The corridors of Whitehall were everything he’d expected, from the grandeur of the entrance to the hushed elegance of the hallways. He stood outside the office of the Secretary of State for Foreign and Commonwealth Affairs. He held a copy of The Times, in which was an item on the death of the controversial leader of God’s Liberation Army, Jacob Bello, from pancreatic cancer. The article detailed some of Bello’s reported atrocities as well as his attempts in later life to transform his organization from one of resistance to one of influence on the world stage. His efforts had largely failed, the article said, but with the appointment of a new leader, an Oxford-educated philosophy and modern languages graduate, there was real potential for change. Abdul had liked the photograph they’d printed of him and sent a short letter of gratitude to the journalist responsible.

His phone began to ring in his pocket. He had a few minutes before his meeting was due to start and so he answered it.

‘How was your trip?’ asked Seraphine.

‘Very pleasant. Thank you.’ She had arranged for him to use the private jet.

‘I know you have an important meeting and I wanted to wish you luck. Not that you’ll need it.’

‘You’re very kind.’

They spoke for a few moments about his first few weeks as the new leader of God’s Liberation Army, as well as his planned rebrand for the organization. He didn’t like the current name. It was too religious for the West and the word ‘army’ too antagonistic. Seraphine had agreed and they were working on a more appropriate title.

‘Let me know how it goes,’ she said as the conversation came to an end. ‘And say hello to the Foreign Secretary for me. Tell him he still owes me one for getting him that job.’

Abdul hung up with a smile as the Foreign Secretary’s PA arrived to usher him in.

103

Jameson pulled into the last space in the small car park on the outskirts of Leeds, not far from Harrogate. He had spent the last few days cycling the route of the Tour de France’s Grand Départ which had been held nearby in 2014.

Bloom was in the area finalizing the sale of her mother’s house. She’d chosen the cafe. It was a homely place with purple-painted windows and a carved wooden sign that swayed in the breeze. When he opened the door, a small bell announced his arrival and the ladies behind the counter greeted him with large smiles and cheery hellos.

Bloom sat at one of the old school desks drinking peppermint tea and writing in her notebook.

‘Cute place,’ he said, taking a seat. ‘Cakes look good.’ The counter behind him had an array of home-baked sponges, tray bakes and large fruit scones.