Fortress (26 page)

55

Victoria

Sam watched her as she read it, his heart sinking to new depths.

‘They made you say all this?’

‘I didn’t have any choice.’ He told her what Farmer had said. ‘They would have found out about Karza. And that would have been his death sentence. I did it for him.’

He searched her face for some expression, something to show she understood. One by one he was disappointing everyone who mattered to him and he couldn’t bear it if she was next. ‘I hope you don’t think any the worse of me.’

‘You need to be careful. You shouldn’t have got their backs up in the first place.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Your position, right inside the Party, the contact with the prime minister and his officials. From now on, do nothing to upset them. Stay on message: remind them what an asset you are. That’s the way you’re going to save Karza
and
make a big difference.’

Sam didn’t know what she meant.

She came and sat close, put a hand on his face. The effect was electric. ‘You are very alone, aren’t you?’

He felt the tears welling again. This so wasn’t the image he wanted to project right now. He nodded. Yes, he did feel desperately alone.

She smiled. ‘That’s how we all feel. This is how it is. Before, you were getting on with your life without a thought about your brothers. This has brought you closer to them.’

‘I have just one brother.’

‘No, you don’t. You have thousands of brothers – millions – and they feel like you. But they are with you. You’ve got them – and they have you. Do you understand that?’

‘Maybe.’

‘And you have me.’

She looked at him with a gaze that melted his anguish. But then he was jolted with another realization. He slapped the newspaper. ‘The people who – the men I met, they’ll see this and they’ll …’ He felt ineffectual and weak.

‘I know what you’re thinking, but that won’t happen.’

He wanted to believe her, but couldn’t begin to imagine how this could end other than badly. Very badly.

56

Texas

Tom got to the van just as the cops came past in their cruisers, three of them, in a big hurry, bouncing across the ruts. Tom put himself in plain view: appearing to skulk furtively wouldn’t help him. He raised a friendly hand and smiled as they went by.

As soon as they were past he jumped into the van, fired up the engine, yanked the shift into drive and floored it. If the police were definitely there for Jefferson he needed to put as much distance as he could between them and himself. He kept going south until he hit the Loop, went east to the next exit, then dropped into a side road and pulled up at the kerb.

He turned on the interior light and checked himself over. There was a fair bit of Jefferson’s blood on him. He looked into the back of the van, evidently Kyle’s mobile headquarters. There was a stack of listening kit, a bunk, some cabinets and a fridge. He helped himself to a Coke, which felt wonderfully cool to his parched throat. Then he checked the closet and found a pair of camo cargo shorts and a khaki T-shirt. He changed into them, then took out the pay-as-you-go phone and dialled Woolf. It went to voicemail. He didn’t fancy risking that so he tried Phoebe.

‘Tom!’

‘Can you talk?’

‘I’m just on my way to Invicta.’

‘I need a name checked out. Asim Zuabi. He’s an imam based in Houston, Texas. Whatever you have on him.’

‘Okay, hold while I text that in.’

‘How long does it take?’

‘Only a few minutes. Tom?’

‘Yes?’

‘Thanks for not blowing us. I do want to say how sorry—’

‘Never mind, it’s fine. Just get me the info. How’s Rolt?’

‘I’ve hardly seen him. He’s been caught up in a whirlwind of meetings in Whitehall. The hostel bombing has changed everything. They’re taking him very seriously. There are some in the cabinet wanting him to join some kind of crisis task force. Hang on while I see what we’ve got on your man.’

While Tom waited, he took out Jefferson’s phone and looked at the call log. All the names in his contacts were abbreviated to one or two letters. One number he had dialled twice, and received four calls from, in the previous twelve hours belonged to a
CF
.

Phoebe was back on.

‘Okay, Zuabi’s showing no POI status: not a Person of Interest. Appears to have no form at all. He arrived in the US as a refugee from Syria in 2006, and seems to have carved out a presence for himself in something called the Southern States Caucus for Interfaith Learning. Otherwise, no profile. He’s not even showing up on the FBI’s Watch List.’

‘Okay, thanks. Look, if you’ve got the time to go deeper, he seems to be heading up a very generously endowed new mosque, part of the regeneration of a rundown part of Houston. It’s massive. Be good to know where the money’s come from. And something else: I need a caller ID.’

He read off
CF
’s number. There was a pause.

