‘And before that?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘A stint for the MoD press office, then an attempt to be a freelance journalist, God help me.’
Her answer had slipped out too easily, Tom thought. He took another sip of his mojito while she made an attempt to deflect the conversation from her. ‘So what’s he offered you?’
‘Oh, a sort of envoy role.’
‘Gosh, wow.’
Her excitement seemed out of proportion.
‘I thought you would have known that.’
She shrugged. ‘He keeps his cards very close to his chest.’
‘He’s been very open with me.’
‘He makes up his mind about people very quickly. Everyone’s either friend or foe. Nothing in between. I’m sure you made the right impression. Besides, he’s been looking for someone like you for a while.’
‘What does “someone like me” mean exactly?’ Tom watched her closely; on the surface she appeared to be quite relaxed, in her stride.
‘You might have noticed on the campus that the men, they’re… well, a lot of them have had a bad time and they’re mostly… how do I put this? From less advantaged backgrounds. He doesn’t get many of your sort. That’s why he was so keen to meet you. Or meet you again, I should say.’
‘Clever of you to track me down. Was it hard?’
‘Part of my job is to be a talent scout for him. He needs what he calls a better class of ex-servicemen, not just victims but victors. People who can act for him on the ground. It’s my job to know everything about his background and who he knows or has known. When I discovered you were on your way back from Afghanistan, I thought he’d like to know. He’s always looking to recruit new blood.’
A very well-crafted answer, thought Tom.
‘And how did you do that?’
‘Do what?’
‘Track me down.’
She held his gaze. Tom decided she must have been well trained. ‘An old contact at the MoD, who’s also an Invicta supporter. He helps where he can with lists of returning soldiers.’
‘And you happened to recognize my name because you knew Rolt and I were contemporaries at school.’
She smiled a bit too eagerly. ‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘And you managed to get hold of my phone numbers.’
She gave a coquettish smile and took a sip of her drink. ‘Well, I was a journalist.’
‘He must have been very pleased with you.’
She looked temporarily lost. ‘He expects a hundred and ten per cent.’
‘And total loyalty.’
She smiled emphatically. ‘Mm.’
‘So he’d be pretty pissed off with you if he found out you were working for someone else.’
She closed her eyes and gave an exaggerated shudder. ‘God, yes.’
‘But you’d tough it out, wouldn’t you — if he accused you?’
She stared at him with an amused smile, as if she was pretending to enjoy not knowing where this banter was going.
‘And you’d be very plausible. You’d challenge him on it — insist he backed up the claim.’
She took a much bigger sip of her mojito.
‘Well?’
His whole demeanour had changed. Not overtly threatening, just a cold, penetrating stare.
She put her glass down and positioned it on the coaster. ‘Yes, I would.’
‘And if I went to him and told him that you couldn’t have seen my name on any list because the MoD never lists the movements of the SAS, and that my phone number is privileged, is never on anyone’s file…’
Her calm and seductive serenity was starting to fray. Tom suspected that inside she felt as though she was clinging to a very slippery windowsill.
‘… and that therefore I’ve been set up…’
‘I’m sorry, Tom, but I really don’t understand what you’re saying.’
A last-ditch attempt. She was off the windowsill, falling to her doom. A bit of him felt sorry for her — she was only doing her job. But mostly he was angry. He’d been played in Afghanistan, humiliated in front of senior officers, made to carry the can for a brutal murder. And now someone else was manipulating him.
He leaned across the table and put his lips very close to her ear. ‘Take out your phone and call your case officer. Say you’d like him to join us for a drink.’
34
‘This is all rather awkward.’
Tom said nothing.
Woolf’s eyes had a slightly desperate look, like that of a man who had had a stroke and was thinking far more than his features would allow him to express. He and Tom had met before, on the Eurostar hijacking: Woolf had been MI5’s man on the ground when the SAS had gone into the tunnel. Unlike the suits and mandarins, who had rushed in after it was over to claim their slice of the credit, he had taken a back seat. And for that Tom had reserved a molecule of respect for him — until now.
They were seated in a private room in his father’s club that Tom had commandeered for the meeting.
Phoebe, looking fragile, stared hard at her nails as she waited for her boss to explain himself.
‘Sorry to hear about the business in Bastion.’
Tom glared at him, feeling nothing but cold anger. It came as no surprise to him that the spook knew about his exit from Afghanistan — but how much? ‘Let’s just get this done, okay?’
Woolf sighed, with an air of defeat uncharacteristic for someone in his line of work. These people were used to calling the shots. ‘Okay.’ He took a deep breath. ‘From the top?’
‘From the top.’
‘The shooting in Walthamstow. We think it connects to Invicta.’
‘How?’
Woolf looked at Phoebe but she was still studying her nails. ‘Our suspect is on their payroll.’
‘Who is he?’
Woolf hesitated. Tom laid his hands flat on the table. ‘Come on! You’ve fucked me around enough.’
Woolf swallowed. ‘His name’s Vestey.’
Tom laughed. ‘No way.’
Woolf’s eyes widened. ‘You know him?’
‘I saw him in action today. He’s not your man. His sniper days are over.’
Woolf reddened. ‘His brother’s a commander in SCO19. He was on duty that night.’
‘Take it from me. Vestey could not have been your shooter. He’s past it.’ Tom gazed at Woolf as he digested this news. ‘Is that it?’
Woolf blew out a long breath. ‘All right. We don’t have much to go on, even less now you’ve… enlightened us about Vestey. And I’m grateful you did. There are plenty in the Service who would happily see me fall flat on my face on this one.’ He leaned back and gripped the edge of the table.
‘This shooting of a blameless respected Muslim — set up to look like it was done by the police — has, in my opinion, all the hallmarks of a deliberate act of provocation. Remember what happened after Stockwell and Duggan? The outrage. Only this time the cops did not do it. So who was it? Our focus has been on Muslim extremists and returnees from Syria. But why would they? They may have the motivation to do harm, but do they genuinely have the capability to carry out an attack with this kind of precision? You and I both know that’s highly unlikely. My colleagues in the security services are looking in the wrong direction.’
He blinked as he waited for Tom to respond.
Tom knew what he thought. A returnee might have the motivation and have done a bit of time in a training camp, but you didn’t learn to be a sniper pissing about in a war zone shooting off an AK at anything that moved. However, he wasn’t in any mood to give Woolf the benefit of his wisdom. ‘You’re the spook: you tell me.’
‘Well, the key question is motivation. The killing has brought Muslims out onto the streets and, in turn, all those who hate them. Someone is deliberately trying to polarize the two sides. To push us beyond the limits — perhaps even to the edge of civil war.’