Fortress (32 page)

‘I’m sorry, Tom. I’m sorry for this country, which I did love. And I’m sorry for you.’

She turned and walked briskly towards Piccadilly. He knew it was useless to follow.

71

Westford Airfield, Oxfordshire

‘And that’s everything?’ Mandler peered at Tom over his half-glasses, his arms tightly folded over his chest.

‘Chapter and verse.’ Well, sort of: he’d glossed over some of the more extreme moments and left out any mention of the Clements connection. He wasn’t going to share that with the group. It had to be for Mandler’s ears only.

‘Quite a frantic little city break you seem to have had.’

As Tom sat down he scanned the listeners. There were seven of them round the table: Woolf on his immediate left, looking like he had neither slept nor changed his clothes while Tom had been away; Rafiq and Cindy, his sidekicks, whom he had contrived to keep from being reassigned; and Deakin and Brandeis, a pair of geeky analysts on loan from MI6 for their expertise in US affairs. The draughty hangar groaned and creaked in the wind.

‘Was it really necessary to dispatch Carter?’ asked Mandler.

‘He dispatched himself.’

‘And if he hadn’t?’

Tom gave Mandler a cold look. They both knew the answer to that one.

‘Either way, you risked blowing your cover.’

‘My judgement at the time was that it was worth the risk. Beth was killed because she’d asked him about Zuabi. Kyle Pope decided I had to die because I’d heard the same name. For God’s sake, Zuabi’s connection to Stutz is one that people are prepared to kill to hide.’

Brandeis raised a finger. ‘If I could come in here, our reading of the reaction in Washington suggests the Bureau haven’t exactly put the flags at half-mast for Carter. He wasn’t top of anyone’s Christmas-card list. They seem content with the conclusion that it was suicide. More than content, I’d say.’

Mandler gave a grudging nod.

Woolf was wagging a finger to get attention. He looked like he badly needed some sleep. ‘But it still means we have to be extremely careful with the Americans. We don’t know how far Stutz’s influence spreads into Washington. We go to them for help, we risk blowing it all. Could we please turn to what we’ve got on your imam?’

Brandeis got to his feet and plugged his laptop into the screen. A long-lens shot of an elderly man appeared, partly obscured by the crowd around him. He was swathed in white, with a stiff embroidered hat, and had a bushy grey beard. His heavy-lidded eyes were lowered as if in prayer. The same man Tom had seen on Jefferson’s computer in the trailer.

‘Okay, we
think
this is the most recent shot of Asim Zuabi, taken four months ago. And here’s his mug shot when he first came on the grid.’

An emaciated figure, his head shaved, eyes sunken. He looked nothing like the later shot.

‘It’s early days so what we have is sketchy. In 2004, he walks into the US Consulate in Beirut. Why they didn’t spit him straight back out is still a mystery. It suggests he had names or some information that gave them cause to hang on to him. We don’t yet know where he was born or raised. He told them he was based at a mosque in a village north of Aleppo, which has since been shelled to fuck. But another source tells us that, prior to becoming a cleric, he spent some years working oil wells round the Gulf. Maybe that’s where he hooked up with Stutz. Whatever and wherever that connection occurred, the speed with which he was processed suggests that someone had a hand in fast-tracking his exit. He had an American passport and a green card in two weeks.’

‘What about family?’ asked Tom. ‘The mosque is supposed to be dedicated to one of his daughters.’

‘There are five known children by three different wives, none of whom accompanied him to America. We don’t know where they are now. If they’re still in Syria it’s going to be hard to get any reliable data but we’re working on it. He’s believed to live in a house close to the mosque. He has a couple of servants and a secretary, all men, who live there as well.’

Brandeis flicked through several more shots of the mosque under construction, the
Houston Chronicle
photo-op Tom had seen, the house and neighbourhood: it all looked very suburban-American, all incredibly normal.

‘There’s nothing ostentatious about his lifestyle. This is his car, a ’ninety-eight Chevy Impala. He lives a very low-tech life. Just a landline into the home, no Internet on site. And no email ID that we’ve found so far. We think this is significant.’

Mandler peered at Brandeis doubtfully. ‘There’s a lot of “maybes” to this story.’

