State Of Emergency: (Tom Buckingham Thriller 3) Read Online Free Page A

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.
    ‘Could you give us a couple of words?’
    ‘Which ones?’
    ‘How about “home secretary” for starters?’
    He liked her directness and she had a perky, winning way about her that amused him. Rolt’s appointment had yet to be formally announced. He gave her his poker face.
    ‘Are you able to confirm?’
    He knew that was the deal, the post Rolt had demanded in return for standing. He gave her a mock-indignant look. ‘I couldn’t possibly comment.’
    She rolled her eyes. He always made a point of being civil to journalists. Rolt loathed every one of them, tore into them whenever they caught him off guard, saw them as the enemy, even those at Newsday , who wrote about him as if he was the Second Coming and had helped put him where he was today.
    She wasn’t giving up yet. ‘How about a drink later?’
    He stopped. By noon the announcement would have been made. Britain would have a new home secretary, a man with no previous political experience who, only months ago, had been dismissed as an extremist and a racist.
    Rolt made no secret of what he perceived as Britain’s self-inflicted impotence in the face of escalating Islamist terror. As tensions between the opposing communities boiled over and the country went to war with itself, Rolt’s calls for what some denounced as nothing short of ethnic cleansing had started to win support. Suddenly, with an election looming, he was in demand, his inflammatory views finding favour with an increasingly scared public. No longer the outsider, he had found himself holding the balance of power, and when the governing party came calling he could dictate his terms.
    ‘Or dinner?’
    She gave him a look that implied more than that. The thought flitted across his mind that