State Of Emergency: (Tom Buckingham Thriller 3) (36 page)

As he was being driven out of Chequers Tom had looked to see if Ashton’s main gate team had actually made it to the start point. If they’d halted this vehicle he might have had one final chance of stopping Ashton but if they were there they hadn’t shown themselves, and the Galaxy sped on.

On the motorway, sleet and mist slowed their pace, reducing all three lines of traffic to a steady thirty-five. He didn’t much like how close the driver was keeping to the vehicle in front but right now that was the least of his worries. His wrists were bound behind his back with plasticuffs. He didn’t have his seatbelt on, which made him vulnerable if the driver didn’t watch his distance but it offered an opportunity if the right moment arose.

He assumed that at some point he would be handed over to the police. With Mandler apparently gone, his only contact left was Woolf, though in the current climate it wouldn’t surprise him if he denied all knowledge of him. And where was Phoebe now? There was nothing more he could do for the prime minister. By now most probably all the call signs would have carried out the attack. Ashton would have been the one to walk in and make the PM sign the documents.

There was complete silence in the vehicle until the front passenger with the goatee facial hair heard his phone buzz and put it to his ear.

‘Yeah, I can hear you … The fuck?’

That put the rest of them on the alert.

‘You having a laugh?’ Goatee’s voice went up an octave. ‘You want us back there?’ He pulled the mobile from his ear and examined the screen.

‘Fucking cut off.’

‘What’s going on?’ asked the one on Tom’s left.

‘Some kind of incident. Wait out.’

Goatee tried to get the caller back.

‘You wanna stop?’ the driver asked Goatee, turning his head towards him just as the brake lights flashed on the truck in front of them. Before even consciously thinking what he was about to do, Tom tensed his calf and thigh muscles and launched himself at Goatee. The driver lifted one hand off the wheel to stop him, his attention distracted by the commotion as the two either side of Tom made to grab him. Tom used the force from the man on his left who had grabbed his shoulder to drop behind the back of Goatee’s seat just as the driver realized what was happening in front of him and slammed on the brakes. Tom couldn’t see what was happening but felt the steering being yanked left.

The impact didn’t feel like much, but the angle at which the people-carrier hit the truck twisted it ninety degrees as the airbags deployed. All Tom could do was hope that whoever was behind was better at keeping their distance or he would be responsible for a massive pile-up. That thought had barely formed when it came. Not as big an impact but just enough to put the already tottering people-carrier on its side.

Above the high-pitched whistling in his ears, caused by the detonating airbags, he heard a mixture of groans, swearing and car horns. With the people-carrier on its side, Tom unexpectedly found himself on his feet. He was standing on the tarmac in the aperture where the side window would have been, in a pool of broken glass.

Headlights from the traffic behind lit up the interior. The man who had been on his left had been thrown forward by the impact and had come to rest curved over the headrest of the seat in front of him on top of Goatee, who was groaning under him. The man on his right had demolished the driver’s seat and the pair of them were slumped half out of the windscreen and not moving.

There was nothing Tom could do for them while his wrists were cuffed so he worked his way past the third row of seats to where the rear window had burst out of the tailgate. Then he backed himself up to the edge of the window frame and worked the plasticuffs up and down against the sharp metal edge until they snapped apart. Already a crowd of other motorists was forming around the front of the vehicle and someone was ministering to Goatee through the space where the windscreen had been.

Tom made his way back into the vehicle and reached the man who had been on his right, suspended in his belt, his eyes half open but barely focusing. He lifted a hand but let it fall as Tom reached into his coat for a weapon.

Tom checked the chamber of the Glock, keeping it out of sight. ‘I’ll get it back to you when I’m done with it.’ He lifted a phone out of another pocket, checked that it was still working and didn’t need a password, then retraced his route through the passenger cabin and out of the tailgate.

‘You all right, mate?’

Tom heard the question through the high buzzing in his ears from the airbags. The man talking to him was a truck driver, with a big orange first-aid kit in his hand. ‘Bit dazed, that’s all. Them in there need the help.’

The traffic on the London-bound carriageway was stationary, the motorway ablaze with headlights glowing in the mist and sleet.

