Fortress

24

Tom moved briskly through St James’s Park in the hope that his head would have cleared by the time he reached his destination. Luckily Invicta’s headquarters were only a short walk from his father’s club, where he had stayed the night after an evening of rather too much drinking. He had read about the explosion in one of their hostels over breakfast but when he’d called Rolt’s office they had insisted that the meeting was still on.

The street had been blocked at either end by police Transits with mesh grilles over the windows. Armed police stood at either side of the front doors. One stepped forward as Tom approached.

‘Can I help?’ he said, in a tone that suggested help was the last thing on offer.

‘I’ve got an appointment with Vernon Rolt.’

‘Your name, please, sir?’

‘Buckingham.’

The officer stepped back and knocked on the door. A cop inside opened it. The first repeated Tom’s name.

The cop inside consulted a clipboard and nodded. The first officer’s expression changed. ‘Sorry, sir. It’s all due to the bombing.’

‘That’s confirmed now?’

‘’Fraid so.’

Tom went into the reception area. The place was strewn with the silver boxes of a TV crew. The receptionist was taking a call so he went straight past and followed the cables up the stairs.

A powerful light shone out of one of the doorways. In the corridor a young woman was standing beside a TV technician watching a monitor. She looked up as Tom approached and was about to shoo him away when she appeared to recognize him. ‘Are you Mr Rolt’s eleven o’clock?’

Tom gave her hand a firm, business-like shake. ‘Tom Buckingham.’

‘I’m Phoebe. He’s overrunning, got the BBC in there. Would you like to wait in the boardroom?’

‘This about the hostel?’

She nodded gravely.

‘I’ll linger here and listen, if that’s okay.’

He leaned against the wall outside Rolt’s office, where a couple of technicians were perched on the silver boxes. Phoebe stood beside him. He could see the two men in profile, Rolt and the BBC man interviewing him, but a monitor in front of one of the technicians showed the live feed. Tom expected Rolt to be smouldering with rage after the bombing. But if he was angry, he had it well under control. He sat upright but relaxed, his hands folded in his lap, a model of British restraint.

‘What our government and the opposition haven’t faced up to is the true mood of the public. A lot of people aren’t saying what they’re feeling out loud but it’s plain to see. They’ve just had enough.’

The reporter said, ‘Enough of what exactly?’

Rolt lifted his hands and let them drop again as if the answer was obvious. ‘Fear. They’ve had enough of being afraid.’

‘So, are you saying that the government should be considering more drastic measures?’

‘We know they’re scared of upsetting one small minority of the electorate for fear it will tip the balance in an election. But they’ve got to stop trying to be all things to all people. Hundreds of our men and women have died, thousands have sustained life-changing injuries in the War on Terror. And what have we got to show for their sacrifice? The people Invicta helps are asking, “What about the war here?”’

‘Are you saying there’s going to be a war here?’

Rolt wagged a finger at the interviewer. ‘Don’t put words into my mouth. I’m just repeating what they tell me.’

Tom observed how Rolt controlled the interview, fending off the reporter but at the same time delivering his message in his own words. The reporter’s eyes were gleaming as if he knew that what Rolt was saying would make headlines all over the media, and he’d have got it first.

‘And what would you like to say to the people who bombed your hostel?’

‘I’d say to them, “You have just forfeited your welcome in this country. You and your beliefs are not welcome here.” And I would challenge the government to follow through with that. I’d say to them, “It ends here. Inclusion has failed. It’s time to weed out the terrorists and remove them from the community.”’

‘To where?’

‘To wherever they can’t harm us.’

‘That sounds like a call to arms.’

‘Let’s say more of an en garde.’

‘Against the Muslim community?’

‘God, no. Don’t misunderstand me. Look, I can find you any number of law-abiding British Muslims who would be the first to say, “Do something about the extremists before it’s too late.” The government’s tried the warm fluffy approach — that’s failed. They’ve tried control orders — failed. If what these terrorists want is a caliphate, if they want Sharia law, there are places they can go and find that — but not here. The Huguenots, the Jews and all the other persecuted groups who have settled here came to these shores in search of tolerance and freedom. That tolerance and freedom is now under threat and we need to recognize that.’

