State Of Emergency: (Tom Buckingham Thriller 3) Read online

  Jennifer appeared from the bathroom gift-wrapped in a voluptuous hotel bathrobe, her blonde hair draped about her shoulders in damp snakes.

  ‘How d’you like me in this?’ She did a twirl so the robe fanned out around her.

  He grinned. ‘I’d like you better out of it.’

  She rolled her eyes, her attention caught by the TV. The image had cut to a heaving throng of protesters in Birmingham, pushing through a cordon of police riot shields, petrol bombs arcing above, a news reporter ducking as one of the flaming missiles came his way.

  Britain might be on fire, but right now Ed didn’t give a shit. He snapped his fingers to get her attention. ‘Hey, it’s a compliment.’ He pushed himself up onto one elbow. ‘Jen, babe, I’ve been meaning to say …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Could you put my shoes outside?’

  She groaned, picked them up, opened the door and was about to chuck them out onto the landing when they heard the first muffled thud.

  She dropped the shoes, shut the door abruptly and looked at him, alarmed.

  He sank back onto the bed. ‘Fireworks, probably. They’re still celebrating downstairs.’

  ‘Inside the hotel? Like, I don’t think so.’

  Jennifer wasn’t giggling. That was a slight problem with her – a bit too serious. They’d met only three weeks ago in the queue of volunteers for Rolt’s campaign. Having just lost another bar job and with fuck-all else to do, he’d thought it might be a laugh. That, plus doing his bit for the country, of course, making a stand against Muslim extremist nutters, putting them in their place – preferably back where they came from. He’d seen her in the line and couldn’t take his eyes off her – she didn’t seem to mind. When they’d got talking it turned out she was heading towards her university finals in politics and was on a mission to help right some wrongs. Her father, a cop just retired from the Met, had egged her on to support Rolt. ‘Dad says he’s our only hope,’ she’d told him earnestly. He’d nodded vigorously. Next thing he knew they were paired up on the campaign trail. Bingo.

  She’d agreed they would spend election night together, and he’d pulled off something of a coup by securing the suite that had been booked for Rolt, who hadn’t even shown up at the victory party downstairs. Everything had come good, except now she was spoiling it by going all serious.

  Jennifer stood close to the door, listening.

  He beckoned her. ‘C’mon, get over here.’

  There were two more thuds, louder this time. She shuddered, gripped the lapels of the robe and bit her bottom lip as her eyes welled. He sighed as she wiped away tears. They had had their share of scares during the campaign and he had put on a show of chivalry, which he reckoned had only half convinced her.

  ‘Maybe they’re chucking furniture down into the atrium. Lock the door, come to bed and let the rumpus begin.’ He raised his arms in her direction and put on a sinister James-Bond-baddie voice, which seemed to go with the surroundings. ‘Come, my child.’

  The lights snapped off and the TV screen faded to black.

  Shit, he thought. This really isn’t how it’s supposed to go. He levered himself up from the bed and marched towards the door. He was about eight feet from it when the lock exploded, taking a chunk of the door with it, spraying them with splinters. Jennifer leaped towards him, gripping so hard her fingernails dug into his shoulder. There was something in the air, not a smell as such but as it hit his lungs he felt as if he’d inhaled nettles. His eyes burned and filled with tears. He whirled her round and pushed her towards the bathroom, falling on top of her as he lost his footing on the wet tiles. He kicked out wildly at the door and it slammed shut. He thought of getting up to lock it, then realized it would be ridiculous after what had just happened to the other door. They huddled in a corner of the shower, behind a partition no more than three feet high, clutching each other in the total darkness. Something sticky ran down the back of his hand, too thick and cold to be blood – they must have collided with a soap dispenser.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck. This was for real. Rolt’s people had always said, ‘Be ready. Never drop your guard.’ Any jihadi just back from Syria might be out there waiting for them. But the hotel was ringed with security: they should have been safe here. Rolt had many fans, but he wasn’t short of enemies sending death threats. For all his claims that he wanted to protect the patriotic Muslims, he’d pretty much alienated the entire lot of them. Ed and the rest of Rolt’s team had even been given some basic self-defence tips by one of the tough guys from the MP’s organization, Invicta, a jab in the eye, a boot in the balls but neither applied here. Jennifer’s grip tightened on him.

