Woolf took up the thread. ‘The underdog with a grievance, with the capacity to turn on his former masters. Potentially, Invicta isn’t just a refuge. It’s the perfect incubator for the disaffected ex-soldier with a grudge to nurture.’
A waiter put his head round the door. ‘Anything I can get you?’
Woolf looked as though he badly needed a drink but Tom wasn’t in the mood to show mercy. ‘We’re fine, thanks.’ He waved the waiter away and turned back to Woolf. ‘Let me get this clear. You believe someone inside Invicta is training former service personnel – people like
me
– to be terrorists?’
Woolf took a breath. ‘Maybe. That’s what we have yet to verify.’
Tom turned to Phoebe. ‘Well? You’re the one who’s been cosying up to him all these months.’
Phoebe glanced at Woolf, who signalled for her to go ahead. ‘They prefer to think of themselves more as crusaders or freedom-fighters than terrorists. But unfortunately we’re not that cosy. Rolt plays everything close to his chest, as I said. He makes lots of his own arrangements, doesn’t keep records, sometimes avoids using email even. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t suspect me, but he knows that the Service is likely to be watching him, as it does all right-wing groups, so he never lets me see anything sensitive.’
‘So you’ve actually got nothing concrete on him?’
Woolf parried this before she could answer. ‘You know what keeps us spooks awake at night? The white terrorist, the one no one’s looking out for. The one who looks and sounds just like us. The next big one won’t be a bus bombing or a plane, it’ll be a smart surgical strike on people in power and that will need operators who can pass for insiders – who are hiding in plain view.’
‘Except you’ve got fuck-all to implicate Invicta, especially now I’ve shot down your claim about Vestey.’
‘Maybe he
recruited
the shooter.’
‘
Maybe
. You’re clutching at straws.’
‘Straws are sometimes all we have.’ Woolf leaned forward, propping his head on the tips of his fingers, as if fending off a headache. ‘Look, you’ve just spent some time with him. Isn’t there anything about him, about Invicta, that gave you pause for thought?’
Tom stared at him for several moments. The claims were outrageous, bordering on the deranged. Rolt was unusual, eccentric, even. But he had shown Tom respect and confidence, which was more than he could say for his former paymasters. ‘My first impressions are that Invicta’s doing a good job for soldiers who’ve been fucked over or abandoned by the system. Without his commitment and dedication most of them would have been lost, ending up a danger to themselves and a menace to society.’ He stood up. ‘I think we’re done here.’
Woolf held up his hands in surrender. ‘Please, Tom. We need someone on the inside, no disrespect to Phoebe, who can get closer—’
‘One question. Why didn’t you go through the normal channels to try and recruit me? Was that such a crazy idea?’
Woolf shook his head. ‘If we’d gone through the normal channels, at least ten people in the MoD would have had to know. There’d have been emails, forms, countersignatures. Just getting it signed off by your CO, you’d have been blown before we even got airborne. Apart from the DG and a couple of my counterparts, no one knows about this. It’s completely off grid. I couldn’t risk anyone inside the MoD apparatus knowing.’
‘In case they tipped Rolf off?’
‘As Phoebe says, he’s that well connected. He gets one whisper of this, I’m out – and my boss will probably have to fall on his sword too.’
For all Woolf’s pleading, it was still clear to Tom he had been played. Woolf had used him as the Service always used people, like avatars, in a game they thought they could control.
Tom took out his phone. Woolf opened his mouth, closed it again and sighed. ‘Look, I apologize. It was bad judgement. If you make the call to Rolt, I’m history. Invicta will become even more impenetrable and we’ll never know. We won’t even know if we were wrong.’
Tom looked at Phoebe. Her eyes were glistening. ‘This what you signed up for – to fuck over members of the armed forces?’
She didn’t speak but her eyes said it all.
Keep this to yourself, please, for my sake as well as yours.
Tom looked at them both. ‘Okay, I’ve heard what you’ve got to say, now piss off.’
Woolf got to his feet. ‘So – will you help us?’
‘I haven’t decided yet. Right now I need a holiday.’
Woolf buttoned his jacket. He looked like a man who could have done with a week’s sleep.
