Fortress (14 page)

‘There were three eruptions in his lifetime, Tambora in 1815, Babuyan Claro in the Philippines in 1831 and Cosigüina in 1835. Not that Turner knew.’

‘So you were paying attention in class all along.’

‘I think it got in by osmosis. No actual effort on my part.’

Tom turned back to the painting.

‘Tambora spat an estimated twelve cubic miles of magma into the atmosphere. There was so much ash in the atmosphere they called 1816 “The Year without Summer”.’

Rolt beckoned him to turn round. Hanging opposite was a huge faded tapestry, with the faint images of figures visible in the weave. ‘It predates Bayeux. I found it at an auction in Texas. God knows how it fetched up there.’ Rolt pointed at the standard bearing the word ‘Invicta’, held high by solid yeomen, the cliffs of Dover beneath them.

Tom had also remembered something from school. ‘Undefeated –
Roma Invicta
. The Romans had it stamped on their coins to boost morale when the empire was on the wane.’

Rolt smiled. ‘Correct. And much later, when William defeated Harold at Hastings and set his course for Winchester, these men of Kent, a few with swords but most armed with no more than wooden staves, marched against him. William saw their determination and knew they would fight to the death, so he offered them a deal: safe passage for his army and in return the men of Kent would keep their ancient rights and liberties. Hence “Invicta” became the motto of the county.’

Tom nodded approvingly. ‘Good name.’

Phoebe appeared, carrying a tray laden with a silver teapot and small chocolate cakes, and set it on a low table in front of the fireplace.

‘It was Phoebe here who tracked you down.’

Tom saw her blush faintly as she lowered the tray. She gave Rolt a mock-disapproving look, which he didn’t notice. Tom gazed at her, expecting some kind of explanation, but none came. Instead she lifted the teapot. ‘Shall I pour?’

Rolt waved her away. ‘No, that’s all right, Phoebe, thanks. Close the door behind you, will you?’ He waved at a pair of wing-backed chairs either side of the fireplace. Tom took a seat as he watched her leave.

‘Well, it’s very good of you to come. I’m sorry about bothering your father.’

‘Oh, he quite likes to be bothered. He doesn’t have enough to do, these days.’

Rolt sighed as he poured the tea. ‘Like so many of his generation. So much wisdom and common sense – such a shame it’s not listened to.’

‘I hope he didn’t bang on.’

Rolt looked faintly shocked. ‘No, not at all. We exchanged views on what’s been happening here …’

‘You aren’t pulling any punches with the media.’

Rolt snorted. ‘Well, the time’s come. Someone’s got to say it. And I’m in the enviable position of not having some party line to toe. I can say what I think and they can go screw themselves. How do you like it?’

‘Black, no sugar, please.’

Tom watched Rolt closely. His movements were studied, precise, not extravagant. He showed none of the arrogance of success. He had been an unmemorable teenager who had grown into a charismatic figure, outwardly charming, but the steel was visible beneath the surface.

He passed him a cup. ‘I wasn’t at all sure you’d get back to me. I’m something of a pariah in certain circles.’

Tom seized the opportunity. ‘Actually, there’s something you might be able to help me with.’ He told him about Rifleman Blakey.

Rolt’s eyes gleamed. ‘He’s just what we’re all about. Trouble is, we’re overflowing.’

‘What are the chances of squeezing in another one? I might be able to tap my old man to help with funds.’

Rolt’s face darkened. ‘The kind of money we need right now to go to the next level is … well, let’s say significant.’ He lapsed into silence, frowning into his tea. Eventually he went on. ‘I’ll come clean about the reason I called. Almost all my people, my staff, we’ve picked up and put back on the rails. They’re good, hundred per cent loyal, but I need to widen my net. We’re looking for – well, to be frank – people like you. Intelligent, capable, self-directed, presentable, from the right sort of background and with a blue-chip military record.’

‘Well, I’m not sure about the last part.’ He also wondered what he meant by the ‘right sort of background’.

Rolt ignored this and pressed on. ‘Able to represent me, represent Invicta, at any kind of event. But I have to go out and recruit. I can’t wait for that sort of person to wander in here. So we keep an eye out for who’s on the move.’

Phoebe knocked and opened the door. The flash of anger from Rolt came without any warning. ‘I said we weren’t to be disturbed.’

She held her ground.

‘Sorry. The editor of
The Times
is asking if you’d do a piece for tomorrow. They’re offering you a whole page.’

