State Of Emergency: (Tom Buckingham Thriller 3)
ABOUT THE BOOK
3 a.m. on a frozen winter’s night. A small craft skims the Thames, closing in on London’s most exclusive new riverside hotel. On board is a lone assassin. His target: Britain’s most powerful new politician. In a nation threatened by extremist jihadis and torn apart by civil unrest, Vernon Rolt has just been catapulted into government on an extreme anti-terror platform.
Rolt’s plans for a zero-tolerance crackdown on ethnic violence has touched a popular nerve. But his move into politics has made him some unlikely enemies – British ex-servicemen, once his most committed supporters, who now want him dead.
Ex-SAS trooper turned MI5 operative Tom Buckingham is undercover inside Rolt’s organization. His mission: to neutralize the rogue assassins for whom he has also become a target, and to discover the deadly intentions of Rolt’s new financier, shadowy Crimean oligarch Oleg Umarov. But all too soon, Tom gets caught up in a far more devastating plot which will change the political landscape of Europe – for ever . . .
Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Epilogue
Red Notice
About the Author
Also by Andy McNab
Copyright
STATE OF EMERGENCY
Andy McNab
1
02.45 GMT
River Thames, London
The inflatable bucked and kicked as it skimmed the surface of the Thames. A stiff breeze flustered the water, sculpting it into small waves that smacked the bow as the craft progressed upriver. The low cloud pressing down on the capital glowed a dull orange, reflecting the city lights on to the deserted waterway. A lone night-bus made its way across Battersea Bridge, empty of passengers, like a ghostly Mary Celeste on wheels.
The only interruption to the boatman’s progress had been a River Police launch heading downstream to its base at Wapping. He had throttled back to tick-over and steered into the shadow of one of the few remaining Thames barges moored on the seaward side of Tower Bridge. As the launch came past he flattened himself against the hull, clenching his teeth against the cold. The launch slowed and veered so close that for a few seconds he could hear the radio coming from it – the sound of cheering. The election results were coming through. He stayed like that until the sound of the launch had faded into the night. The snow was starting again; welcome additional cover to obscure the small craft, fine flecks that swirled uncertainly in the biting wind.
All but his face was covered by the marine dry-suit. The chill sliced at his features, freezing the moisture in his nose and round his lips, a warning that whatever snow made it to the ground would quickly freeze. Already, ice was crusting along the water’s edge. He decided to ignore it. Years ago he had taught himself not to worry about things that were out of his hands and focus on what he could control – and what was ahead.
Although he had never been there, he knew the layout of the hotel inside out. He had started with YouTube, and the news reports of the opening, then read all the entries on TripAdvisor – it was amazing how much time people wasted recording their visits in mind-numbing detail. From there he had graduated to a presentational CGI animation prepared by the architects, and finally the plans themselves, until he could conjure up the whole layout in his mind’s eye, like a hologram. He had two entry-point options: one through the kitchens, the other the laundry. But the kitchens even at three thirty a.m. were unlikely to be empty. A skeleton crew would still be on duty, handling room-service requests and keeping the last of the revellers fed and watered. The laundry should be deserted. He had to find somewhere to slip out of the dry-suit and ditch the backpack after he’d pulled out the less conspicuous overnight bag that held the kit he needed: the weapon, a Glock 9mm with a titanium suppressor and an extended twenty-round magazine – much more than he required for what he expected to be a surgical strike – a Bowie knife, smoke canisters, a mask. From his research, he knew that there was a locker room and a toilet to the back of the laundry: he needed a mirror to check himself over before he moved into the public area.
In the first plan there were to have been three of them: two for cover. He hadn’t liked it. Too conspicuous. ‘But who’s going to watch your back?’ they’d asked. He’d said he’d watch his own. He was used to it: why break the habit of a lifetime? Alone, he had complete control, no one else to consider if he had to make a change of plan. The truth was he didn’t much care about his back, didn’t want to be encumbered. This was his idea, his plan. ‘We won’t forget this, Fez,’ they’d told him.
Whatever.
The hotel came into view: the ‘Ice Palace’. These days, all new buildings in London seemed to acquire nicknames – the Gherkin, the Cheese Grater and so on. And Ice Palace sounded better than ‘Battersea Regina’ – some smartarse had already called its giant three-storey atrium the Battersea Vagina. True to its name, though, this one looked the part, all tiered glass, like something that had time-travelled out of the future. And, like all good palaces, it was surrounded by a vast fortified wall to keep out any trouble. But not the river front. Didn’t the architects have any sense of history?
