsday Veers Right
, remarking on the paper’s surprise endorsement of Rolt. Underneath the piece was a profile of the recently appointed editor, a man named McCloud. Tom clicked off and placed the iPad on the chair next to the bath.

He was hoping to have the flat to himself for the evening, just to chill, get his head together after the day’s activities and catch up on some much-needed sleep. The water was deliciously warm. The lack of sleep caught up with him and seconds later he was gone.

He woke with a jolt when he heard the front door slam. He must have been out for a good half-hour as the bath had cooled considerably. He flicked the hot tap on with his big toe. He could hear Jez and another voice – a woman giggling, followed by Jez’s loud gusts of mirth. With a bit of luck they’d be gone in a few minutes.

But then the bathroom door was edged open.

‘Ah, er, Tom? You there?’ There was a note of hesitation in Jez’s voice.

‘Who were you expecting? Goldilocks?’

Jez slipped in and closed the bathroom door, swaying slightly, his eyes shiny from drink. ‘So, ah, good day?’

Jez never asked how his day was. ‘Ripping, thanks. How was yours?’

‘Oh, you know. Same old.’ He perched on the edge of the bath. Something was on his mind. ‘Look, I know you’re probably looking forward to a night in, but …’

Tom extracted a hand from the water and signalled for him to stop. ‘Say no more.’

It was his flat. What could you do?

‘Thanks, mate, you’re a trooper. Can you sort something out?’

‘Yeah, sure.’ Tom stood up and reached for his towel.

‘And have you got any, erm …?’

‘In the bedside drawer.’

‘Cheers. I owe you one. Or maybe more, if I get really lucky.’

Tom was too distracted to pretend to laugh. He mulled over his options. Although he was knackered he also felt restless: the day had brought no solutions, only new questions, and he was impatient for answers. Even the meeting with his father, which should have been a relaxing interlude, had left him edgy.

He picked up the iPad and looked again at the images of Xenia Dalton, in particular the one of her accepting the award with Helen.

In one of his pockets he found the card she had given him and dialled her number.

‘Hi, it’s Tom Buckingham.’

‘Tom! I’d given up hope.’ She sounded thrilled.

‘Never give up hope.’

‘It’s been mental since the press conference. The assassination attempt, anything you can tell me?’

‘You don’t let up, do you?’

‘It’s what I’m programmed to do. So, where do you fancy? Hawksmoor? Dukes? Nando’s …?’

He pretended to think for a few seconds. ‘Actually, I have another suggestion.’

‘Ye-es?’

He could almost hear her clothes loosening themselves down the line. ‘What’s your publisher doing tonight?’

It was not the suggestion she’d had in mind. ‘Hosting a reception for one of her charities. Why?’

‘I could make a donation.’

There was more than a hint of wariness in her voice: ‘It’s invitation only, far as I know.’

‘I could help you out with what happened last night.’

‘People can’t just drop into her place on a whim. She’s very private.’

‘We could look in, say hello, then go on somewhere more exciting where I can fill you in on Rolt’s dirty secrets.’

Another silence. He pressed on: ‘You collected that Amnesty award together. It was a great dress by the way.’ Maybe flattery would get him somewhere.

She gave a sigh of capitulation. ‘Okay, I’ll see what she says.’

‘And then you can take me to dinner and ask me anything you like about Rolt.’

‘And if I’ve lost interest in him by then?’

‘We’ll try to think of some other way to pass the time.’

She laughed. ‘All right, leave it with me. I’ll come by in a cab about eight. Give me your address.’

‘No, I’ll drive you. I don’t fancy going anywhere by cab in this weather.’

She lived in one of the new buildings behind Paddington station, overlooking the canal.

25

He shaved and dressed, ignoring the drunken giggling emanating from the kitchen. On his way out he nodded to Jez and his date, who raised her glass. With a bit of luck she’d be too far gone to notice Jez’s dilapidated boxers.

He took the lift down to the car park in the bowels of the building and fired up the Range Rover. Even in ultra low gear with the differential lock on, the car twitched and slithered as it struggled to gain traction on the frozen ramp. On Piccadilly, a sightseeing bus had evidently skidded and broadsided opposite the Ritz, at the junction with Berkeley Street: a gaggle of excited Japanese tourists were photographing each other in front of it while their chaperone urged them in the direction of Fortnum & Mason, perhaps for some restorative shopping. Tom mounted the pavement and steered round the chaos towards Hyde Park Corner.

He drove as fast as the conditions allowed, which was not very. More snow had fallen and frozen, which had frightened all but the most intrepid or reckless off the roads. He had to thread his way slowly between several abandoned cars along Park Lane, and at Marble Arch a bus on fire. The area was swarming with emergency services, and the yellowish flames looked unreal in the almost monochrome surroundings, like a special effect at the storyboard stage.

He called her from outside her flat and a minute later she was picking her way across the icy pavement in a pair of totally inappropriate high heels. He jumped out, opened the passenger door and helped her across a puddle of slush on the pavement.

‘Such a gentleman.’ She was swathed in a silver grey fox-fur coat and a matching hat. ‘A present from Xenia. I have to tell everyone it’s fake.’ She lowered her voice guiltily. ‘But it’s actually
real
!’ She got in, revealing a glimpse of bodycon dress in something shimmery and blue. ‘I hope it doesn’t change your view of me. Morally.’