Fortress

86

When Tom arrived at Invicta there was still a strong security presence outside, including a couple of police BMWs in the street, which had been cordoned off to all traffic.

He bounded into the building and up the stairs.

Since his return, Rolt had been full of praise for his efforts in Texas but so far had failed to be specific about any further duties, which Tom took to be a sign that he was still on probation in some way.

When he came into his office one of the tech guys was fiddling with a computer screen that had been set up on the boardroom table. Rolt was animated. ‘Ah, just in time.’

Phoebe followed him in with a pair of envelopes. ‘The reception tonight. You’ll need these.’ She handed one to each of them.

Tom opened his.

The United States Ambassador to the Court of St James, Denham Smart III, requests the pleasure…

‘Fuck that,’ said Rolt.

Phoebe looked taken aback. ‘But it’s come from Number Ten. They said it’s in recognition—’ She stopped when she saw Rolt’s face reddening.

‘Yeah, yeah, in recognition of the fact that the PM hasn’t got the guts to meet me in person. Well, fuck him. I’m not some groupie who’s going to wait in line for a handshake.’

Tom glanced warily at Rolt. It was a side of him that he hadn’t seen before, a fragile ego, enraged at being spurned.

‘I’ll send your apologies, then.’

‘If you must.’ He shooed her out.

The techie was finishing up. ‘Should be okay for you now, sir. You want me to stay and check the signal doesn’t cut out?’

‘No, off you go.’

Rolt waited until the man had gone. Then his whole demeanour changed. The outburst forgotten, he was now shining with almost child-like glee. ‘You’re going to appreciate this.’

‘What is it?’

‘What shall we call it? A bonus? A consideration for your good work in Texas.’

‘It was nothing much.’

‘Nothing much? You were on test — and you passed with flying colours.’

‘Okay.’

‘It wasn’t just you who was being tested — it was Invicta. Stutz doesn’t put his money out there until he knows what he’s investing in. You delivered, big-time. We got the investment, and this is a gift from him. Sitting comfortably?’

Tom smiled and nodded.

Rolt reached for the remote. ‘Okay, we’re live from Kabul. And…’

The screen came to life. A bare room, a man hunched over, manacled to a chair, stripped to the waist.

Someone out of vision prodded him with some kind of stick or baton, then placed it under his chin to lift his head. The face came into view.

Tom felt every muscle in his body tense.

It was Qazi, the Afghan National Army lieutenant from Bastion.

Rolt was grinning. ‘Stutz felt he owed you this, after what you did for him in Texas.’ He leaned towards the microphone on the computer. ‘Okay, gentlemen, we’re ready this end.’

An American voice, presumably the person off-screen with the stick, addressed Qazi.

‘Okeydokes, friend. Ready and waiting. Do your stuff, like we agreed.’

Rolt leaned towards Tom as if this were an everyday occurrence. ‘See? Stutz has his people embedded all over. He had them track Qazi down. They lifted him in Kabul yesterday. He’s in one of their secure compounds.’

The American prodded Qazi. ‘Let’s get this show on the road.’

The image was monochrome but it was clear that blood was all over Qazi’s chin, his eyes were bloodshot, his face was battered and swollen, and when he opened his mouth his front teeth were gone.

‘I—’ He erupted into a series of choking coughs. The American stepped forward and slapped him hard on the side of his head. He started to fall sideways out of the chair. Another man appeared and pushed him upright.

‘… Second Lieutenant Amhamid Qazi, committed the…’

‘C’mon, spit it out.’

‘… murder of Sergeant David Whitehead of the…’

He doubled over and vomited.

Tom glanced at Rolt, whose face wore an expression of triumph.

‘No court, no drawn-out inquiry, no compromise, no plea bargaining. This is how to get things done.’

Tom said nothing. Inside he was revolted. He could see Qazi had had the shit beaten out of him so the confession was worthless. Those men would never put him back on the streets. He knew he was looking at a dead man. This was no kind of justice that he subscribed to, but the intensity of Rolt’s gaze told him that what happened in the next seconds would decide his own future with Invicta. And he figured that another five thousand miles away, in Houston, Stutz was watching — most probably with Lederer sucking a popsicle. Another day, another test. Tom drew some grim satisfaction out of stringing them along.

‘This is your opportunity. You say the word. What happened in Bastion was wrong. These guys’ll see that justice is done for your friend.’

The American with the stick now had a pistol in his hand. He turned and looked down the lens. Tom turned towards Rolt. He was holding open a door. All he had to do was step through. Tom leaned forward so his command would be loud and clear.

‘Do it.’

Qazi’s head snapped back as half his skull blew away with the blast. The force sent the man and the chair slamming onto the floor. It was all over.

The shooter turned to the lens and gave a small salute. Job done. The screen went black.

Rolt reached over to Tom and shook his hand. ‘Welcome to the next level.’

‘Thank you. I’m honoured.’ Tom swallowed. ‘What does it entail, the next level?’

Rolt got to his feet and strode over to the fireplace, then stood in front of it, as if he was about to recite a prepared speech. ‘Invicta is becoming a force to be reckoned with in the country. Politicians are beating a path to my door. The public are listening. We’ve warmed up the climate of fear. Yes, we’ve had to make our own sacrifices to get there. The hostel was one of those. But gestures like that speak louder than words.’

Tom noted the admission — or as close to one as Rolt had got — of his complicity in the carnage Vestey had arranged. He carried on listening as if he was hanging on his every word.

‘There may have to be others but this is a fact of war, and we are waging a war we are going to win. Not in some far-off desert but right here in British towns and cities. Invicta needs to be ready — it has support, in the Army, the police, from friends all the way up the Establishment — ready to rid the country of the cancer that’s eating us from within. We’ve started a fire and we need to let it burn just a little longer before we put it out for good.’

‘More “gestures”, you mean.’

‘To bring things to the boil.’

‘And where do I fit into this?’

‘We need to be more visible. We need to look the part.’

‘And what’s in it for me, exactly?’

‘You’re the model, Tom. You have the skills, the experience, you’ve proved your worth, and you’re as comfortable in the gentlemen’s clubs of Pall Mall as on the battlefield. But your story will also resonate with the servicemen and — women who’ve risked their lives for their country in unwinnable wars overseas, only to be dumped back on the high street with barely a thank-you. I need your help to mobilize them.’

Tom said nothing. Rolt was in his stride: he didn’t need encouraging.

‘We don’t need to deploy the rhetoric of racism, we don’t need to scare off law-abiding people of other faiths and backgrounds, if they accept the rule of law. We don’t need paramilitary paraphernalia. We want to look — aspirational. And promote ourselves as the only sane alternative to chaos.’

Rolt came back towards him and sat down, his face close to Tom’s. ‘So, to cut to the chase, Tom, I want you to be my number two, by my side, speaking for us and planning our future with me, handling operations, setting an example.’

Rolt outlined the ‘package’: triple what he’d been getting in the Regiment, plus allowances, car and accommodation. ‘Well?’

‘I’m very flattered. I need to think about it.’

Rolt looked put out. He’d clearly been expecting an instant yes. Tom stood up.

‘Tomorrow, okay?’