State Of Emergency: (Tom Buckingham Thriller 3) by Andy McNab

his dismay lest anyone think he wasn’t on top of things. Still, there was nothing to be done but admit it. ‘He just went ahead, I’m afraid, Prime Minister.’
    ‘But he hasn’t even been assigned a media handler yet.’
    ‘I don’t think he’s the sort of chap who’s going to wait for one, do you?’
    The PM shifted awkwardly. The frantic election schedule had taken its toll on his back. ‘Okay – everybody out. Send him in.’
    There was a marathon gathering-up of papers and the room emptied until it was just the PM, with Clements and Farmer.
    Farmer felt it was his turn to chip in with some supportive words. ‘Really, Geoff, you should be celebrating. You’re back. You’ve won.’
    He offered the PM a winning grin. Clements beamed as well, though his smile was bereft of any warmth. Farmer could see the poor old PM’s problem. He looked like a man who had been pushed into something. Farmer gazed at Clements. How did the man not only seem to thrive on crises but also accumulate ever more power and influence?
    Farmer moved to the door just in time to see Rolt stride in, like a man in a hurry, by which time the PM had adjusted his features to his trademark wide grin. He watched as Rolt, also beaming, marched up to the PM, who shook his hand vigorously. ‘Vernon. Welcome.’
    ‘Prime Minister.’ Rolt almost genuflected.
    ‘Call me Geoff.’
    They clasped hands and the PM laid a hand on Rolt’s shoulder to remind him who was boss. Maybe he had made a pact with the devil. Maybe they would all go down in flames. He recalled Rolt’s predecessor, Sarah Garvey, one person on his team who wouldn’t compromise, wouldn’t shut up, wouldn’t spin her words for anyone. It was she who had warned Farmer that the PM’s capacity for compromise would one day be his undoing.
    Rolt took the chair Clements had just vacated and looked around approvingly, rather like a prospective tenant, Farmer thought, alarmed. ‘What a very lovely room.’
    Farmer noticed the sweat marks gathering on the PM’s slightly flabby chest. Cartoonists had long ago spotted this unattractive tendency and were still drawing him grotesquely caricatured with huge man-boobs in a wet T-shirt competition. He flashed a warning look. The PM got the message and took the precaution of slipping his suit jacket back on. ‘I feel a slight chill,’ he said, with his best grin.
    You and me both , thought Farmer, as he closed the door.

13
    11.00
Invicta HQ, St James’s Park
    The operations manager for the building had a hunted look about him. ‘I don’t know how it happened, sir. It was all in order when I left last night.’
    He and Tom were standing in front of a bank of monitors. At six a.m., it seemed, all the building’s security cameras had been manually switched off and the barrier to the underground garage left open.
    ‘I mean what with everything going on, who would do that?’
    ‘Thanks.’ He gave the manager a reassuring smile. ‘I’m sure there’s a perfectly simple explanation.’
    There was: Rolt must have done it himself. He had been alone in the building, when Tom had arrived earlier, expecting a very particular visitor and wanting to make sure there was no record of him.
    Tom went back to his desk and spent half an hour Googling Crimean Tartars, Ordynka swords, Ukrainians called Oleg – there were literally millions – and wealthy resident émigrés from Russia and the former eastern bloc. He even considered calling Helen, the reporter who had been outside when he arrived in case she had seen anyone, but as the visitor had evidently come in via the garage there was no point: the entrance was in the mews at the back of the building. Besides, he didn’t want to tip her off to anything that might turn out to be important. Meanwhile, he’d come across something else that intrigued him. Trawling a website for Crimeans based in London, he was distracted by a picture of a woman, pale and severe but striking, clearly not enjoying