State Of Emergency: (Tom Buckingham Thriller 3) (16 page)

Helen disappeared back through the doors into the crowd.

Xenia put her head on one side and eyed him, frowning. ‘So, why did you want to meet me?’ Her English was completely fluent with only a hint of an accent.

He sat down on the sofa at a polite distance, about a dining table’s length away. ‘Oh, curiosity, mainly.’ He gave her a winning smile, which she didn’t return.

‘I hear you watch Vernon Rolt’s back most assiduously.’

Tom smiled at the compliment with more restraint this time. ‘Do you know him well?’

‘I know who
you
are. That you were thrown out of the SAS after an incident in Afghanistan and joined Invicta on the rebound.’

She’d completely sidestepped the question, which only made her more intriguing to Tom.

‘Yeah, that’s about right.’ Well, it was, sort of.

‘Are you one of those troublesome men who don’t like to take orders?’

‘I’m really quite obedient when the mood takes me.’

‘And what does it involve, working for Vernon Rolt?’

‘Nothing very thrilling. I’m a sort of glorified minder, really.’

‘Don’t be so modest. Surely you don’t let all that expensive training go to waste.’

‘Let’s just say I help anticipate risks and … handle them. Try to keep him out of trouble.’

Her eyes widened. Was she sizing him up as a potential conquest, or something else? She already had more than enough muscle around the place.

He nodded at the copies of
Newsday
arranged on the table. ‘It’s done wonders for his campaign, all the space you’ve given him.’

She shrugged, as if she was barely aware of it. The paper she owned had gone all out to get him elected, and had greeted his appointment to the cabinet with undisguised euphoria. Her lack of interest was baffling. ‘Sometimes one has to stoop a bit to keep the circulation up. My views aren’t necessarily those of the editor.’

He smiled. ‘Yes, I met him.’

A blank look from her. ‘Do you doubt my sincerity, Mr Buckingham?’

‘Tom. Not at all. It’s just a surprise that you backed Rolt, yet you also win awards from Amnesty. How do you square that?’

‘Newspapers are a business, human rights aren’t. One pays so I can invest in the other.’

‘Those men out there don’t look like they go much on human rights.’

She ignored the comment, reached forward and spread out the front page about the murder of the girls in Syria. ‘A freelance journalist I hired risked her life to get us this story. We’re waiting for news of her. Forgive me if I seem a little preoccupied.’

‘Dangerous place, particularly for a woman,’ said Tom.

‘You disapprove?’

‘Good God, no. How else would we find out about these things?’

She nodded approvingly. ‘Well, I’m glad we agree on one thing. And the more papers I sell, the more I can finance reporting like this.’

‘So backing Rolt was all about circulation?’

She gazed into the darkness. The lights of the city were dulled by the heavy cloud that had descended. ‘Sometimes, in order to survive, one has to make compromises. The challenge is to remain true to oneself in the process, and over time that can get harder. I think we both know what I mean, Mr Buckingham.’

Tom looked at her. Another time he would have come on a lot stronger. Quite where he had got to in terms of remaining true to himself was a question he had been avoiding for some time. The way she looked at him, with her eyes very slightly narrowed, was both seductive and threatening. He certainly did understand. Every day, working for Rolt while under cover, he was grappling with the same thing. But he also sensed that she was sending him a signal, that there was more she wanted to say but something was stopping her.

‘I’ve lived in this country since I was eighteen.’

So, a change of subject.

‘Why did you leave the Crimea?’

She seemed surprised at the question. ‘The death of my father. We were very close.’

‘And your mother, is she here?’

‘She took her own life. Things became too much for her.’

‘But you got out.’

She blinked. ‘In a sense.’

She lit a cigarette, and blew smoke high into the air.

‘It was love at first sight. So I stayed.’

‘For your husband?’

‘No – that was a childish crush that didn’t last. For England. There are things about this country that are more precious than – than life itself.’ She spoke with unexpected vehemence.

‘Like what?’

‘Freedom. Tolerance.’

Tom snorted. ‘Doesn’t feel as though there’s a lot of either around right now.’

No response. She continued to gaze into the distance. Was his time up already? He pressed on: ‘Is that why you have so much security? In case the masses rise up?’