‘It’s a gun shop. Confederate Firearms, proprietor one Lester Colburn. There’s a red flag against him. He also runs a website called Refugee Resettlement Watch. I don’t much like the sound of that. Look, Tom, you can obviously handle yourself, but these are very murky waters.’

‘Yeah, I know. Hey – thanks.’

‘Can I ask how this connects with Invicta?’

‘I’ll have to get back to you about that. Thanks again.’

He killed the call and searched Confederate Firearms on his phone.
For your weapon of choice, look no further. We have the most extensive range in the county
…
friendly attentive service
. He looked at his watch: 4 a.m. A bit too early to go and buy a gun, even in Texas.

57

Confederate Firearms was in the Northside district of Houston: a windowless, metal, single-storey structure in a street of anonymous warehouses. He parked Kyle’s van and went inside.

Even to someone with his experience of weaponry, the sheer scale of the place was breathtaking. Rack after rack of rifles, pistols and assault weapons and even a ‘ladies’ section in one corner with small, pink-finished handguns for girls. Welcome to Texas.

Colburn was behind the counter: late fifties or thereabouts, thin, with a florid John Wayne kind of face and small, squinting eyes that stared at Tom suspiciously. He was flanked by two larger men, one of whom looked younger, their checked shirts bulging over their belts.

‘Good morning!’ Tom figured a friendly demeanour, plus the accent, might help break the ice, along with a few knowledgeable but generic questions about the merchandise. He glanced up at a wooden plaque with the motto ‘
sic semper tyrannis
’. ‘Thus always to tyrants’.

Colburn nodded. ‘That there’s the state motto of Virginia, my home state.’

‘And the words shouted by John Wilkes Booth after he shot Lincoln, I believe.’

Colburn nodded again, slowly. ‘God rest his soul.’

‘Lincoln’s or Booth’s?’

Colburn’s mouth came close to what might have been described as a smile. ‘Ain’t it obvious?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘You figuring on making any purchase today?’

‘Absolutely.’ Tom took a step closer and lowered his voice. ‘Actually, I was also hoping to find out about Refugee Resettlement Watch.’

Colburn changed his tone. And the two assistants moved closer. Their earnest expressions struck Tom as faintly comical. Their name tags said ‘Don’ and ‘Phil’, one late forties, the other maybe sixty: weightlifters, but sluggish with it. ‘What’s your interest in that?’

‘Well, you’ve seen the news about Britain?’

‘We sure have. You guys having a lot of trouble with your Muslims?’

‘Not just them.’

He reeled off a random list of gypsies, Africans, Indians and other ‘undesirables’, with a bit about the ‘Jew-controlled media’ for good measure.

Phil and Don started nodding. Tom kept his gaze guileless and open.

‘I believe you’ve got the same problem we have.’

Colburn kept still, his eyes on Tom.

‘And what problem exactly might that be?’

Whatever brand of fascist Colburn was, he was no fool. Tom guessed he’d been under the spotlight of the security services at some point, so wouldn’t be about to share his deepest-held views with just anybody who walked in. He would have to make the running.

‘But Muslims are the worst problem. They’re the ones who bombed our capital on Seven/Seven. They’re the ones trying to destroy Christian values and bring down Western society. And it’s reached the point that back home some of us want to do something about it.’

‘Like what?’

‘Well, you know what it’s like there.’ Tom gestured at the merchandise. ‘We don’t have the … resources you guys do.’

‘You said it, boy.’ Don grinned widely, revealing intermittent brown teeth. ‘Judgin’ by what I seen on the news, it’s gettin’ a little outta hand over there, wouldn’t you say?’

‘We do say. And that’s why I’m here.’

Colburn seemed to be buying it. Tom breathed out a little. ‘This is it. And I gather you’ve got a particularly big Muslim problem right here in Houston.’

‘Sure have. And it ain’t going away.’

‘What do the authorities say? Are they concerned?’

The ice broke. Colburn thought this was hilarious. He looked at Don and Phil. Don joined in the laughter. Phil was examining something on his phone.

‘Concerned? Rollin’ out the red fuckin’ carpet’s more like it.’ Tom put on a slightly puzzled face: keen to learn.

‘See, they’re real good at making the right friends. Money talks loudest here, and some of these guys got serious megabucks. One of ’em, he’s got billions coming in from somewhere.’

