State Of Emergency: (Tom Buckingham Thriller 3) (31 page)

‘What do you know about Isham al Aziz?’ she asked.

Latimer shrugged.

‘Let me fill you in. He and Jamal are cut from very different cloth, and not just because Isham’s a white convert. At the time of his arrest he was in the midst of assembling a suicide vest in a garage full of hydrogen peroxide and didn’t appear to be running a hairdresser’s, so he was bang to rights. But he still tried to make the most of his day in court to denounce the government and call for the raising of the ISIS flag over Buckingham Palace. The judge had to have him removed. He has tried to style himself as the ISIS caliphate’s ambassador to Britain, not that anyone’s particularly noticed in Raqqa. But for him Jamal is a game-changer. He will be considered a great prize, which will raise Isham al Aziz’s profile considerably with the affiliated Islamist groups, not just here but all over the extremist blogosphere. He’s going to make the most of Jamal while he can, especially if we don’t try to help him.’

Latimer put his hands together and rested his chin on his fingertips. ‘At the time we met, I have to say I had my doubts about him. Based on what you have here, and what’s in those reports, I think he did something very brave in Aleppo.’

‘So what do you think? Some kind of deal to get Jamal out of his predicament and al Aziz back in the bag?’

Latimer let out a long, weary sigh. ‘Jamal may not have been part of the plan to break out of Belmarsh, but the fact that he absconded doesn’t exactly help his case.’

Garvey gripped the edge of the table. ‘Look, given what we now know about what happened in Syria and the claim that the home secretary
personally
ordered the suppression of the details of the tape and the fate of the journalist Emma Warner, then surely you could try to build a case that mitigates Jamal’s decision to escape. Indeed, it might help if we could argue that al Aziz effectively forced Jamal to abscond with him.’

No reaction. Garvey peered at him. Perhaps he was getting the message. Perhaps she hadn’t gone mad after all. ‘So you think you can help him?’

He gave her a disapproving look. ‘You’re asking me to aid and abet a fugitive from the law, an accused terrorist.’

Garvey gritted her teeth. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, man, you’ve made a career out of helping terrorists.’

He placed his fingertips on the folders again, then spoke in an icy whisper: ‘I’m not sure you’ve thought through the ramifications of all this. If it ever got to court, what you have here is potentially enough to destroy the current home secretary’s reputation. But in the current climate that’s a very big if.’ He paused and prodded the folders again. ‘Furthermore, certain people would be extremely upset if they found out these had got into the wrong hands.’

She pushed the folders towards him and grinned. ‘Good.’

‘There’s the matter of who’s going to pay for all this. We’re hardly going to be applying for legal aid.’

Garvey glared at him. ‘Well, don’t look at me.’

Latimer paused and sucked his bottom lip. ‘There is another interested party.’

‘What’s that mean?’

‘Someone else with an interest in Jamal’s fate.’

65

14.00
Pall Mall

‘I’m sorry, sir. We haven’t seen Mr Buckingham for the last two nights. But he hasn’t checked out. Maybe he’s gone back to the country and it’s slipped his mind.’

The porter’s hangdog expression betrayed just the minutest hint of irritation. He liked to run a tight ship.

Tom smiled. ‘Probably my mistake.’ It wasn’t. His father had gone AWOL. ‘Anyway, he’s got my regimental tie and I need it for a do tonight. I don’t suppose you could let me have the key to his room?’

The porter pursed his lips. ‘I’m afraid the rules are that no one is allowed into a member’s room without being accompanied by the member himself.’

He knew that any high-horse stuff wouldn’t work. Neither would bribery. They were hard as nails, these old geezers, and didn’t take shit from anyone. Perhaps if he appealed to his sense of propriety. ‘I’m not sure I can show my face if I don’t have the right tie …’

The porter looked at him over his glasses and sighed.

Two minutes later he was standing in his father’s room. All that was left was a half-completed
Times
crossword and some socks. He had packed and gone – but where?

The porter was looking over his shoulder. ‘Well, as I said, he hasn’t signed out. That’s not like him, sir.’

Tom turned. ‘I’m sure he’ll show up soon enough. Sorry to have troubled you.’

