‘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?’
87
As he approached, Tom scanned the building and smiled at the thought of the pained expression it would provoke on his mother’s face. This neo-Georgian — not real Georgian — edifice had been the 1930s creation of the hugely wealthy Woolworth’s heiress and socialite Barbara Hutton. With its huge central door flanked by Ancient Greek-style columns and a parapet featuring a relief of the seal of the USA, it was a classic example of an American’s idea of a British stately home. Perhaps she had been seduced by the fact that Henry VIII had hunted wild boar in the forest that had become Regent’s Park. When the Second World War broke out, it was commandeered by the RAF, and after it had fallen into disrepair Hutton had sold it to the US government for a token dollar. It had been the residence of the American ambassador ever since.
A covered walkway had been erected on the drive that reminded Tom of the hasty arrangements after the security panic following 9/11. The Americans weren’t taking any chances. Teams of men and women in black overalls were at the ready to pat, prod, probe and inspect the guests. He joined the queue and, as he waited to be cleared, listened to the two Americans in front of him as they complained about the heightened security. They agreed, however, that with all these measures in place because of the current troubles, this was probably the safest place in Britain right now, especially with American security being run by US personnel. A Brit said defensively that they had been dealing with terrorist threats for forty years, since the bad old days of the Northern Irish Troubles and the IRA. The two Americans seemed somewhat baffled. Come on, they were funded by you lot, Tom felt like reminding them. Sure the Brits were old hands at this, but even at the height of the IRA’s bombing campaign here, a typical security check mostly amounted to no more than a cursory glance into bags and briefcases. Now, the War on Terror had provoked a massive boom in private security, with entirely new industries generated. Would that be his future too, Tom wondered, as the line edged slowly forward.
His eye was caught by a striking young woman in a deep blue dress further up the line, leaning close to her partner. Immediately he thought of Delphine, and how she would have appreciated an event like this, something impressive and glamorous to make up for all they had been through. There was no point in dwelling on how their last encounter had ended: he must put it out of his mind and focus on tonight. To pass the time he did a mental audit of recent events.
With the bomb factory now history, he felt some comfort that his efforts with Invicta had been worth the grief, but ringing in his ears was Rolt’s talk of further ‘gestures’, to stoke the fires of public anxiety. All through his last meeting he had been conscious of Stutz’s shadow looming over Rolt, with his global connections, his people positioned in all the corridors of power. It gave credence to Woolf’s fear of more and bigger things to come. Mandler needed to understand that the bomb-factory discovery wasn’t the end of something but an opening chapter, if Rolt was to be believed. It was Woolf’s suspicions about Rolt that had kicked all this off. Tom had moved from irritation to respect for Woolf and his cussed determination to follow his instincts.
So much was unresolved. Rolt had admitted his collusion in the hostel bombing but no more than that. Stutz’s connection to Zuabi, and indeed Zuabi’s significance, was also still a mystery. Mandler had even cast doubt on his existence. And what was Clements’s connection with Stutz all about? Or was there nothing more to it than the photograph and the Cabinet Office compliments slip?
Tom imagined Clements presiding over all of it, a visit with Stutz here, a dinner with Rolt there, but keeping a safe distance when anything unseemly occurred, then slipping back into his lair in Whitehall, uncontaminated by whatever fallout followed. Perhaps that was where the real power lay, with people like Clements, who controlled much of the fate of the country: unelected, unaccountable and ultimately unassailable.
The sight of an Oryxis logo on the security staff’s epaulettes confirmed his sense of how far Stutz’s tentacles reached: a measure of his influence that was plain for all to see. No better place to hide than in plain view. What bugged Tom most was knowing that the dots they had joined up fell short of Stutz himself. And echoing in his head were Stutz’s words about change coming, Rolt’s coy hints about what lay ahead, and Woolf’s fears about a ‘spectacular’. Whatever Mandler said, all of this led Tom to suspect — to know — that the job was far from done.
Eventually he reached the front of the queue.
As the man patted him down Tom nodded at the epaulettes. ‘This a good gig, with Oryxis?’
He said nothing. Tom noted he also sported an 82nd Airborne tie pin. ‘You still in Fayetteville? When I was there I spent all my money at the Mash House and Hooters.’
The eyes lit up, an instant connection between the two ex-servicemen. Fayetteville was the hometown of Fort Bragg and the 82nd Airborne. Bragg was a city in itself and not only housed the 82nd but also Delta Force. Tom had spent many months with them over the years.
‘Yeah, still there.’
‘I came over and did your jump course. Happy days.’
‘Good as it gets, sure.’
A voice piped up behind them: ‘Hey, can you hurry it up along there? We want to get in before midnight.’
The guard waved him on. ‘Thank you, sir. Enjoy your evening.’
Tom moved up the stone steps and, once inside, instinctively scrutinized the layout. The hall was dominated by a grand, sweeping staircase, with a balustrade of wrought iron. The vast reception room ran the depth of the house to the french windows that opened onto another terrace and garden at the rear. The drawing room was to the right, the state dining room to the left, the kitchen and staff offices evidently beyond.