  ‘Hey, loosen up,’ he whispered. And then, uselessly, ‘It’s gonna be all right, okay?’

  ‘No, it’s not. We’re going to die, Ed. They want to kill Rolt and they think we’re him,’ she said, through huge convulsive sobs.

  He pressed a hand over her mouth and hugged her to him.

  As he held her, he raised himself half an inch to peer over the partition. Through the crack between the bottom of the door and the floor tiles, he saw a light sweep past, then back across it.

  ‘You want to get yourself beaten up? Killed?’ That had been his mother’s response to his signing up for Rolt’s campaign. She always overreacted, always went for the negative. Now he wished he had listened, given the whole thing a wide berth. ‘They’ll come after you. You’ll be a target. Is that what you want, to spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder?’

  The light under the door reappeared, static this time. He thought he could hear breathing. Then the door burst open with such force it smashed into a glass splashguard, which exploded into pieces over them.

  The light was coming from a torch attached to something. He couldn’t see what or who was holding it. Someone stepped into the room and Ed ducked, but his pathetic attempt to hide was rendered useless by Jennifer’s whimpering.

  He could see the shape of the gunman now, his profile contorted by something – a face mask, sound coming from it like Darth Vader. He prised Jennifer off him and stood up. What drove him he didn’t know: he was beyond scared, his pulse hammering in his temples, the taste of vomit in his mouth as he opened it to speak. ‘You want Rolt? He’s not here. Just us. We’re nothing, just – we don’t even officially work for him.’

  His voice was hoarse. The saliva had vanished and his tongue felt like rubber.

  The torch beam was now trained directly on him. The figure didn’t move. Above Jennifer’s whimpering he could hear hissing breaths coming from the mask. He could see more of the silhouette now, completely still, legs slightly apart. The torch was attached to something – a gun: a very big one. Ed thought of all the things he would promise to do in return for his life. All the clients he had ripped off whom he’d reimburse, all the teachers he’d apologize to … His life flashed before him – the fuck-all he’d achieved so far. If he could do one thing in the time left, like save Jennifer from this …

  Behind the gunman, back in the bedroom, Ed thought he detected another movement. How many were there?

  A tiny red dot danced above the gunman’s left ear. Then there were two thunk sounds, plus the short, sharp, metallic grinding sound of a top slide moving, and the gunman dropped to the ground in a lifeless heap, the weapon clattering onto the tiles beside him. Jennifer screamed, a high-pitched distress signal shockingly amplified by the tiles, then dissolved into convulsive coughs. Ed squeezed her to him as his bowels trembled. Were they safe? Were they next?

  A second figure stepped into the room, holding a dripping towel up to his face. Ed raised his hands, but the man didn’t even look at him. All his attention was on the body twisted on the floor. He reached down, picked up the weapon and lifted the mask off the dead man’s face. Despite the fear raging through him, Ed heard his own voice pipe up: ‘Who is he?’

  The man didn’t answer, but shone a phone torch on the unmasked face. A pair of empty blue eyes stared straight up out of a pal
e pink freeze-framed face. Ed looked away. It was his first dead body, a massive crater where the man’s left ear had been. He looked back to the shooter. ‘So who are you?’

  Tom Buckingham reached down and replaced the mask over the lifeless face. ‘Nobody.’

  4

  06.00

  Piccadilly, Central London

  There had been no sleep for Tom, just a swift pit-stop for a shower and change of clothes. He adjusted his tie in the bathroom mirror and took a step back. You look like shit.

  The whites of his eyes were still bloodshot from the CS gas. He knew the drill, used the hotel hair-drier to evaporate the irritant, but it would be a few hours before they calmed down. There would be a lot of cameras around today and he didn’t want to stand out, but he also needed to be on maximum alert.