Back in the lobby he stepped into one of the club’s charmingly archaic and seldom used phone booths, and dialled Mandler’s number. Tom had put the covert message in the letter to meet him here but there was no sign of him either. He got a continuous tone: unobtainable. He dialled his main office number. The same. He dialled his home number. No answer, and no outgoing message.

Because he couldn’t think of anyone else to try he dialled Woolf.

‘I can’t really talk, Tom. We’ve got a big flap on with these escapees.’

‘What’s happened to Mandler? He’s gone off the grid.’

‘No idea. He’s been kicked upstairs, remember?’ The din of a busy office almost drowned his reply. ‘Garvey wanted to speak to you, though. She’s his ally. Why don’t you ask her?’

‘What does she want?’

In the background someone was shouting Woolf’s name. He hung up.

Tom tried Garvey’s mobile. The former home secretary was the only other person to know about his true role inside Invicta.

‘Tom Buckingham, what a pleasant surprise.’

She sounded pissed. That was all he needed. He asked her if she knew where he could find Mandler.

‘How should I? But listen, Tom, I need to pick your brains. How about a drink?’

He could hear ice cubes clinking. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t right now.’

‘Well, give me two minutes.’

Four minutes later he was still listening as Garvey went into breathless detail about Jamal al Masri, the Belmarsh escapee whose sister had died in the blast and how he was being hounded by Rolt who was suppressing the truth about his bravery in Syria. Tom didn’t have time for it, but it confirmed that Xenia Dalton had been right to be worried about the fate of her reporter in Aleppo.

‘This boy’s being stitched up through a combination of spin and censorship. I want anything Rolt says or does that nails him as the liar and bastard he is. I need it, okay, Tom? I’m going to bring him down if it kills me.’

Tom managed to get rid of her as politely as he could.

On his way back to the front desk, his phone buzzed. Let that be Hugh or Mandler. He took it out. The porter put his fist to his mouth and coughed. Mobile phones were strictly forbidden in the club. ‘Oh, sorry, just reading a text.’

‘No difference, sir, I’m afraid.’

‘Okay, okay.’

Tom stepped outside. By the time he got to the revolving doors he had read the contents. Just a postcode, and the message:

19.30. Bring your toothbrush
.

It was from Ashton.

66

14.30
Junction 5, M1 motorway

All three southbound lanes had stopped moving completely for the police to do their check. Jamal put his feet on the dash. Bashar, at the wheel, was gently rocking to the music coming out of his earbuds, an almost imperceptible, tinselly sound, just audible enough to be irritating. As they headed to London, he had glanced at Jamal every few minutes and grinned, excited to have been chosen to drive such a famous passenger. Now he was looking nervous and took out his earbuds.

‘Put them back on and turn up the volume. It’ll help distract you.’

Bashar complied.

Jamal watched the police as they moved among the vehicles. Such was the volume of traffic they couldn’t hope to search every one. Instead they were picking them at random – or not quite at random, taking a good look at every male with black hair or a beard. But this was like no vehicle check Jamal had ever seen. Those doing the questioning were accompanied by two more carrying MP5 carbines. A few cars up, two other officers were going through the contents of an aged Volvo estate, which they had laid out in the slush on the hard shoulder, ignoring the turbanned driver who was remonstrating with them.

Jamal had been given a freshly prepared ID with a photo that matched his new appearance. He had shaved off his beard and one of Isham’s people had cut his hair and trimmed his eyebrows. The effect was alarming but it did the job of changing his appearance, along with a pair of thick-framed, plain-lensed glasses and an earring. He barely recognized himself, so with any luck no one else would either.

He had his whole speech ready about their destination, the plumbing job they were going to, with a phone number that could be checked, and there was an answerphone message on the line that matched the name of the company on his ID. There was even a landing page uploaded on the web. Isham might be a fanatic but you couldn’t fault his attention to detail. He had gathered round him a small army of loyal helpers with all the right skills, young men radicalized by the tension on the streets. Bashar told him he now saw no future for himself except as one of Isham’s soldiers.

‘I envy you going to Syria, brother. I want to so much. But Isham wants me to stay here and serve him.’

Jamal nodded, noncommittal. Syria had been such an eye-opener, but he was equally shocked at how much Britain had changed.