She shook her head slowly. ‘I have nothing to fear from the British.’

‘Why did you agree to see me so readily? Helen said I should be honoured.’

A trace of a smile. ‘I was interested to know more about Mr Rolt’s plans.’

Tom frowned. ‘Plans?’

‘What he’s preparing to do next.’ She gave him what seemed to be a knowing look.

The only problem was he had no idea what she was talking about. ‘Well, I suppose that’s a matter for him to work out with the prime minister.’

She had leaned slightly closer, as if searching his expression for some other meaning. ‘And do you think he’s going to be able to satisfy his backers that way?’

‘You mean Invicta?’

She shrugged. ‘Maybe you are sworn to secrecy. Honour prevents you being candid.’

There was more than a hint of sarcasm in her voice. Tom was mystified. ‘Is there something you think I should know?’

She looked away to the darkness outside. She was just as alluring from the side.

Damn. He wasn’t about to give up yet. ‘Rolt had a visitor from your part of the world this morning. I didn’t get to meet him. Oleg, I think was his name. Left a nice present.’

One of the guards who had been by the door stepped into the room, approached and whispered in her ear, then waited for her response. She waved him away. ‘
Ckopo
. In a minute,’ she hissed.

He seemed reluctant to go. Tom detected a distinct lack of deference. He gave the guard a cold stare, which was met with an insolent smirk.

Helen reappeared with another guard behind her. Xenia got to her feet. ‘I’ll leave you to your date. It was nice to meet you, Mr Buckingham. Keep looking out for your boss.’

She gave him her professional smile and offered her hand. He took it, felt its chill.

27

‘How was that for you?’ Helen steered him through the crowd towards the door.

‘I’m not sure. The security need to learn some deference.’

She rolled her eyes.

‘She seemed quite distracted.’

‘She’s worried about what happened in Aleppo. I mean, as well as those poor girls – the reporter’s one of her oldest friends.’

He surveyed the crowd of suits, who were starting to move into another room. ‘What’s happening? Is Xenia going to talk to them?’

One of the guards approached Helen as if to hurry her towards the exit. Tom gave him a cold stare. Another guard joined him. The message was clear.

‘Who’s Oleg?’ he asked her, as they headed out of the room. Helen gave a small sigh, as if she wanted to be done with talking about Xenia.

‘I really have no idea.’

They ate at Hawksmoor. He ordered a T-bone that was just slightly smaller than the table. She had the turbot – with chips, which at least put her ahead of those tedious women who only ever ate salad. She was amusing, attentive and chatty, which was just as well since he was preoccupied by the conversation with Xenia. What did she know about Rolt that he didn’t? Had he missed something, or had Phoebe? He had gone in search of answers and come away with even more questions.

When the bill arrived it was past midnight. Her flat was a treacherous two miles away through the slush. His was nearby …

But he would have to break it to her that he was too tired for anything. Maybe, if she stayed, he could make it up to her in the morning.

In the lift, she leaned against him and put her face up to be kissed. The doors opened, letting him off having to decide. He felt for his keys. With a bit of luck Jez and whatever her name was would be safely tucked away in the other room, releasing him from any social niceties. He unlatched the front door and they stepped into the hall. She made a move to kiss him again, then froze, her mouth open. He whirled round to see what she was looking at, as her hand shot up to cover her mouth. She turned white, doubled over and crumpled to her knees. Jez’s bedroom door was open.

Now he saw the sprays of blood, such an unimaginable amount that it looked as if someone had chucked a bucket of it up the headboard and the wall. On the bed, Jez was face down, the back of his head blown clean away. Brain tissue spattered the pillow and the duvet. The woman was on her back, still half under him, her eyes wide open, with a glazed look of dismay, an entry wound on the right-hand side of her neck. Whoever had done it had been there only moments before. Or, Tom realized, his mind racing, could be still in the flat. Helen clung to him, trembling. He gripped her, then lifted her into the bedroom – the only place he could be sure was safe.