After they had left Tom stayed in the room alone, very still for several minutes. Then he took out his phone and dialled Delphine.
35
Westminster
‘My God, I’m so sorry. The bastards.’ Pippa’s face was a picture of concern.
Not even Nasima’s expert attention could entirely disguise Sam’s bruises. He had done a bit of improvisation with some foundation of Helen’s he’d discovered in the bathroom but the finish was uneven. How did women get that stuff to go on properly? Fortunately the worst of the damage was not on his face or hands. ‘I think they came off worse,’ he joked.
She laughed along but Sam doubted she believed his lie. ‘Well, I’m sure the police will get them.’
‘Ah, I didn’t report it.’
‘Why ever not?’
He felt like saying,
You just don’t get it, do you?
The assault had been a wake-up call, a reminder of who he really was and where he had come from, but that wasn’t what he had come to talk about.
‘It’s not that simple. There could be reprisals. Look, there’s something I was hoping you could help me with. I’ve been chucked out of my flat.’
It was sort of true. It was only a matter of time before Helen would want the place back. He had decided Pippa was the best person to broach this with. Derek Farmer was the decision-maker but Sam didn’t think he could stand his particular brand of bonhomie just now. Uppermost in his mind was finding somewhere he could also accommodate Nasima. Her imminent arrival in London dominated his thoughts.
‘Oh dear. That’s not good, is it?’ She shook her head in sympathy.
‘Things aren’t as easy as they were, put it that way.’ That much was true. Things weren’t. Everything was different. The attack had knocked away the foundations of everything he held dear, as if he had been punished by some malign force for clinging to his values of tolerance and inclusion. But almost as powerful had been Nasima’s response. First, her concern, the professional way she had taken charge of his injuries. How much his life had changed in just a matter of days. This new job and now this woman. Helen was history. What was the point of having some white trophy girlfriend when there were people like Nasima out there?
Not that she was his girlfriend. Not yet.
Pippa listened, her head tilted to one side as he spoke. She reminded him of a kindly headmistress, even though she was probably not much older than he was. ‘Well, no. Absolutely. We can’t have our star spokesperson living on the streets. Stay here while I make a few enquiries. I might have just the thing.’ She gave him a broad smile and glided out of the room.
It had been Nasima’s idea to ask the Party. It wouldn’t have occurred to him, and when he had said he didn’t like to ask, she had become quite frosty. ‘They’re in government and they’re your employer. What’s wrong with asking?’
In less than a minute Pippa was back, triumphant. ‘Courtesy of one of our recently disgraced members, it seems we have a rather nice little
pied-à-terre
in Victoria going begging.’
‘Disgraced?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Shared a bed in Brussels one night with another man – not a problem
per se
, but his wife wasn’t terribly happy. And his constituency party is – shall we say – very old guard.’
Sam nodded noncommittally. ‘It sounds perfect. Does it have two bedrooms? My girlfriend is very modest.’
There was a beat while she took this in. He could see her thinking,
They’re a funny lot.
‘Oh, yes. Right. Of course. As it happens, it does, though the smaller one really is a bit
bijou
, as the agents like to say.’
‘I’m sure we’ll manage. It’s very kind of you.’
‘The furnishings aren’t much to write home about, but as you’ll be out and about most of the time, I don’t imagine that’ll be a problem. And it is very central. The neighbours may be a bit old-fashioned, but I’m sure you’ll use your charm on them.’
He assumed that by ‘old-fashioned’ she meant likely not to want Muslims living among them. Whatever, it wasn’t his problem. His life was evolving and he was taking charge of it, leading his destiny in a new direction.
From a drawer she produced a large gold-edged invitation card and held it out to him. ‘Welcome to the next level.’
He gazed down at it.
The Prime Minister requests the pleasure …
‘Beware, you’re going to be bombarded with these. We want you at all the PM’s VIP bashes. We’re keen to widen the gene pool around him – and you’re, well, the best thing that’s happened to us in a while.’
Sam stared at the card.
‘And I can make them plus one if you like.’
He grinned. ‘Wow, thanks.’
His life was on track. He was someone. He couldn’t wait to tell Nasima.