As the craft made its way towards the target, he reviewed his route once more. He was right to avoid going through the kitchens. Unless he could slip past the staff he would have to take down whoever was there, which would be messy and risky. He didn’t want collateral: there was only one target. The better option was through the laundry. He
smiled grimly as he thought of the heavy security out front, ever vigilant, never imagining the threat that was coming by river on a frozen February night.
He slowed as the hotel came into view. A giant slab of glass and concrete bordering the southern bank of the river, so new there were still traces of the last construction work. He unclipped the oars and dropped their paddles into the water. Short, shallow scoops brought the craft noiselessly up to the jetty.
Over his shoulder he spotted a lone silhouetted figure on the broad apron that separated the hotel from the river, leaning against the balustrade, the orange dot of a cigarette glowing minutely as the smoker drew on it. The figure straightened, the cigarette suspended in front of him. As he watched, he unzipped the suit, felt for the Glock. One well-aimed shot and it would be that smoker’s last gasp. But before he drew down his weapon the man flicked the butt into the water, turned and ambled back out of the cold.
The craft nudged the jetty and he reached for one of the polystyrene bumpers that dangled from it, tugged it and drew the craft towards a metal gangway. The whole structure was encased in a thick glaze of ice. He struggled for grip through the waterproof gloves. The boat slid from under him and, for a few seconds, he feared he would drop into the icy river. He was out of shape: he hadn’t done shit like this in a long while. After several tries he managed to haul himself high enough to get one foot on the structure. Then he kicked the inflatable away. He wouldn’t be needing it. Maybe someone downstream, Gravesend perhaps, would be the lucky owner of a new boat by the end of the night. There was no exit from this, no going back now.
Half crouching, he moved swiftly along the gangway, which bucked and creaked under him. The snow was thickening: bigger, heavier flakes falling with more purpose now, already laying the beginnings of a carpet of dull white across the hotel river front. He fixed on a point some four metres beyond the west wing of the façade. From his memory of the plans he had studied, there was a ramp from which vehicles could reach the lower-level service area, bordered by a metal fence. He was just about to set off towards it when he saw the camera tower. That wasn’t in the plans or the photos. It was new. Builders’ plastic barriers were grouped around the base. Were the cameras live? He would stand out a mile against a white background. But then he remembered the havoc snow played with night-sights, filling the image with miniature starbursts of reflected light. He decided to risk it, moving nonchalantly with a civilian gait.
He vaulted the fence and dropped on to the ramp, paused, scanned the area for any more new cameras, any more smokers. Nothing. He moved down towards the laundry service door, unzipped the suit and took out the precious key card charged with that day’s code. In his mind it was the one weak link in the plan, the only thing for which he’d had to depend on someone else. But it had given the others something to do so they felt part of it. He approached the door beside the shuttered vehicle entrance. The key reader was at eye level, just to the left. He went up to it, swiped the card. Nothing. He tried it again, pushed the door again. Then he saw the hinges. It opened outwards. One more swipe and a tug. He was in.
He moved between the vast stainless-steel machines that by day could handle the four-hundred-plus bed sheets but were now silent. It was almost completely dark, just a pinprick of blue light: the master switch for the machines at the end of the row. He took out the mini-Maglite so it was ready in his hand. The smell of trichloroethylene went straight to the back of his throat. How did the poor fuckers who worked here put up with it? Probably they were illegals who’d got in hanging on to a cross-Channel truck. After a trip like that it didn’t matter what the world smelt like. He reached the end of the row and paused, considering whether it was time to step out of the dry-suit.
A flurry of rustling said panic and flight. His first thought was rats. Then, in the pencil beam of the Maglite, he saw them: what little of the woman that was still dressed suggested she was either a waitress or a cleaner, the man harder to tell in just the wife-beater that clung to his heaving chest. There was no choice. The woman was about to scream, but the sound never made it. All that came out of her throat was a gush of blood. The guy got his in the forehead. The suppressed coughs of the pistol seemed to hang in the air as they dropped, still entwined, onto the heap of clothes beneath them.
He sighed, holstered the weapon, dropped the backpack, unzipped and stepped out of the dry-suit.
2
03.30
The hotel had a network of service passages so cleaners and maintenance staff could move throughout the building unnoticed: perfect. The suit, white shirt and black tie had the right anonymous security-operative look about it. He had a fake ID if anyone queried him. And if that didn’t work there was always the Glock in its polymer belt holster. The bag was more of a giveaway.
Six months ago, he would have been on the guest list, a valued comrade, a loyal brother. But he had burned those boats. Two waiters came past bearing silver trays of glasses. They didn’t give him a second look. Good. He moved on closer to the room where the reception was.
‘All right, Fez?’