‘Where am I?’

‘About three miles from Gerrards Cross.’

In the distance he heard sirens. That wasn’t going to be useful. He moved across the lines of cars to the hard shoulder and into comparative darkness. It was freezing cold and he had no coat. He surveyed the scene from the comparative gloom of the verge. A row had broken out between a man whose Mercedes had been lightly rammed by a woman’s Mini. The driver had gone up to her door and was giving her a piece of his mind about female motorists. She was politely asking him not to be so abusive, when another woman shouted from another car, telling him more purposefully to back the fuck off. Meanwhile, a second man was heading towards them.

‘Hey, you fuck off out of this,’ said the Merc man.

‘Don’t you fucking talk to me like that, cunt.’

As the Merc man squared up to the other, Tom skirted round the cars and past the Merc’s open door. The key was still in the ignition, the engine still running. He stepped in, rammed the shift into Drive, let off the handbrake, swerved onto the hard shoulder, pulled round a couple of the other cars that had also stopped there, and sped off into the night.

After he had put about ten high-speed miles between him and the pile-up he came off the M40 and stopped in a lay-by. He had tried to warn the prime minister and failed. He had done nothing to derail Ashton’s plan; for all he knew he had helped it. Well, fuck it, he thought. I did what I could. All he cared about now was his father.

He took out the phone.

Hugh Buckingham wasn’t picking up. Maybe it was the unfamiliar number Tom was calling from. He sent a text:
Dad call Tom on this NOW.

Then he tried Woolf. ‘It’s Tom Buckingham. Remember me?’

Woolf sounded breathless, as if he’d been running. ‘Have you any idea what’s happening?’

‘I might – but you go first.’

‘Some flap on at Chequers – I haven’t heard much detail yet. Some paramilitaries have surrounded the house. Most of the cabinet are in the panic room but Rolt isn’t with them. The assumption is he’s the target.’

‘That’s an interesting interpretation. Let me give you mine.’

Tom gave Woolf his headlines.

‘Mother and father of fuck! Where are you now?’

‘Pass. What’s this about Mandler? The prime minister said he’s been dumped.’

‘Something to do with a past misdemeanour. Tom, seriously, you’d better watch your back. With Mandler gone, I’m not sure who’s going to vouch for you.’

‘Well, that’s helpful. Where’s Phoebe?’

‘She’s gone off the grid. I thought she might be with you. Something else you should know, Tom. We raided a place in Watford a few hours ago and picked up one of the Belmarsh fugitives.’

‘Jamal al Masri?’

‘No, the other one – Isham al Aziz, the convert. There was a mass of material on Rolt, plans of Invicta’s HQ and stuff on you too. One of Isham’s lieutenants has told us Jamal’s in London and has got an IED with him. You’d better go to ground until it’s blown over.’

Some chance. Tom killed the call and considered his diminishing number of options. He tried his father again.

‘Tom, I’m sorry, I can’t talk right now. I’m right in the middle of something.’

He sounded frail.

‘Where are you, Dad?’

‘Look, I’m really not—’

‘Are you at Umarov’s place? If you are, I want you to get out of there right now. Walk away. Go outside, get in a cab and disappear.’

There was an agonizing pause.

‘Dad?’

‘I’m afraid I couldn’t do that even if I wanted to … I’m sorry, Tom, I should have listened to you.’

The phone went dead.

78

23.30

Tom kept his foot flat down all the way, headlights on full beam to encourage any slower traffic in the fast lane to make way. The Merc had seen better days, and a metallic clattering from the engine warned that an expensive service was imminent, probably more than the car was worth, so, really, he was doing the owner a favour by taking it. But these thoughts were only background noise: he had to focus on finding his father.

He came off the Westway and checked his speed. The car would have been reported stolen by now so he’d better not get pulled over. From the Holland Park roundabout he retraced his route to Xenia’s place. As he approached, he paused to rehearse the keying-in routine that had got him through the gates and into the underground car park before. He drew up to the key pad, lowered the window, pressed his forefinger on the touch screen, then tapped in the code and the number of the Mercedes. Nothing happened.