Woolf came straight back. ‘Doesn’t that strike you as odd? That he’s in charge of the biggest new mosque in the area, the focal point for the Muslim community across Houston and for miles around, yet the guy has no email account? Terror networks are bypassing electronic communication altogether to the extent that they’re using messengers and couriers. His lack of visibility makes him all the more suspicious.’

Brandeis was clearly relieved to have his point endorsed. ‘And as Tom told us, before Carter inconveniently jumped to his death he said Zuabi was a
conduit
, didn’t he? That he had some kind of network.’

Mandler’s impatience, which Tom had been aware of all through the briefing, was starting to make itself felt. ‘Well, thank you for that rather inconsequential appraisal.’

Brandeis, cowed, sat down again as Mandler took the floor. ‘So, if I might sum up, we have Rolt and Invicta handsomely financed by an American benefactor, with deep links to the military industrial complex, whose company is also pioneering – what was it?’

‘Predictive tracking,’ said Tom.

‘Which, frankly, strikes me as voodoo but there you are, call me old-fashioned. And Lederer and Stutz seem to be singing from the same hymn sheet as Rolt – that some kind of mass deportation is the answer to all our ills. We have Stutz’s dark hints of something around the corner but we’ve no idea what, and tenuous links to an obscure cleric with no form who seems to be a virtual recluse yet has apparently nothing particular to hide. What’s more, there’s nothing whatever to connect Zuabi to the UK or Rolt and Invicta. I’m sorry to have to bring you all back to earth, people, but if it’s not domestic, it’s not MI5’s responsibility to chase it up. Can we please move on to more pressing matters closer to home?’

‘Suppose Rolt is just an appendage of Stutz’s operation? Stutz is where the finance is coming from.’

Mandler eyed Tom wearily, then unfolded his arms and raised his hands heavenwards. ‘Which strengthens the case for briefing the Americans about what we have.’

Woolf was almost out of his chair. ‘If we do that, we lose all control of what we’ve got! There’s every chance it will get straight back to Stutz and all our leads will go cold. Tom – who’s risked his neck to get on-side with these people – would be blown. We’d be back to square one. Can I ask that we, please, park talking to the Americans at least until we’re further on with Invicta?’

Mandler sighed heavily, his exasperation with Woolf plain for all to see. ‘I don’t have to remind you that this is an extremely sensitive time for our relationship with the Americans. The PM has staked the election on this summit with the President. We’re all going to have to be on our best behaviour for this wretched event. If it comes out that my Service is intimately connected to the deaths of not one but two FBI agents, a lot of toys will be thrown out of the pram, even more if they find we’ve withheld information because we don’t trust them. I hope you follow my line of thinking – I’m only stating the bloody obvious.’

Mandler paused. To Tom, it looked as if MI5’s DG had let too much of his own exasperation with his political masters show. Mandler turned back to Woolf. ‘So how
do
you propose to get further on with Invicta?’

Woolf had been caught off guard. He hadn’t bargained for Mandler’s dampener. It was time for him to come to the rescue. ‘Go back to Vestey and the shooting in Walthamstow. We know about his connection via his brother to SCO19. I know I said that in my judgement he’s not a good enough shot to have been the perp, but maybe he’s the connection to whoever did the job. You either need to eliminate him or find a stronger link.’

They all looked at him.

‘You have his entire history. He’s at the shooting range most days, isn’t he?’

‘Or doing security for one of his VIP clients.’

‘Right. So why don’t you get him out of the way? And we’ll go and have a look round his place. And the supposed hostel bomber. Are you still sitting on the evidence that he was DOA at the scene?’

Woolf glanced at Mandler and nodded. Mandler shook his head.

‘You do realize the consequences for our relationship with Scotland Yard when they find out? So, the sooner you have something concrete the better. What else do you know about him, other than that he’s one of the returnees?’

Rafiq, who had been studying something on his phone, looked up. ‘We’ve only just tracked down his family. They went to ground after his name was published.’

‘Well, if he did die before the blast, how come he was there at all? And what about survivors? Do any of them remember anything?’

