State Of Emergency: (Tom Buckingham Thriller 3) Read Online Free
Author: Andy McNab
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 had 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
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 had 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
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