The night before, Isham had shown him the vest. It was much more compact and sophisticated than the bulky devices he had seen in Syria, but there they could be hidden under much looser garments. ‘Winter is good because everybody’s wearing thick clothes,’ he had said. ‘Nobody is surprised to see someone wearing a padded coat. And in this weather it’s not so surprising when people keep them on indoors.’

The explosive was spread evenly over the surface of the chest and thicker at the small of the back. It was heavy, because of the layer of small, jagged lumps of metal shrapnel.

‘But everything in your pockets – coins, watch, belt buckle, glasses – becomes shrapnel too,’ he’d told him. He had even shown him pictures of the bomb his wife had worn, which he had designed before his arrest. ‘Try it on. Let’s see how it fits,’ he had urged, and Jamal had obliged. Isham had shown him how to route the wires down one sleeve so the activator, a small squeeze-sensitive switch, could be hidden under his cuff, ready to be drawn down into his palm at the right moment.

‘Now imagine you’re about to meet Vernon Rolt, shake his hand. “Hello, you say to him. I am the Butcher of Aleppo.” Then bang.’ Isham laughed uproariously. ‘It will be so glorious, even better than my wife’s triumph.’

‘But don’t you miss her?’ Jamal had ventured, unable to contain the thought.

Isham was clearly mystified. ‘I am free to continue the work. What else matters?’ And without any further comment, he produced a fat folder and spread the contents in front of them. On top was a photograph of Rolt. ‘Everything you need to know. It’s all here. The plan of his building, how to get access, where you can hide. We’ve been collecting information, building up the detail, for a long time.’

‘How come?’

Isham smirked. ‘A mole – a disgruntled ex-soldier with a grudge against him. He gave us all we need to gain access: key codes for the underground car park, service lift combinations, the lot.’

Isham smoothed his hands proudly over the papers. Already Jamal was starting to understand what made him tick. But already he could see a fairly obvious flaw. Rolt was home secretary now. Why would he use his old office? But he chose to keep that thought to himself. If this was what would get him back to London, so be it.

The police waved on the three cars in front of them.

‘That means they’re going to pick us.’ Bashar’s voice was shaking.

‘What’s the matter? You never talked to a cop before?’

He shook his head.

‘Just keep listening to your music.’

It was a shock to Jamal how most of Isham’s crew had lived entirely cloistered lives, having almost no contact with white people. Perhaps it explained why they were able to take Isham, a white convert, so seriously.

The cop motioned for Jamal to wind down the window. He obliged, keeping eye contact. Here it was the opposite of Syria, where it was all about showing deference to whoever had set up the roadblock to be sure you looked like you knew you were inferior. An icy blast rushed into the cab.

‘All right in here? Keeping warm, are we?’

The cop clapped his gloved hands together. Jamal grinned and raised the Thermos. ‘Like a cup?’

The cop looked over his shoulder into the van. ‘You got everything and the kitchen sink in there.’

‘Don’t like to be unprepared. You’d be surprised what we find on these jobs.’

The one with the MP5 stared at them, stony-faced. Bashar was gazing straight ahead, nodding to the beat, but looking guilty as fuck.

‘What’s up with the kid?’

‘He needs the toilet.’

‘Sure you haven’t got a spare in the back?’

They all had a laugh except Bashar.

‘I’d better take your card. The missus is always on at me about putting in a new kitchen.’

‘Just Google J&R Plumbers. Don’t hold your breath, though. We’re booked up till June.’

‘Must be good, then.’

Jamal nodded. ‘Oh, yeah, we’re good.’

The cop jerked his head in the direction of the open road in front of them. ‘On you go, then.’

Jamal wound up the window. He turned to Bashar. ‘Not too fast now. Take it nice and easy.’

Bashar looked like he had just had a reprieve from the hangman.

‘Don’t relax too much. That may not be the last we see of them.’

67

17.30
Hertfordshire

Monkton Grange was bordered by a high brick wall, from a time long gone when there were the means and cheap labour to create such barriers. Tom knew the name. It had once housed a notorious prep school that had been shut down following a scandal. As a boy he remembered seeing the pupils in their grey blazers with their matching blank grey faces. To the left of the gates a sign said SOLD.