What did she mean? He opened his mouth to speak but so many thoughts were crowding in that he couldn’t think what to say.

‘They want something back.’

The conversation seemed to be veering into alien territory. Less than an hour ago they had been mistaken for a couple; now she was becoming more business-like, more distant. He battled to manage the torrent of confused emotions swirling inside him.

‘What exactly?’

‘Their people here want to meet you.’

This was a world he had never had any contact or rapport with. He felt as though he was being pulled along on a conveyor-belt, outside his control. ‘Why?’

‘As I said, they know who you are, what you do.’

‘What difference does that make?’

‘They want to deal with you direct. There is only so much I can do, Sahim.’

He sensed her exasperation. He felt his face heating with embarrassment. ‘Of course – how stupid of me. I’m so grateful to you for doing this. How can I ever repay you?’

She allowed him a small smile. ‘Well, you are giving me a roof over my head.’

He felt the warmth come back a little, as if she had just flipped a switch.

‘So we are in each other’s debt.’

He seized the moment to take her hand. She didn’t resist, just let it lie there. Should he go further? He didn’t get to find out.

‘They want to see you tonight.’

‘But it’s—’ He looked at his watch: 01:12. ‘Now? Really?’

‘Yes.’

She released his hand and got up.

‘They will text me when they are near. And you mustn’t be alarmed: they will have to take some pre-cautions, for security. I suggest you get some sleep until I need to wake you.’

Chapter 45

45

Crown Plaza Hotel, Houston

There was a long line outside the reception room. To get in, the guests had to pass through a full security check and give up their phones to meaty, dark-suited guards in shades straight out of Men in Black.

Beth steered Tom past the line and straight through, where she broke away and went into full meeting-greeting-laughing mode as she guided people to their seats. Tom scanned the crowd: mostly male, almost uniformly middle-aged and white. A lot of the men had the square-jawed, whitewall haircut look of former military personnel. Others were clones of Stutz – grey men in grey suits. But there was another contingent somewhat less formally dressed, with beards and pony-tails, who looked as if they had just ridden in on their bikes from the desert. What kind of big idea would unite these disparate factions?

Stutz clambered onto the stage. ‘For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Aaron Stutz.’

There was a ripple of laughter – as if to acknowledge how ridiculous it would be not to know who he was.