  From somewhere overhead came the deep pulsing thuds of a police Eurocopter, hovering nearby. He had been looking forward to a spell of much needed R&R, a break from the grind of the months under cover, but last night’s attack had nixed that. Fez Randall’s face flashed in front of him, his shocked eyes staring heavenwards, his mouth frozen open in disbelief. Not an aggrieved suicidal jihadi, but a former soldier, like him, a member of Invicta, like him, a blue-eyed Brit, like him. Yes, there might have been a choice. Tom could have given him a warning, a chance to disarm, but he’d nothing to go on: no tip-off, no intelligence, no prior ID, no knowledge of where the man in the mask had come from, or how he had got past the heavy security round the hotel. For all Tom had known at the time, he might have been wearing a vest full of explosive. That was why it had had to be a head job, to stop the attacker even thinking of detonating. And since homemade or low-grade military explosive was both unstable and volatile, a high-velocity round entering a vest could very well have detonated it. And even if there had been no vest, he was about to brass up a pair of innocent civilians who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  The one mistake Tom was still cursing himself for was lifting Randall’s mask in front of the couple. The woman he didn’t think would be a problem, but the mouthy boyfriend … He just had to hope that the Official Secrets Act would do its job and keep his gob shut.

  What troubled Tom far more, though, was whether Randall had had help. Was this a one-off or part of something more? And what had been his motive? Questions that couldn’t go unanswered. Meanwhile, a whole new chapter in the extraordinary political rise of Vernon Rolt was about to open, and who knew what that would lead to? His train of thought was hijacked by a rapid volley of thuds against the door.

  ‘Stop wanking and get out of my bathroom.’

  Tom opened the door to find Jez outside in a pair of unnecessarily ample boxers, absently clutching the contents. ‘You’re the one who’ll be abusing yourself for the rest of your life unless you get some decent underwear.’ Tom stepped out of the bathroom and into the narrow corridor.

  Jez raised an eyebrow at him. ‘Rough night?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Your man got in, then.’

  Tom nodded.

  Jez continued to gaze at him, evidently expecting more.

  Tom obliged: ‘A victory for common sense. He’ll do what needs to be done.’ He felt Jez’s pitying gaze. If he’d guessed that Tom was under cover in Rolt’s organization he’d had the decency not to mention it. Nonetheless Tom sensed that his parroting of the party line fell wide of the mark, an insult to their friendship. Not for the first time he wondered how much longer he could go on with this charade.

  Right on cue, a volley of sirens erupted from a fleet of emergency vehicles rushing up Piccadilly. Jez sighed. ‘Well, I suppose it can’t get any worse.’

  Don’t bank on it, thought Tom. But he didn’t say it. Instead he gave a half-hearted and decidedly noncommittal shrug, and caught a look of renewed curiosity on Jez’s face. ‘What?’

  ‘What happens to Rolt’s private army now?’

  Invicta was supposedly just a support network for ex-servicemen struggling to come to terms with life outside the forces, so it was a good question, all the more so after last night’s incident. But Jez couldn’t know that. Tom gave another shrug. ‘More of the same, I guess.’

  ‘And what will it mean for you?’

  ‘Dunno.’ A lame answer. But he really didn’t know.

  Jez opened his mouth to continue, then shut it again. Tom knew what he was thinking: I thought you had more sense than to fall for that prick Rolt and his sad band of brothers.

  They went way back, the two of them. After school, while Tom enlisted in the ranks, Jez had taken the high road: Sandhurst, then the Guards. Tom knew Jez always regarded his choice to forgo officer training as a two-fingers to all the privilege he had grown up with. But it was Tom who made it into the SAS, while Jez had chucked it in after three years, succumbing to the infinitely better wedge from a private security firm started by another of their mates.

  ‘Weather’s not letting up.’

  It was a good line to fill an awkward silence.

  ‘You’d think it would calm things down.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  The spare room in Jez’s ridiculously well-located third-floor flat off Piccadilly had seemed like a good idea at the time. The view of some extremely well-appointed drainage pipes crawling up an airshaft at the back of Brown’s Hotel left something to be desired, but it was five minutes from the tube, and a pleasant twenty-minute stroll across the park to Rolt’s headquarters in St James’s. But Tom couldn’t help feeling he was starting to outstay his welcome. He knew that if he didn’t want to fuck the job up – not to mention get himself killed – no one could know his real purpose inside Rolt’s organization, and that included Jez, who was practically in the same business. His cover had to be one hundred per cent solid. But all the secrecy had taken its toll on their friendship. One day he might be able to come clean – but when?