‘Who’s that?’

‘You seen the mosque going up? The imam there, Zuabi, he’s loaded, enough to wage global jihad right from his pulpit. But he’s wised up. He’s got PR men and lawyers and all, got the mayor and Chamber of Commerce kissin’ his dirty fuckin’ brown ass.’

Don chipped in: ‘He’s a fuckin’ Syrian, for Pete’s sake. Very pious and God-fearin’. Only it ain’t God he’ll be fearing, right about—’

Tom saw Colburn throw a warning glance at Don, who stopped in mid-sentence.

‘That right?’ said Tom, casting an admiring eye over the racks of guns surrounding them.

‘Hey, Lester, over here a second.’

Phil had wandered towards the front of the shop and was looking out of the door at Kyle’s van.

‘I’m shootin’ the breeze with our English friend here.’

But Phil clearly wanted his boss’s attention urgently. It had to be the van. As if they were telepathically connected, all three now had their weapons in their hands, each of them close enough to get a clean shot but not so close that Tom could do anything about it. Welcome to Texas.

58

‘Is there a problem?’

Tom maintained the dismayed-visitor pose but he knew it was timed out.

Colburn was keeping his weapon in his hand below the waist but his eyes fixed on Tom. ‘In the back, motherfucker.’

Tom raised his hands.

They reached the doorway of the back office, where a desk was piled with paper and a monitor showed the CCTV. Phil was already through the door so there was going to be a second pair of eyes and another weapon on him when he passed through.

This was Texas; their buddy was dead and they were looking at the reason. Tom knew there was no thinking about what he had to do, he just had to get on and do it – and maybe come out of it the other end. He kept his eyes down, focused on Colburn’s gut with the weapon in the right hand, down by the thigh. He slammed his shoulder hard into Colburn, who toppled over, taking Don with him. This gave Tom just enough space to get past and through the doorway. He started towards Phil.

Everything was now in ultra-slow motion. Phil and Tom had eye-to-eye. Phil should have known what Tom was going to do; he could have stopped, he could have put his hands up.

Tom heard shouts behind him. He caught the reaction in Phil’s eyes as he jinked to the left and out of sight of the other two just outside the office, his left hand reaching down. Tom kept looking at the target. With his left hand he grabbed a fistful of his own shirt front and yanked it up, his elbow held high to make sure he could clear the material from his stomach and expose the pistol grip of the suppressed Glock. He’d only get one chance.

They still had eye contact. Phil started to shout but Tom didn’t hear. He pushed the web of his right hand down onto the pistol grip. If he got this wrong he wouldn’t be able to aim correctly: he would miss and die. As he felt his hand make contact with the pistol grip, his lower three fingers clasped tight around it. His index finger was outside the trigger guard, parallel with the barrel. He didn’t want to pull the trigger early and kill himself. Phil was still looking, still shouting.

Phil’s hand was nearly at his pocket.

Nothing else mattered for Tom, apart from bringing his weapon into the right position all in a fraction of a second.

Their eyes were still locked. Tom knew he was faster, and he saw that Phil knew he had lost. There was just a curling of the lips. Phil knew he was going to die.

As Tom’s pistol came out he flicked it parallel with the ground. No time to extend his arms and get into a stable firing position.

His left hand was still pulling his shirt out of the way and the pistol was now just level with his belt buckle. There was no need to look at it: he knew where it was and what it was pointing at. He kept his eyes on the target and Phil’s never left Tom’s.

Now the muzzle was clear from his waistband, Tom simply brought the weapon up, twisting his wrist to raise the weapon’s barrel until it was parallel with the ground and against his hip, making sure he cleared his body away from the muzzle as much as possible.

Bend that hip back and he knew he’d have a firm position for the pistol.

He pulled the trigger.

The weapon report seemed to bring everything back into real time. The first round hit Phil. Tom didn’t know where; he didn’t need to. His eyes told him all he wanted to know.

He kept on firing low into Phil. There was no such thing as overkill. If Phil could move, he could fire. If it took a whole magazine to be sure, then that was what he’d fire. He took three rounds until he was down onto the ground, writhing in pain and shock as blood spurted out. Tom could no longer see Phil’s hands. He was curled up in a ball, holding his stomach. Tom moved forward and fired two aimed shots at the head, then spun round.