The reporter frowned. ‘What you’re proposing doesn’t sound like tolerance to me.’

Rolt smiled regretfully. ‘How can you honestly tolerate people whose stated aim is to kill and maim?’

The reporter looked uncomfortable.

Rolt continued, ‘We have turned a blind eye to extremist ideologies. We have let them import terror into our green and pleasant land. For their own good as much as ours, they would be happier elsewhere.’

‘So, let me get this clear. You’re advocating we repatriate people we regard as a threat to society?’

‘I’m advocating freedom from fear.’ Rolt leaned forward. ‘Go to the people staying in our hostels. Talk to the men and women from our armed services who are struggling to find their way back into the country that sent them off to war. Add up the expenditure on policing the potential terrorists, the incarceration of the convicted terrorists, the surveillance of suspects. Then add up what it would take to give those ex-servicemen and — women a decent job and a decent home. To give them some dignity, something in return for risking their lives to uphold our freedoms. What’s the point of their risking their lives if they come home to find the place awash with folk who want to take their freedom away?’

‘That’s pretty strong stuff.’

‘Not really. Ask yourself why none of our politicians is saying this. They’re so scared of alienating these “communities” that they’ve lost their nerve. Give the electorate some credit. Draw a line between the good, productive, useful members of our society — and those who aren’t. Get the good ones to help you weed out the others.’

The last time Tom had seen Rolt in fighting form was in the boxing ring. He was a scholarship boy with none of the advantages of his peers, who had tried hard at everything but never came top. Tom had respected him for his dogged determination and refusal to be put down by snobbery. But he had beaten him squarely in three rounds. Rolt had had the drive but not the super-quick reactions to deliver his punches with sufficient surprise or to dodge Tom’s relentless battering.

‘But, Mr Rolt, isn’t this just your anger talking — because your hostel was bombed?’

‘You ask if I’m angry. I’m bloody furious. Furious that this has been allowed to happen. Our politicians have yet to come up with an answer so I’m offering them one.’

‘One last thing, you’ve sunk your personal fortune into your hostels and apprenticeships. What happens when the money runs out?’

A flicker of hesitation. He hadn’t seen that one coming. ‘I’ll do what any decent businessman does and convince others that my projects are worth investing in.’

Phoebe leaned over to Tom and whispered, ‘Sorry about this. I hope we haven’t messed up your day.’

‘No. It’s very useful. He’s very measured under the circumstances.’

Phoebe’s eyes lingered on him. She was in her mid-twenties, he guessed, a blonde English rose, just the sort his mother would like. He thought of Delphine and how far away she seemed now.

Rolt was on his feet. He shook the hand of the interviewer and turned. The cold, focused gaze melted when he saw Tom. He strode towards him, hand outstretched. ‘I didn’t think you’d come.’

‘Why not?’

Rolt’s hand wrapped itself round Tom’s. ‘An old schoolmate calling out of the blue — who needs that?’

They both laughed.

‘And with all that’s going on.’

‘I was very sorry to hear about your people.’ They shared a moment’s silence before Tom continued, nodding at the TV crew packing up, ‘I see you’ve not lost your taste for a fight.’

Rolt gave Tom a knowing smile. ‘Nor you, I hear.’

There was a note of compassion in Rolt’s tone. But Tom ignored it. He had other reasons for being there.

Phoebe came and stood by Rolt’s elbow. ‘Perhaps you’d like to get away from this lot. Why don’t you go through to the office and I’ll fetch some tea?’

Rolt showed Tom the way down the hall. The office was impressive, with floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out onto St James’s Park. It must be costing him a fortune. And that livid skyscape of red and orange over the fireplace. Was it an original?

‘Don’t tell me that Turner’s real?’

‘Isn’t it a beaut? They used to think it was pigment degradation. Now it’s believed the colours are accurate — refraction by volcanic ash in the atmosphere.

‘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.’