Fortress (11 page)

He tapped a key to bring up the next shot, a soldier in dress uniform: gingery hair, freckles, intense gaze. ‘Retired Corporal Mick Vestey. Household Cavalry sniper, commended for killing two Taliban from more than a mile away. Here he is in his prime: Kandahar, 2007.’

The image changed to a shot of Vestey beside a Scimitar armoured reconnaissance vehicle, posing with his crew, tanned and oozing confidence.

‘Three days after this was taken the armoured vehicle he was travelling in hit an IED. He was blown clean out of it, suffered just cuts and bruises. The rest died underneath it, despite his frantic efforts to reach them. Two months later he was out of the Army, dishonourably discharged after attacking his CO with a knife.’

Woolf clicked onto the next picture. ‘Here he is that Christmas.’

Vestey was already looking the worse for wear: florid face, sunken cheeks and an air of defeat.

‘And by the following summer …’

He was almost unrecognizable in a police mug shot, eyes glazed and emaciated, in a filthy hoodie.

Woolf turned back to the group as the next photo appeared. ‘But here’s our same Mr Vestey just a few months ago.’

He was transformed, a slightly older version of the man he had been in Helmand, showing none of the scars of his trip to the dark side, in a sports jacket, white shirt and blue tie.

‘Quite a comeback, wouldn’t you say? Clean as a whistle, gainfully self-employed in VIP security, guarding the rich and famous.’

A man at the back raised a forefinger. ‘Membership of shooting clubs?’

Woolf grinned. ‘Aha. Since you ask …’ He hit the pad and up came a still of the gated entrance to what looked like a very well-defended hotel. To the side of the gate was a large sign in gold lettering – ‘Invicta’.

‘This organization should need no introduction. Since the post-Nine/Eleven wars it has become Britain’s foremost charity for ex-service personnel.’

Woolf flicked through a sequence, which showed an impressive campus of buildings surrounded by mature trees and rolling lawns, a lecture theatre, an Olympic-sized pool, an extensive gym and a golf course. ‘This is their HQ in Hampshire. Among the state-of-the-art facilities there does indeed happen to be a shooting range.’

The screen changed to another shot of Vestey, this time in Iraq, posing with his L115a3 sniper rifle.

‘Now, let me take you back to the early hours of June the twenty-eighth this year.’

A series of images from the Suleiman shooting flicked past, with blurred images of the police SCO19s, their faces hidden by their baseball caps. Then a full-face photo of Suleiman.

‘The target: a blameless community worker, widely respected for his campaign against drug-dealers and gangs. A devout Muslim but also an avid promoter of integration. Absolutely nothing to connect him with crime or terrorism. But whose killing
apparently
by the Metropolitan Police, despite their strenuous denials, brings the entire British Muslim community out on the streets in protest.’

Woolf paused to glance at Rafiq, who nodded his agreement. ‘And the rest, as they say, is history.’ He scrolled through a sequence showing the worst of the riots, looting even in ‘respectable’ areas, and more than one police van on fire. ‘The most widespread civil unrest in my lifetime, certainly. And no sign of its abating.

‘The Met insist they were acting on flashed intelligence about a purported mobile bomb factory in the back of a Transit van, also carrying a passenger suggested to be a returnee from Syria. Their source, not one of ours, you’ll be glad to know.’

Woolf looked round the table. The assembly stared back at him.

Ferris, group director for the north-east, chipped in: ‘We get about a hundred and fifty false leads like that a day. Does there have to be a conspiracy here?’

Woolf nodded eagerly. He was in his stride now. ‘Quite so. But here’s the thing.’ He punched up another slide: a middle-aged man in a police uniform. ‘SCO19 control room officer: John Philip Vestey.’ The next shot showed both men.

‘Mick’s brother. He was on duty the night of the shooting – though unable to communicate with his team on the ground due to an alleged radio fault. Make of that what you will.’

Woolf stood back to let this revelation sink in. Now the room came alive.

‘Are you watching him? Mick.’

Woolf smiled ruefully. ‘You know how many bodies surveillance takes.’ He pointed at Cindy and Rafiq. ‘This is the sum total of my team.’

‘Listening to his calls?’

Cindy shook her head. ‘He doesn’t use a phone.’

