‘I’m not — I can’t—’
‘You are and you can. This —’ he indicated the weapon ‘— says you don’t have a choice. Zuabi, Fortress, Stutz. Come on, join up the dots.’
At the mention of the names again, Carter’s expression changed. His face was starting to glisten, as were his eyes, which were opened very wide, as if something was pushing his eyeballs out from behind. When he spoke again, his voice had gone up an octave and came out as a childish whine. ‘You think I can walk out of here if I tell you what I know? You have no idea what you’re dealing with, fella. No idea!’
‘Enlighten me.’
Carter breathed deeply, as if he was trying to compose himself, as if whatever he was about to do there was no going back.
‘Zuabi doesn’t know zip about Stutz or Fortress, okay? Not a thing. He thinks his finance comes from the Saudis. He’s just the conduit to his people.’
‘What people?’
‘Sleepers.’
Carter was panting hard, hyper-ventilating. ‘I gotta get some air.’
Tom nodded. Carter struggled to his feet, a hand against the wall for support. His face was as red as a traffic-light. Tom kept his weapon trained on him as he felt his way to the balcony window.
‘So Stutz is running Zuabi without his knowledge?’
Carter turned back to him, the desperation on his face that of a man who had given up his most precious secret and was trying to absorb the consequences of having crossed that line. He shook his head. ‘You can’t stop him. He’s too well connected.’
Then, as if jolted by a freak burst of electricity, he darted forward through the open window to the wall of the balcony and leaped over. Tom lunged after him and wrapped his arms round his left leg. Carter shook his head frantically. ‘No, no! Let me go!’
Tom fought to get a better grip but he was thrashing, gravity sucking his body out of Tom’s clutches. Tom grabbed the end of his coat but it was no good. The coat detached itself and he was absorbed into the darkness below.
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.’