36
An hour later, Sam was leaning against the wall in a fourth-floor mansion flat two blocks from Victoria station, getting his breath back.
Inside it smelt faintly of mildew and instant coffee, and bore all the signs of a hurried departure: curtains drawn, a large drift of post piled against the inside of the door, an iPhone charger hanging out of a socket and half a packet of chocolate digestives on the small kitchen table. He bit into one: still crisp.
He sat down in a black leather swivel chair, running his hands up and down the chrome frame and grinning to himself. He had gone to work for them; now he was making them work for
him
. He stood up and explored the bedrooms. Nasima wasn’t actually his girlfriend yet – that was more at the planning stage. He hoped she’d be okay about being his date at the PM’s events. Would that kind of thing impress her?
So far, she had shown the right signs. One room had a king-size bed, the other a narrow single. He gazed at the king size and wondered how she would look on it, naked.
He called her but the number was unrecognized. He tried it several more times and got the same message. A sense of doubt welled up in him. Had he let his imagination run away with him? His mother used to tell him he was a fantasist, dreaming of all the things he wanted to do. He began to wonder if she’d been right. Why would Nasima, who seemed so capable, need
his
help to find somewhere to stay? There was so much about her that both excited and mystified him. He knew almost nothing about her, or her family, or how she had come to be connected with the charity in Doncaster.
Just as he was starting to give up hope an unknown number came up on his phone.
It was her. ‘I lost my phone.’
He could barely disguise his relief.
‘Were you worried?’
‘Well, yes.’
‘That’s nice of you.’
He delivered the good news about the flat. ‘Just temporary, but it has two bedrooms.’
‘See? I told you. They’re very lucky to have you, right now.’
‘Yeah, I should remember that.’
‘They must really think they need you on their side. Not many people like us would be so willing to speak up for the government, especially at a time like this.’
‘There’s something else.’ He told her about the Downing Street do: an invitation from the prime minister, no less. There was silence at the other end of the line.
‘Are you still there?’
‘That’s – well, it should be very interesting.’
Oh dear, had he gone too far? ‘You don’t have to come. I mean, it was just I thought …’
‘Sahim, that’s wonderful. I’m sorry, I was lost for words. You really are amazing.’
A warm glow of confidence flooded back. Even over the phone the force of her appreciation was unmistakable. All he had to do now was tackle his next challenge: to convert it into something tangible.
37
10 Downing Street
The reception room was a sea of people. Waitresses glided between them with trays. Over a marble fireplace at one end of the room hung a portrait of Elizabeth I, standing on a map of England. But Sam’s attention was on Nasima as she gazed at the crowd.
‘It’s much bigger inside than it looks from the front, isn’t it?’ he said.
‘What is?’
‘Number Ten. A bit like the Tardis.’
She seemed mystified, a reminder that they were worlds apart. But he could see she was captivated by the event. Her whole manner was so different from that of the distant, wary woman he had first encountered in Doncaster. Her dress had also surprised him. She had really gone to town: smart black suit with a skirt above the knee, white blouse and high-heeled boots. Her eyes were subtly enhanced with kohl and her lips were a glossy rose. In this gathering of powerful, famous people, he wasn’t the only one whose attention she was attracting.
‘If you don’t mind me saying, you look terrific.’
She gave him a wry smile. ‘Just trying to blend in.’
The spell was broken by Derek Farmer bearing down on them. ‘Well, look at what we’ve got here.’ His lips were shiny with alcohol. He licked them as he spoke. ‘I hope I’m worthy of an introduction.’
‘This is Nasima. Nasima, this is Derek, my boss.’
He added the last words as a warning signal. He was ready for Farmer to disgrace himself and wanted to alert her in case she decided to take against him. But she rose to the occasion, smiled and even gave him a flirtatious laugh. Sam’s chest swelled with pride at her taking charge of the encounter with such confidence. Farmer leaned down and spoke in his ear in a stage whisper. The smell of drink was almost overpowering. ‘I’d keep her under a burka if I were you.’
Nasima laughed dutifully as he trundled away.
‘I’m sorry about that. You handled him brilliantly.’