Fortress

69

There was something deeply comforting about walking back into his father’s club. After all that had happened in Texas, Tom felt calmed by the wooden panelling, the quiet, understated tone of the place. Even the frayed edges of the rug on the landing outside the members’ dining room was strangely reassuring.

‘There you are!’ Hugh rose to his feet. ‘I was starting to think we’d lost you.’

Tom glanced at his watch: thirty minutes late. It was odd that, after all his years in the Regiment, his father should fret about his being half an hour late for dinner; ridiculous, and rather endearing. He felt surprisingly happy to see the old man.

‘Sorry, I was in the bath.’

‘You?’

‘I needed a serious soak to get some of that oily American grime off me.’ He didn’t say that he had stood under the shower in his hotel room before he flew home, watching the last flecks of blood floating off him: his own, Jefferson’s, Kyle’s, Colburn’s and, most distressingly, Beth’s. A lot of people’s blood, not to mention the memory of Carter going over the balcony. It wasn’t the sight of blood per se, or death, that was shocking to him, but the world he seemed to have stepped into. The rules were different. And he didn’t like the people who made them. Worse, he didn’t trust them.

His father peered at him. ‘You look exhausted. But never mind. Sit down and have a drink. This Cabernet Sauvignon’s really quite good. A Le Bonheur 2006. Or would you prefer to open with a G and T?’

‘No, pour me some of that. Thanks.’

‘Did you have a good trip?’

Tom couldn’t think of when he had ever been more glad to be back in London. He sniffed the wine — it smelt like an old cigar box — then drank. It was rich, dark and oaky.

‘Hey, take your time, we’ve got all evening.’

‘Don’t tell me to slow down, Dad.’

‘Sorry.’

Tom could see his father’s concern etched on his face. He knew he must seem tired and distracted, as his eyes roved around the room.

‘Tom, is everything all right?’

Tom looked at his father, his worried, careworn face. ‘I can’t begin to tell you how good it is to be back.’

‘Was it successful — your mission?’

He had told him it was for Rolt but hadn’t gone into any more detail than that. ‘You know I can’t talk about it.’

‘Oh, come on, it was only a PR job for Invicta — wasn’t it?’

‘PR job?’

‘Oh, come on! You’re not in the SAS now.’

‘Look, it was and it wasn’t. It’s complicated, okay?’

All his working life he had made a point of never lying to his parents. There were many things he could never tell them about his work but he refused to lie about it.

Hugh looked uncomfortable as he took another gulp of wine.

‘Dad — what is it?’

‘It’s just that… I rather feel I owe you an apology.’

‘Why?’

‘Getting you involved with him.’

Tom put his glass on the table. Yes, he probably did need to slow down. Right now he felt like getting well and truly shitfaced, but that wouldn’t do at all, not here, and definitely not in this company. ‘How d’you mean?’

‘I think I may have been a bit — premature.’

‘Well, you weren’t the only one pushing me in his direction as it turned out, but why the change of heart? You were so gung-ho before.’

Hugh Buckingham paused while the wine waiter topped up their glasses. ‘I think we’ll need another of those when you have a moment.’

The waiter nodded and glided away. Hugh leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘The last few days, seeing him all over the media and so forth, I mean it was terrible what happened to his hostel, awful — those poor men — but it’s put him even more in the spotlight.’

‘And?’

Hugh blew out a long breath. ‘Well, he’s very presentable, very calm, very reasoned. But when you actually add up what he’s saying — well, stop me if you think I’m wrong — it’s pretty inflammatory.’

Tom found himself on the spot. He played for time while he worked out how to respond. ‘Go on, then. Get it off your chest.’

‘Well, in the past people like him were always on the fringe. They’d make a bit of a noise, get a few headlines, then disappear back into the swamp they came from. But Rolt, with his reasoned tone and presentable looks, he’s gone mainstream, if you like. And instead of putting a cordon sanitaire round him and giving him a wide berth, everyone seems to be climbing on his bandwagon. Half of Westminster is queuing up for a photo-opportunity with him, as if he’s some kind of magic bullet for their fading popularity. I have a bad feeling in my water that something quite fundamental is happening and I don’t like it one bit.’

‘Is that so?’ Tom knew he was coming over as defensive when he had no need to be. Was it that he didn’t want to go down in his father’s estimation — even if it had been his idea in the first place?

‘Well, you must have noticed.’

‘I’ve just been in America, remember, but go on. I’m interested in your point of view.’ Tom sat back, prepared for a lecture.

‘Well, if you follow his argument to its logical conclusion, it’s damn near forcible repatriation. Even Enoch Powell didn’t advocate that. And in some cases, because we’re also talking about people who were born here — there’s no other way of putting it — it’s deportation. And I’ll tell you something else.’

He gestured discreetly at the other diners and lowered his voice. ‘It’s putting the jump leads on some of these old farts who’ve been minding their Ps and Qs, toeing the politically correct line and so forth. There’s all kinds of nasty stuff coming out of the woodwork. In fact,’ he jabbed a forefinger at the table, ‘it almost smacks of what went on in Germany in the thirties. And I don’t say that lightly.’

What could Tom say? There’d been many times he and his father hadn’t seen eye to eye, but this wasn’t one of them. In fact, he agreed with every word.

And he now saw very clearly where he stood. He had gone to Texas with an open mind, pissed off with the Army, with MI5, in fact the whole British Establishment, and had plunged head first into an entirely alien world, like nothing he had experienced before. Having seen what he had seen — and survived — he had emerged with a burning desire to get to the bottom of what Stutz and Rolt were up to and stop it in its tracks. He had successfully inserted himself into Invicta so was better placed than anyone to chase down what was going on. It would be madness to bail out now.