‘Okay, okay.’ Rolt got up. ‘Sorry to cut it short. How about you come and have a look at our campus? Get a sense of what we’re about. And then let’s talk again about your mate.’

25

The driver was waiting in Reception, dark suit, REME tie. Even without the tie Tom would have clocked him as ex-Army at fifty yards: the bearing and the battered face were giveaways.

‘This way, sir.’

The hint of contempt in the ‘sir’ marked him out as a probable ex-RSM.

‘Actually it was “sergeant” till last week. What’s your name?’

‘Jackman, sir.’

A gleaming dark green Bentley was parked outside. ‘Nice wheels. Good to see your boss is flying the flag.’

Tom reached for the front door but Jackman opened the rear.

‘I think you’ll find the back more comfortable, sir.’

Tom slid into the hushed compartment and closed the door. Extra thick windows indicated it had been bullet-proofed. Jackman climbed in and brought the car to life. Tom felt his frame press back in the seat as the twin turbo-charged V8 powered forward.

‘Really, it’s a Volkswagen underneath. Pains me to say it, but the Krauts have done a bloody good job.’

‘My great-grandad raced a Bentley in the twenties.’

Jackman sighed. ‘Bet he’s turning in his grave knowing that nasty little Führer-mobile was what saved it from oblivion.’

They swept up Park Lane, the needle touching fifty.

‘Watch out – I got pulled over up here on my bike.’

‘Nah, not us. The cops know whose this is. Mr Rolt’s immune. Makes my job a lot pleasanter, I can tell you.’

Tom still had a titanic hangover and wasn’t in the mood for conversation, but he decided he might as well milk Jackman for all he could get. ‘Been with him long?’

‘Few years.’

‘And before?’

‘Well, it was the REME till 2008, then a bit of a blank after that.’

Tom glanced at him, curious.

Jackman’s gaze was fixed on the road. ‘Put it this way: if Mr Rolt hadn’t tripped over me on the pavement, I’d most probably be six feet under by now.’ He shot a glance at Tom. His heavily etched face told its own story.

‘So you’re more than an employee, would you say?’

Jackman nodded. Just the other side of Victoria, one of the lanes was cordoned off where a Lebanese restaurant on the Edgware Road was still smouldering. Builders in hi-viz overalls were erecting scaffolding. The whole building looked unstable. Jackman shook his head. ‘I never thought I’d see the day.’

Tom murmured assent.

‘Mind you, given the situation, it was going to happen, sooner or later, wasn’t it?’

Tom nodded, though he wasn’t ready to put any of his cards on the table. Right now there were a lot of things he wasn’t as sure of as he used to be. His life had been so full of certainties – the job, serving his country. Now it was in bits. ‘So you went through the Invicta programme?’

‘One of the first. I was in Basra, and I was in Bosnia, but Basingstoke!’ Tom frowned. ‘Invicta’s base is just outside.’ Jackman shuddered at the memory. ‘When you’ve been chucking back a dozen Special Brew before noon, it’s a long climb back up. And coming off the fags, same time.’

‘Bloody hell.’

‘That just about sums it up. Ask me then if I thought I could do it. No way, José.’

‘But you did.’

‘With Invicta, once you set foot in there, it’s out of your hands. Solitary confinement the first week. No bed. You want a pillow, you got to take your jumpsuit off and roll it up. Only you don’t do that cos it stinks of shit and piss.

‘Second week, you start running. Each day they double the distance. Fall over, there’s no one to get you back up. Just some bastard like I used to be – excuse the language, sir – shouting right in your ear to go back to the start.

‘Third week you get a change of kit and a shower – cold. But you’re so glad of it because by that time you look and stink like a hunger striker.’

‘Bit brutal, isn’t it?’

‘It’s what works.’

‘Do they have many drop-outs?’

‘Zero tolerance. One hundred per cent success. And once you’re back on your feet, they never lose sight of you – unlike the bloody Army. Invicta’s for life. Me, I’m happy with my lot.’ He patted the soft leather of the dash. ‘But there’s blokes he’s put through college, found them jobs.’

‘What does Invicta demand in return for all this?’

Jackman shrugged. ‘Just loyalty. But that’s worth more than riches.’