Fuck.

He didn’t want to make a scene and crash his way in. If he could get to Xenia without raising any alarm he had a chance of preventing anyone freaking out. His father had to be in Umarov’s quarters, almost certainly with some security. He needed to go in as if he was meant to be there. But, knowing what he did now about Xenia and her stepfather, that didn’t seem like a viable option.

He reversed away from the gate, parked, killed the lights and took out the phone, struggling to remember Helen’s number. He tried to picture the card she had given him, willing the digits to load into his mind. He dialled what he thought was her number, then tried again switching the last two digits.

Her voice came through, crisp and clear.

‘Hi – it’s Tom.’

They hadn’t spoken since they’d found the bloodbath in Jez’s flat – not the ideal end to a first date.

‘Oh, yes? I wondered when you’d call.’ There was a distinct chill in her tone.

‘Look – it’s been difficult. I had to go away.’

She sighed. ‘Can’t you do better than that?’

‘I’m trying to make a follow-up visit to your boss. You’re not in a position to give me her number, are you?’

Silence.

‘I could give you the biggest and best scoop of your career. A world exclusive …’

‘Tom, it’s so nice of you to suddenly remember me, but you’re a bit out of touch with recent events. Xenia’s not responsible for the paper any more, and McCloud sacked me this morning. As for your designs on her, well, good fucking luck.’

The phone went dead.

While he was considering his next move as he redialled her, a van with the
Newsday
logo on it pulled up behind him and hooted. He backed up so the van could get in. Helen had powered down her mobile and the message service kicked in. Tom killed the call and pulled the Mercedes up close behind the van. As soon as it moved, Tom went with it, following it through the gates with barely an inch between them, in the hope that the sensors might register them as one vehicle.

It worked. He was through. The van drew up by a loading dock. Two men got out and started unloading boxes. They didn’t pay him any attention. He found the lift at the back of the car park, tapped in the same code he had seen Helen use and heard the whirr of it coming his way. He hung back in the shadows and only stepped in once he had seen that it was clear.

The reception area where he had met Xenia was on the fifth floor. There was a sixth button so he pressed it, imagining that if you were going to live in a building like this you would want to be as high as possible. He checked himself in the mirrors. He was a mess. Dusty from the smash in the people-carrier, nicks and grazes from flying glass and a bruise on the side of his head, which must have had something to do with the impact. When he made an abortive attempt to tidy his hair, bits of glass fell out. As the lift approached the end of its upward journey he felt for the weapon, prepared for whatever would be waiting for him.

When the doors opened Xenia was standing there, frowning. ‘Wouldn’t it have been simpler to call?’

He smiled. ‘There wasn’t time.’

‘I see. What happened to your face?’

‘A problem I was hoping you’d be able to help me with. May I come in?’

She stepped to one side as Tom moved into the hallway. He came straight to the point. ‘My father is in this building. I need you to help me get him out.’

‘Your father?’

‘Mid-sixties, white hair, going a bit bald, half-glasses. Are you going to help me?’

She frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’

He owed her an explanation, maybe, but he didn’t know how long he had or what it would take to get Hugh out. ‘Just show me how to get onto the right floor.’

‘I don’t go to the other floors any more so, I’m sorry, I won’t have seen him.’ She was looking at him warily, measuring him.

‘Is there a security presence?’

She shook her head. ‘That’s why I had it built this way, so I wouldn’t have to be surrounded by protection.’

She was being cool, borderline obstructive. Tom needed to get her onside, fast.

‘When we met, you asked me what I thought Rolt’s plans were. At the time I’m afraid I didn’t fully appreciate what you were asking. Perhaps we were both being too guarded. Anyway, I know what they are now.’

There was no answer from her, as if it no longer mattered. He didn’t want to get heavy except as a last resort. ‘Helen told me about the paper. I’m sorry. After all you’ve done …’

She sighed and started walking towards an area with large white sofas.

He followed. He thought he heard movement down one of the corridors. ‘Are you alone up here?’

‘Oh, yes,’ she said, over her shoulder. ‘Tell me what you know and then we’ll see about your father.’