‘Ever?’

‘Turns it on every couple of days for just a few minutes. The rest of the time it’s off and he leaves it at home.’

‘Somewhat incriminating.’

Jedburgh, ex-Special Branch and a notorious sceptic, launched in: ‘So you’ve got a classic loner, who’s conquered his demons and trained himself to channel his rage. What’s holding him back? Chances are that having started he’ll probably keep shooting. I suggest you pull your finger out and bring him in before he does any more damage.’

Mandler agreed. ‘Good point. Keep them coming.’

Molly Downham, the only other woman in the group, never spoke up unless she had something pertinent to say. ‘James, can you share with us exactly why you’ve been playing your cards even closer to your chest than usual?’

Woolf nodded. ‘That brings me neatly on to part two. We’ve covered the
who
, but now comes the
why
. Why kill a perfectly decent liberal-minded community worker who’s been commended for his work with disaffected youth?’ He leaned forward and hit the space bar again. ‘Recognize him?’

The next sequence was a video of a man in his early thirties standing at a podium, receiving an award from the Mayor of London in front of an audience, who were giving him a standing ovation. ‘Vernon Rolt, founder of Invicta.’

‘So his facility is being used as a secret training ground for white British jihadis. That’s pretty far-fetched, isn’t it?’

Woolf glanced at the other two. ‘Yes. It’s crazy and everyone who’s heard it agrees.’

It was Molly’s turn again. ‘Are you actually pointing the finger at
Vernon Rolt
?’

Woolf raised his eyebrows inscrutably. ‘I wouldn’t want to go that far … just yet.’

‘But that’s why you’re keeping this in the family.’

Woolf nodded again.

Jedburgh cleared his throat. ‘Sorry, James, but I’m not buying it. Right now we’ve got an inundation of returnees from Syria. A lot of them have seen and done unimaginable things, been thrown together with the most out-there extremists. They’re trained, they’re battle-hardened and we can’t keep track of them because they’re using different names, keeping away from their families and so on. We just don’t have the resources or the intelligence.’

This Woolf knew to be true, to his frustration. And Jedburgh wasn’t done.

‘The sight of one of their own being all lovey-dovey and multi-culti with Christians, atheists and whatnot, they’re going to see that guy as the enemy even more than the Anglos. It’s a nice idea, but I think you’re going to find you’re barking up the wrong tree. Radicalization is the issue, nothing else.’

The meeting fell silent. Woolf glanced at Rafiq, then Cindy. Both were studying their hands intently.

Mandler got up and brought the meeting to a close with a speech about how grateful he was to them for sparing the time, and waited while the others filed out to their cars.

‘Interesting.’ He gave Woolf a mischievous look.

‘Really?’

‘You have to consider all sides of the problem. And the trouble is, what you’ve got here is conjecture. I think we might park this for now. Perhaps I can find something else on which you can train your enormous brain.’

It sounded like a compliment, yet also a putdown.

And with that he folded up his glasses and left.

20

Westminster, Central London

‘Can you open your bag, please?’

There was a heavy police presence outside Party Headquarters, checking people before they went through the door. Barriers had been set up to funnel visitors to a table where their belongings were being examined. Sam unzipped his bag. The policewoman glanced in and ran a grey plastic wand over his laptop. ‘ID?’

‘I have an appointment, with—’

‘ID, please,’ she repeated, as if he hadn’t heard her.

He felt inside his coat and brought the driving licence out of his wallet. She peered at the details, then examined a clipboard held by her colleague. ‘Mr Koverchovich?’

She said it loudly, mispronouncing it. A couple of other uniforms looked up and scanned his face.

‘
Dr
Kovace
vic
. I’m here for a job interview.’

The policewoman’s mouth twitched with amusement. ‘Good luck, sir,’ she said, without a trace of goodwill as she handed back his bag. With a curt flick of her head, she signalled to him to go through.

Sam gave his name at the desk, then sank into a large leather and chrome chair. He tried to collect his thoughts for the interview but the impact of Helen’s note blotted out everything else. He had found it on the kitchen table when he got back.

Dear Sam
,

I’m going to Mummy’s. She thinks it would be better if I stayed with her for now, because of the riots and everything that’s going on. Please don’t take this the wrong way. You can go on using the flat till you find somewhere else.