  Tom straightened his tie. Jez half closed the bathroom door, then opened it again. ‘Mind your back out there.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘And, well, if you fancy a change of scene, let me know.’

  ‘Thanks, mate. I appreciate it.’

  The bathroom door closed. He knew his friend meant well. Tom’s sudden departure from the SAS had been a surprise to Jez, even more so his emergence at Invicta, by Vernon Rolt’s side. He would have liked to be honest and tell him what he was really up to, but going under cover was just that: no one could know.

  Another volley of sirens brought him back into focus: a new day and new trouble.

  5

  06.30

  The walk to Rolt’s office was usually Tom’s favourite part of the day, but this morning, as he crossed into Green Park, all it offered was a stark reminder of what a tense and brittle place London had become. The snow had smoothed them over, but Tom could make out deep tyre tracks from what must have been a hijacked HGV gouged into the grass. There was no sign of the vehicle that had made them, but the row of saplings planted just a few months ago lay broken, and beside the southern entrance to the tube, the kiosk where he sometimes bought a paper had been completely demolished. He strode on, looking for something positive to focus on.

  Although it was morning, the few cars still had their headlights on, streaking the road with puddles of light. Above, gunmetal clouds hung low over the rooftops of Westminster, threatening yet more snow. The last fall had quickly gained a dull grey crust from the slush thrown up by the traffic, which had then frozen. As he reached the Mall, he saw Buckingham Palace, unlit, its occupants evacuated to Sandringham, a measure of how low things had sunk. Where once a constant stream of tourists had come to gawp, now all that stood in front of the gates were a couple of Army Land Rover Wolf TULs and a few guards milling about, their bearskins and red tunics swapped for Kevlar and live ammunition.

  He crossed the road and slipped into St James’s Park. There he saw the aftermath of another of the night’s battles: overturned benches and a riot shield amid a pile of charred wood from what h
ad been the tourist information booth. Despite this, the park still clung to its austere winter beauty, a monochrome scene of black, leafless trees on an expanse of grey snow. On the frozen lake, cans, bottles and takeaway cups rolled about, blown by a sharp Siberian wind that tugged at his coat. Towards the southern side of the park a tow-truck was winching an overturned police Land Rover back onto its wheels. Crowd-control barriers lay scattered about, as if a giant child had scooped them up and chucked them around. Already stretched to breaking point, and having been repeatedly warned off getting too tough, the police had been overwhelmed by angry and determined protesters.

  Meanwhile the government had been torn between keeping order and not alienating potential voters while the election campaign was on. But all that was about to change – if Vernon Rolt got his way.

  Outside the building, in addition to the usual police presence, there were several reinforcements in full riot gear, visors and body armour, plumes of vapour rising from their breath in the chill of the morning. They stiffened as he approached but one of the regulars waved him forward. In recognition of the need for heightened security, Tom reached for his pass and held it out, then opened his coat. They were only doing their job. He waited while the police officer passed her wand over him, taking a little longer than she needed to. She was blonde and petite under her stab vest and other kit. In the past he would have said something, but not today: the events of last night still cast their shadow over him.

  She smiled. ‘Nice threads.’

  He smiled back, but that was all. Under the Hugo Boss suit and freshly laundered Harvie & Hudson shirt he felt uneasy. Four hours ago he had shot a man dead. It had had to be done to stop two more getting killed, but why had Randall been there? What exactly was his beef with Rolt?

  ‘Hey, Tom.’

  He turned as he mounted the steps and saw the reporter, Helen something from Newsday, the paper that had done the most to put Rolt in power. He didn’t know how she knew his name, but that was reporters for you, if they were any good at their job. He was in no mood for a conversation with anyone right now and especially not the press. He had seen her before, at events Rolt was speaking at, and had noted her genuine charm, as well as an appealing mane of darkish blonde hair, which, judging by her eyebrows, was real.