But he couldn’t let on to his father, not yet.

‘Look, Dad, it’s difficult.’

Hugh looked indignant. ‘I don’t see what’s difficult about it at all. You don’t owe the man anything. I apologize for ever having got you involved with him, but I’m not happy with the idea of my son going around with a man who’s talking up what amounts to ethnic cleansing. One more atrocity like that hostel and he’s going to have public opinion right alongside.’

Hugh’s voice had risen a couple of decibels as it was apt to do when he was on a hobby-horse. A couple at the next table were staring at them.

Tom raised his hands to his father in a placatory gesture. ‘Please, Dad, can we not discuss this now? I’ve had a pretty gruelling few days and I just need to chill. Okay?’

But Hugh wasn’t looking at his son or listening to him: his eyes were fixed on something behind him. ‘Well, talk of the devil.’

Tom looked round. Rolt had just entered the dining room. He seemed to be lingering in the doorway, as if to make the most of his entrance. Conversations petered out and there was a hush as everyone gradually became aware of his presence.

All eyes were on him, the man of the moment. The whole atmosphere of the room had changed. Someone started to clap and soon a ripple of applause spread throughout the room. Tom glanced at his father, whose hands remained firmly clenched in front of him, a knowing eyebrow raised. Less than a week ago such a display of impromptu adulation would have been unimaginable. But Hugh was right: Rolt had picked a scab and uncovered a festering sore underneath. And it alarmed Tom to see just how vulnerable people were to his charm and charisma.

He looked away, but it was too late. Rolt had spotted him from his vantage-point in the doorway and was striding towards their table, with another man in tow. There was nothing else to do: Tom got to his feet as Rolt bore down on them.

‘Tom, you dark horse! You slipped back to London without passing by. I’m crestfallen.’ Rolt pumped his hand.

‘You remember my father, Hugh Buckingham.’

Hugh, ever the gentleman, stood up and they shook hands.

‘I really am in your debt for sending Tom my way. I don’t mind telling you he’s the best thing that’s happened to Invicta in a long while.’

‘Well, it’s very nice to hear that. Always good for a father to see his son getting rave reviews.’

Rolt turned to the man he was with. ‘Alec, meet Tom Buckingham, my latest recruit, who’s been doing sterling work for me across the pond. Tom, Alec Clements, cabinet secretary.’

From the Office of the Cabinet Secretary. The ‘Alec’ on the compliments slip in the book on Stutz’s coffee-table.

‘Delighted.’ Clements nodded to both of them, his lack of interest transparent.

‘Tom, can I have a quick word?’ Rolt put an arm round him and moved him aside, leaving Hugh with Clements.

Rolt put his mouth close to Tom’s ear. ‘Well done. You really stepped up. As I said on the phone, Stutz filled me in. I seriously owe you. Come by first thing tomorrow, promise?’

Tom had already agreed to meet Woolf for a debrief. ‘Can we make it the afternoon? I seriously need to catch up on some sleep.’

Rolt sighed, then smiled. ‘Of course. But the pressure’s on now. Lots to do.’

They made their farewells and Clements steered him away. Tom and Hugh sat back down again.

‘Well, that was extraordinary. I’ve never seen adulation like it in this room, apart from when Andy Murray came in. Proves my point. Something big is happening.’

But Tom wasn’t listening: he was thinking about Rolt’s companion. ‘Tell me about Clements.’

Hugh’s contempt was only too evident. ‘An operator par excellence. A ferociously bright Civil Service mandarin who’s clawed his way to the top post in the Cabinet Office by stabbing his rivals in the back. The cabinet secretary is basically the most powerful unelected official in government, the main source of policy advice for the PM. That means he’s at the very heart of where the most important decisions are made.’

‘So being seen with him is a vote of confidence for Rolt.’

‘You bet. Clements is the type whose every action is a calculation. Bringing Rolt to dinner is de facto his endorsement of the man, and that will reverberate round Whitehall. Shocking, really.’

‘Why?’

‘People in Clements’s position don’t change when there’s an election. They’re in for the long haul. Chances are he’s laying down a marker for whoever is in power now or after the election.’

‘Aren’t you crediting him with too much power?’

‘Not outright power. Let’s call it influence.’

‘So Clements wouldn’t associate himself with anyone he didn’t regard as useful to him in some way.’

‘Absolutely.’

‘So giving a present to or having himself photographed with the wrong kind of person…’

‘Just wouldn’t happen. He’s much too smart. But why the sudden interest in Clements? I thought this sort of political minutiae bored the pants off you.’

‘Maybe I’ve changed.’

Hugh put down his glass and put his hand over Tom’s. They didn’t go in for physical contact: Tom had made that clear years ago. ‘All I can say is, I hope you’ve not got yourself into something you can’t get out of.’

But he was already in, and in deep. It was time to move the conversation on. ‘I’ll do what I have to do, okay? Trust me on that.’

Without knowing it, his father had just confirmed Tom’s suspicions. Stutz’s connections didn’t just stretch up through the Washington bureaucracy. They ran deep into Whitehall. But for now he had to keep this part of the jigsaw to himself. With some careful handling he managed to move his father to other matters while they ate their steak, but the relaxed evening he had been hoping for had turned into just the opposite.

All through the meal, he noticed Hugh had been glancing at his phone a lot. As the plates were being cleared, it buzzed and he announced that Tom should head out to the front desk. ‘Someone’s waiting for you.’