‘Like the fat Sergeant Schultz of Stalag 13, I know nothing,’ he said with a grin. His teeth gleamed white in the darkness of the cabin. ‘Mr Musso, he asks Milosz to undertake special mission for him. Milosz is happy to comply. Anything to escape tedious discussion of football which is not football back at hotel.’

The Ranger was in BDUs, as was she, although her uniform was slightly different, being that of a private first class in the Texas Defense Force – her battered winter-weight camouflage with the proper tags sewn on. Tusk Musso had seen to that personally. Her shoulder patch marked her as a combat veteran of the now defunct 1st Armoured Division. The triangular patch was similar to the one on her other shoulder, representing the 49th Armoured Division, now of the TDF. She knew enough of a potted history of both to breeze by anyone who might stop her briefly.

‘For purposes of propriety, ma’am, what should I be calling you?’ the Polish non-com asked, as they pulled away from the kerb.

The roads in this part of Temple had been cleared a few years ago, but neglected ever since. They were not impassable, but nor was Milosz able to drive at speed. He had to manoeuvre the Jeep carefully back to Adams Avenue, which was regularly cleared.

‘“Kate” will do,’ she said. ‘So, Sergeant, you ready to drive me back into the lion’s den?’

‘Of course, Miss Kate. I have chosen route that will avoid usual patrols of TDF knuckle-draggers. Is long and winding road, like song by English Beatles, but it will put you within easy walk of lion’s den. I shall wait for you for extraction.’

‘I may not get back to a rendezvous,’ she cautioned.

Milosz shrugged. ‘I fought in Iraq and New York. Nothing in life is certain, Miss Kate. Not for you, not for Milosz, not for anyone. But I shall wait. I have foraged some literature, and some mandarins, which I found in Killeen this morning. Mandarins,’ he repeated with evident satisfaction, ‘they are much more convenient than oranges.’

He handed her a brown paper bag filled with three examples of the convenient fruit and a copy of The Great Gatsby. The affable Pole kept a stash of mandarins in a separate bag for himself, she noted.

‘This book I read in New York, during the battle,’ he continued. ‘It survived with me and so now I think it charmed. Irrational, stupid, but I cannot let it go. It is listed as a great American novel, which I suppose it is, although I still do not understand this Gatsby man. Perhaps, if you take this book, it might be of luck to you too. And you might be able to explain this Gatsby to me when next we meet.’