He wheeled round. How he hated that name. He’d been stuck with it since Helmand. Something to do with the shape of his hair. Protesting had only made it stick.
He nodded at Ballard, reached for the Glock. ‘You lost?’
Ballard swayed a little on his feet. His blazer was flapping open, his tie loose. ‘Story of my life.’ He raised his hand, too late to stifle the belch that erupted from him. ‘G’night?’
He had nothing against Ballard. They’d both done two tours in Afghanistan, both seen the same shit, had been discharged the same year and joined Invicta a year later, among the first to sign up. Both of them had been through the rehab programme, only Ballard had clearly lapsed. Perhaps Fez could talk his way past.
‘Yeah.’ He nodded, a hand reaching round the grip of his weapon. ‘Good night.’
He tried not to infuse the words with deep irony. It was good that Ballard was too shitfaced to register any surprise at seeing him, as if it was quite natural that he would be there to join in the celebrations. Maybe Ballard had forgotten Fez’s sudden exit from the organization. Maybe he could be spared.
Ballard leaned closer. ‘So where’sa Gents?’
‘You’ve taken a wrong turning. Back into the main hall and left.’
Ballard looked relieved. Go on then, fuck off. But he didn’t. He leaned against the passage wall, frowning at Fez’s suit. ‘So – whya you here? Thought you’d packed it in?’
He shrugged. Maybe in Ballard’s alcoholic haze he would accept that as some kind of answer.
Ballard frowned, trying to focus as he stepped away from the wall, his face just centimetres from Fez’s. ‘Here – you’re banned. Shouldn’ be here.’
Nothing for it. Fez slammed a flat left hand into Ballard’s chest so he fell back towards the wall, leaving enough space between them for him to draw down the weapon in his right. Keeping his left high and out of the way of the shot, he pivoted the weapon as soon as it was free of the holster and fired.
Immediately he stepped back to ensure there was no blood on him as Ballard slid down the passage wall. Shit, what now? He looked up and down the corridor, got his bearings and, gripping Ballard by the armpits, pulled the lifeless body towards the door to a store room.
He had to move quickly now. A loud pumping beat of the sort of music he loathed thumped above the hubbub of partying revellers behind the swing doors. He put his head in and spoke to the nearest couple. ‘The guv’nor still in there?’
‘He was ’bout half an hour ago.’
‘Thanks.’ He moved on through the crowd. He saw a pair of bouncers standing sentry in identical suits, little coils running from their ears into their collars, their ISA ID armbands ungainly over their jackets. They looked ridiculous, bloated by steroids and too much muscle to be useful. More like a pair of bouncy castles. They were preoccupied with a group of pissed hoorays, who were arguing loudly. He steered away from them, deep
er into the throng, a heaving mass of mostly young bodies, the same age as the ones he had just dropped downstairs. He felt his pulse step up a level. Two banners had been hung across the room. One said, ‘Victory!’ and the other ‘Tomorrow Belongs to Us’. On the stage a youth with a ludicrously exaggerated blond quiff was crooning into a mic but his voice was inaudible. He saw one of the party officials and elbowed his way towards her. She was well pissed, gyrating drunkenly against her partner.
He nodded towards the stage. ‘Where is he?’
She frowned. ‘Who are you?’
And who the fuck are you? he felt like saying.
‘Oh, yeah, right. Probably gone to get his head down, I should think.’ She gestured upwards. ‘Been on his feet the last two nights, poor man.’
Her partner pulled her back towards him. He thanked her with a curt nod, extricated himself from the crowd and headed in the direction of the lifts.
3
03.50
Ed lay on the bed, grinning up at the chandelier. He spread his arms and legs as if making a snow angel, feeling the luxurious sheets slide under his limbs. He’d never been in a five-star hotel before, never mind the presidential suite. It smelt of new carpets and fancy soap. He glanced at the wall of window to his left, the curtains undrawn. Across the Thames, somewhere on the north side, a column of fiery smoke funnelled up from a blazing building. The river was invisible, except for a row of lights on the opposite bank, the rest obscured by snowflakes floating down, tinged orange by the hotel lights.
He smirked. Christmas had come right in the middle of February. Jennifer was in the bathroom getting ready for what was left of the night. Although he’d had the bare minimum of sleep for the last three crazy days’ campaigning, the election-day adrenalin, plus a cocktail of Pro Plus and Red Bull, kept him buzzing. He glanced at the massive muted TV, churning out election coverage, the umpteenth replay of Vernon Rolt’s moment of glory, the new MP punching the air, then the all-too-familiar sound bite about making the streets of Britain safe again, cutting out the ‘tumour of terror’.