No one spoke. It was becoming horribly clear to Tom why these questions had gone unanswered. It wasn’t for any lack of commitment to the investigation but a consequence of Woolf’s lack of resources. What had changed, Tom realized, was his own position. Having been furious with Woolf at the start for his clumsy attempt to recruit him behind his back, he now had a grudging respect for his staying power. He could also see how Mandler was between a rock and a hard place, knowing he would have to carry the can for a wayward investigation that stepped all over the toes of the other services and pissed off the Americans.

Mandler folded his glasses and slipped them into his top pocket. ‘I’ll have to go to the home secretary if we’re going to be turning over Vestey’s place without the Plod.’

‘Well? Can you?’

Tom felt his frustration with all this procedure getting the better of him.

‘All right. But if you draw a blank there, I’m shutting you down.’

He turned to Tom. ‘Sorry to be a killjoy, but these are hard times. Thanks, all.’

The meeting was over. Mandler was on his feet and heading for the door. Tom followed him out.

Halfway to his car, Tom caught up with him and put a hand on his shoulder to turn him round. Mandler stepped back abruptly as if he thought he was about to get a fist in his face.

‘Barely a week ago I was made to carry the can in Bastion. You fold on this, I’m going to be right back where I was, in the shit for sticking my neck out, but this time I’ll have the wrath of Rolt and Stutz to deal with, and after what I’ve seen of them, I don’t fancy my chances. You’ve got to come off the fence and get behind this. Woolf’s operating with one hand tied behind his back.’

Mandler sighed, as though the fight had gone out of him.

‘And there’s something else you need to know.’ Tom told him about the gift from the Cabinet Office in Stutz’s penthouse, and the photo of Clements.

Mandler listened without comment, which Tom could only hope was a sign that it had sunk in, then shook his head mournfully. ‘Do you have any idea what pressure I’m under? The country’s in uproar, the PM’s polls are flat-lining, and he’s only a few months away from an election. Plus the cabinet are all scheming against each other, and most of the Whitehall departments are at each other’s throats. The home secretary and the Met are barely on speaking terms. Now we’ve got this bloody summit, which the PM’s staked his survival on, so London’s going to be on lockdown. I’ve got a lot bigger worries on my plate than what happens to you.’

‘I’m not just thinking of myself. Don’t you understand that? The stability of the whole country’s at stake.’

Mandler nodded at the hangar. ‘Get me some red meat and you’ll get the resources to fight your battle.’

‘
Our
battle,’ said Tom, but Mandler was already in the car.

72

10 Downing Street, London

Everything about the prime minister should have suggested a man at the top of his game, thought his home secretary. Sprawled over his sofa he was tanned, with not a single grey hair and no unattractive bags under the eyes, the signature facial feature of anyone in the top job. The neck was developing a bit of a wattle, Sarah Garvey noted, a hangover from a crash diet he had embarked on a year ago. And he was doing his best to look relaxed in a polo shirt, lightweight chinos and loafers. The trouble was, he was in the shit and he knew it.

‘Okay, Derek, hit me with it.’

Farmer glanced at her. ‘Sure you wouldn’t like to clear the room first?’

The PM smiled grimly. ‘I think Sarah will have heard worse things about me than anything you can deliver, and said them too, most probably.’

She gave him a grim smile back, relieved that she was still a confidante, that she hadn’t been eclipsed – yet.

Farmer sighed and launched in. ‘Okay, so this sample’s taken from the party faithful, which is what makes it particularly worrying as they were giving you a pretty easy ride before all this chaos. Sixty-five per cent of those polled said they thought the PM had not handled the crisis well, seventy per cent say you should have broken off your meeting at Camp David and come home to take charge.’

The PM showed no reaction.

‘And seventy-three per cent say they don’t believe the enhanced Anglo-American relationship will deliver either prosperity or security.’

Garvey noted a pink tinge spreading over the PM’s cheeks. He lurched forward and jabbed the air. ‘Yeah? Well, bollocks to that. And POTUS and I won’t be announcing any detail before our summit anyhow. How the fuck do they think they know? Honestly, Derek, where do you find these people?’

His neck quivered, causing her to wince inwardly. She also disliked his un-ironic use of the presidential acronym, one of his other less attractive features being his fondness for diminutives and nicknames to denote new best friends.

Farmer ploughed on. At least he didn’t mince his words. ‘Understood, Prime Minister. But the fact remains that, with an election five months away, the other figures are troubling.’