Tom grabbed a glass and helped himself to some iced water. ‘This is fine. I’ll just be ten minutes.’ He found a remote and switched channels from the dolphins to CNN. The top story in the UK was still the hostel explosion. The bomber’s ID had been confirmed: Nurul al-Awati, from Coventry, recently returned from Syria. A montage of reactions followed: a mixed group of women crying; crowds of chanting shaven-headed men; a train ablaze outside Birmingham; police behind shields being pounded with bottles and bricks.

Then he remembered Woolf’s text. Call – urgent.

He texted back, Can’t – later, then deleted both messages.

Chapter 41

41

‘Hey, Tom! How’s it hanging?’

Skip was perched on a silver mesh swivel chair, hunched over a bank of screens, most of them filled with numbers. One was showing a war game, a Black Hawk banking and turning into a fireball. He didn’t look round but waved a hand before returning it to his keyboard. From behind he could have been fourteen.

‘He’ll be right with you,’ said Beth.

When Skip finally did look round, Tom saw the face of an aged teenager, almost grotesquely disfigured by sleep deprivation. The dark pits under his eyes resembled wounds rather than shadows. His mop of curly yellow hair clearly needed a good wash, as did the Beavis and Butt-Head T-shirt that hung off his slight frame, above a pair of baggy checked shorts. Teenager was only slightly pushing it. Tom knew he was twenty-six, had grown up in New Mexico, had dropped out of Stanford University, had never travelled out of the US and had only in the last year moved out of his parents’ house into this purpose-built compound.

He swivelled round and got to his feet. He was small, five six or so, and almost painfully skinny. The hand he offered was clammy, the fingers clawed from years of keyboard work. ‘Looks like it’s all kicking off in jolly old England.’

‘You could say that.’

‘Man, I love your British understatement.’

Skip’s eyes slid across to Beth and her cleavage. Her face registered nothing, the blissed-out gaze aimed over his head.

‘So, Tom: Delphine. Way to go, dude!’

‘What?’ Tom felt every muscle in his body tense.

‘God, I love French chicks. Zat accent. And waaay hot. Too bad she bailed on your ass.’ He swung back to his keyboard, hit a couple of keys and her image appeared on a couple of the screens: a CCTV shot of her getting off a French train, then another of her in a street, in a café, coming out of a shop. Tom leaned forward to see the date: yesterday.

Skip wheeled round, grinning.

Tom glanced at Beth, the smile on her face fighting for its life.

‘C’mon now, Skip. Be nice, remember.’