26

Surrey

The Invicta campus, a decommissioned RAF airfield, looked like a cross between a military base and a country estate. Either side of the gate a line of poplars marked the perimeter and masked the high wire fence behind it. The entrance was discreetly fortified. A metal ramp set into the asphalt would rise to block unwanted traffic. The barriers were quite slim but there was a second, much heavier, gate fifty yards in. The grass was perfectly tended, the brickwork freshly repointed.

Even though the guards would have known the car a mile off, Jackman still brought it to a stop and rolled down the window. The one on duty was not some rotund failed bouncer but a trim, well-turned-out man of Jackman’s age. ‘Wotcher, Jacko. Someone famous?’

He peered into the car at Tom, who gave his name.

‘Could you step out, please, sir?’

Jackman nodded at Tom. ‘Best do as they say. No special treatment here.’

Tom got out of the car. As he straightened up, the hangover he had almost forgotten about met him again, like a low concrete ceiling.

‘Bad night, sir?’ The guard patted him down.

‘Terrible. You?’

The guard looked at him blankly.

‘Zero tolerance,’ Jackman explained, as they drove on. ‘One drink and you’re back in the slammer.’

The administrator of the Invicta campus was a former marine Tom recognized from Iraq. Philips was his name and, though he was professionally civil, he made no reference to the encounter in their previous lives. When Tom casually referred to it, Philips told him it was Invicta policy to ignore past connections. ‘We keep ourselves facing forward. We’re all about today and tomorrow, not yesterday.’

But Philips could see he wasn’t buying this piece of spin. ‘Look. Most folk who come through here, one way or another something’s done them in. Maybe it was during service or maybe before. But whatever it was, it’s driving their behaviour. This place is about getting shot of all that. The day a lad starts here, he draws a line under everything up to that moment. That’s the past. This is now. That’s the deal.’

‘What about families?’

‘If they have a problem there, we teach them how to deal with that. If there’s something we can do for the relatives we’ll do it, but only if it benefits the associate.’

‘Associate?’

‘That’s what we’re all called. Nice and neutral, no ranks or hierarchy. Helps with the sense of kinship.’

As they passed between buildings Tom saw a group of men in full MTPs emerge from a clump of trees and climb into the back of a Land Rover. Even from this distance he could see that they were bent with fatigue.

Philips smiled. ‘They’re Phase Fives. Survival skills, self-preservation. They’ve got to stay out on their own and keep out of each other’s way for five days and nights. Bit of fun, really, but it builds that sense of independence and helps them believe in their ability to survive on their own. After all, they don’t know what they’re going to have to put up with in the future.’

The next building they entered was busy with staff in white coats. ‘Medical area. We pick up where the NHS leaves off.’ He held open a door to a spacious carpeted ward. There were eight beds and each seemed to have at least one nurse nearby.

‘No shortage of staff here, then.’

‘You noticed. That’s a big part of it. Most of these blokes just need attention. A lot of it’s basically physio. We leave the invasive stuff to the hospitals, but recovery can be a long old process, two years, sometimes more. We see them through it.’

Not for the first time that day Tom’s thoughts drifted back to Blakey. ‘How do you get accepted here?’

Philips shrugged. ‘Word-of-mouth, recommendations. All pretty informal and low key.’

‘Is there a long queue?’

‘Yeah, that’s our problem. We need to grow. The boss is onto it, but it can’t come soon enough.’

Back outside, they passed through a screen of trees and headed towards a long, low building that resembled a cattle shed. There were no windows, just a small gap between the walls and the roof. From it came a noise Tom couldn’t decipher at first. As they got closer it became clearer. It was human. Shouts, screams, whimpers.

‘For a lot of us, it started here. Detox – there’s no easy way.’

He gave Tom a look that confirmed he was a graduate of this part of the programme. ‘We make no apology for the conditions. We keep an eye on them medically, in case they try to do something terminal. Otherwise they’re on their own to crack on and get through it. Believe me, when you get out, life never felt so sweet.’

‘Don’t you have Health and Safety or some regulator on your backs?’

Philips smirked. ‘We don’t exactly broadcast our methods.’

‘You’re showing me. I’m a complete stranger.’

‘Mr Rolt’s instructions were that you should see it all.’

Over a roast-beef sandwich and a Coke, Philips opened up.

‘Enlisting was all about getting out of where I came from, a fairly typical scenario.’ He sketched out a family life from hell: Dad in prison most of the time and when he wasn’t, drinking himself comatose or beating up his wife and any of the kids who were in reach. His violence was indiscriminate – everybody got equally fucked up.