‘Stay there.’ He moved further inside. As he approached the woman, checking the carpet and bed for any empty shell cases, her eyes opened very wide. She wasn’t dead – but soon would be. There was nothing he could do, but he went forward, and as her horrified gaze met his she raised a hand as if to stop him. Her mouth moved silently, then the hand flopped down and the little light left in her eyes went out. He wheeled round, grabbed Helen by the arm from behind the door where she had hidden, and pulled her into the room. She collapsed onto the floor beside the bed.

Helen was frozen with fear, holding her breath, probably ready to scream the building down. He gripped her tight and pressed his lips to her ear. ‘Breathe out. Slowly.’

Nothing happened.

He looked at her hard. This was no time for pleasantries. ‘Do it,’ he hissed.

She nodded, and did as she was told.

‘Good. Now, get under the bed. No matter what happens, do not move.’

‘What?’

‘Now.’

‘I’m claustrophobic.’

Tom gestured at the bodies, still scanning the floor for any empty cases. ‘Whoever did this may still be here.’

She got the message. He pushed her down and she wriggled out of sight.

There were no empty cases, which meant one of two things. If the weapon was a semi-automatic the shooter was being professional and had picked them up so there would be no forensics. But after what Tom had just witnessed, the shooter didn’t appear to be that switched on. So the weapon might be a revolver, the professional killer’s preferred choice because the empty cases stay in the chamber. So, a professional’s weapon in an amateur’s hands?

There was a reading light on the bedside table. He grabbed it, smashed the bulb and plunged the exposed wires into a tumbler of water. There was a loud electrical pop, a flash, then darkness. That was the lights dealt with. Nothing now but the dull orange from the streetlights below. He moved back towards the door and listened.

Jez’s bedroom was opposite the front door. The hall ran to the left, with the door to the smaller bedroom, Tom’s, on the same side as Jez’s. Opposite that was the kitchen and, next to it, the bathroom. He had to be in there, unless he’d legged it down the fire escape outside the kitchen window.

Tom had about half a second to come up with a plan. He had left his weapon locked in the safe in his room – he’d assumed he wouldn’t need it on a date. Jez, he was pretty certain, didn’t keep one.

Still crouching in the doorway to Jez’s room, he picked up a small carriage clock that was perched on a side table and chucked it down the hall. It made a solid clunk outside the three closed doors.

Straight away, two suppressed rounds slammed into the kitchen door, which told him the shooter was in the second bedroom, and that he was the type who would shoot before he looked. Tom listened out for the metallic clink of empty cases making contact with the floor. It didn’t necessarily mean the weapon was a revolver, but it was another piece of information he would use to bring this shit to an end. One way or the other.

He picked up the table and chucked it in the same direction as the clock.

Another two rounds joined the first two in the kitchen door. With the two in Jez and his ladyfriend, that made six.

Tom picked up an umbrella leaning in the corner behind the front door, a classic old-fashioned one with a curved wooden handle. Then he opened the front door and slammed it so the shooter might think they had left. It was an old trick but better than nothing as he moved down the corridor. He was about to find out if the weapon was a revolver and the shooter had run out of rounds.

Shooting through the door was speculative. Whoever was firing wasn’t a class act. They had given away their position. If Tom had been in the same situation he would have fired only when he had a clear target. That didn’t make his opponent any less dangerous but it did give him more options as he flattened himself against the wall and edged towards his room.

The only other way out of that bedroom was through the window into the air shaft, with a three-storey drop. The drainpipes were too far from the window to reach unless the shooter was Spiderman. His only viable escape was past Tom to the front door. In the murk he saw the hazy shape of a head lean out. Just visible were the eye and mouth holes of a balaclava. Tom had the umbrella ready, holding it horizontally, at head height, parallel to the wall. He jabbed hard and almost got it into one of the eye-holes. The shooter yelped, crumpled and fired. The bullet passed Tom’s temple so close he felt the air as he ducked. He had to stop another round heading his way. He threw himself onto the dark shape and they both went down, flailing in the darkness. Tom found the arm with the weapon at the end of it and snapped it back hard as a fist smashed into his left ear, then fingers clawed at his nose and eyes. Tom rolled them both over so he was on top but a head butt right on the bridge of his nose lost him a second and the shooter was up again, the pistol still in his now useless right hand. Tom lunged for him but the man dodged and fell into Jez’s bedroom, landing half on the bed.