Hx

If the letter was a bombshell, the call that followed it was worse. The first three times he’d tried it went to voicemail, but she picked up after the fourth.

‘What is this? Are you dumping me?’

‘I’m sorry, Sam.’

‘What’s your mother been saying?’

‘Just that it’s a bad time for us to be together.’

‘What the fuck does that mean?’ He was practically shouting down the phone.

‘I’ve got to go. Sorry.’

She rang off. He dialled again, then decided against it. He threw the phone at the wall. Tears of anger blurred his vision. It took him several minutes to grasp what Helen had meant. Nothing like this had happened before.

When he retrieved the phone he saw there was a voicemail. Even though it was late he had called the number and got straight through to a woman called Pippa, who sounded very important but
terribly keen to meet ASAP
.

A tall woman in her early thirties, in a smart suit with a silky blouse underneath, glided towards him. Her smile and her hair looked immovable.

He got to his feet. She put out a hand. ‘Hello! I’m Pippa. So, is it Sam or Sahim?’

Sam shook her hand, which felt limp and cool, and smiled. Usually he would have said ‘Sam’ emphatically. But the choice suggested opening himself to more possibilities. ‘Either’s fine.’

She tilted her head, sizing him up. ‘I rather like Sahim. Let’s go for that, shall we?’

She gestured for him to follow. Her carriage and manner reminded him of Helen, but he dismissed the thought.

She showed him into a boardroom with a long table and waved at a chair. A carafe of water had been placed in front of it.

‘We’re just waiting for Derek – he’s our marketing wizard. But he’s always late so let’s see if we can cover a few things first.’ She gave him a conspiratorial smile as she seated herself opposite him and opened a slim file. ‘We’re so glad you decided to give us a chance.’

He laughed, faintly sheepish. ‘Well, I’m always open to offers.’ Oh, God, he thought, does that sound desperate? The truth was he had never allied himself with a political party, not because of any determination to remain independent but because politics didn’t interest him. They were talking about an actual job, though, and since he didn’t have one, he had nothing to lose.

‘We thought you must be rather in demand.’

‘I was up at Oxford for an interview. They’ve not got back to me yet.’

This wasn’t a lie, more a creative interpretation of the truth.

She smiled again. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Their loss, I’m sure. I’d be lying if I said we weren’t pleased. Young Muslims willing to work for the Party are a bit thin on the ground right now.’

‘Well, I’m not exactly practising.’

She laughed. ‘Well, I call myself C of E but I can’t remember the last time I went to church. You fit the bill, all right.’

Her enthusiasm put him at ease. ‘Well, you haven’t interviewed me yet. You may think differently afterwards.’

They both laughed politely. She flipped open a file and studied it. ‘So, just to be absolutely clear, you were born in the former Yugoslavia, is that right?’

‘Bosnia. Yes. But I’ve been here since I was five.’

She frowned. ‘You came as a refugee? Gosh, that must have been horrid for you.’

‘Actually, no. I count myself very lucky to be here.’

She sighed. ‘If only more people felt that way.’

The door flew open and a middle-aged man with a florid face and wispy blond hair burst in, a BlackBerry pressed to one ear. Under his arm was a sheaf of papers that looked as if they were about to cascade from their precarious perch.

‘Tell him to do it or he’s fucking out of here
today
. I don’t care. Well, fuck you too.’

The papers slid to the floor.

‘Fucking arseholes.’

Only then did he become aware of the two of them, watching. ‘Sorry, all.’ He grinned at Sam and thrust out a meaty hand. ‘Derek Farmer. So glad you could come. Boy, do we need someone like you round here.’ His brow furrowed briefly as he peered at Sam. ‘So you are Muslim, right? Or, er …’

He frowned at Sam’s linen suit from H&M. Pippa studied her nails.

‘I am, but I’m under cover.’

They all laughed – a little too long. But for the first time in a while Sam felt as if he was capable of making an impact. ‘But to answer you properly, yes, I am a Muslim. Born and bred.’

‘But not about to …’ Farmer made a gesture as if something was about to explode from his chest.

Sam was mystified. He glanced at Pippa who was looking the other way.

‘Oh, y’know. Kaboom!’