‘Okay, thanks. Look, if you’ve got the time to go deeper, he seems to be heading up a very generously endowed new mosque, part of the regeneration of a rundown part of Houston. It’s massive. Be good to know where the money’s come from. And something else: I need a caller ID.’

He read off CF’s number. There was a pause.

‘It’s a gun shop. Confederate Firearms, proprietor one Lester Colburn. There’s a red flag against him. He also runs a website called Refugee Resettlement Watch. I don’t much like the sound of that. Look, Tom, you can obviously handle yourself, but these are very murky waters.’

‘Yeah, I know. Hey – thanks.’

‘Can I ask how this connects with Invicta?’

‘I’ll have to get back to you about that. Thanks again.’

He killed the call and searched Confederate Firearms on his phone. For your weapon of choice, look no further. We have the most extensive range in the county . . . friendly attentive service. He looked at his watch: 4 a.m. A bit too early to go and buy a gun, even in Texas.

Chapter 57

57

Confederate Firearms was in the Northside district of Houston: a windowless, metal, single-storey structure in a street of anonymous warehouses. He parked Kyle’s van and went inside.

Even to someone with his experience of weaponry, the sheer scale of the place was breathtaking. Rack after rack of rifles, pistols and assault weapons and even a ‘ladies’ section in one corner with small, pink-finished handguns for girls. Welcome to Texas.

Colburn was behind the counter: late fifties or there-abouts, thin, with a florid John Wayne kind of face and small, squinting eyes that stared at Tom suspiciously. He was flanked by two larger men, one of whom looked younger, their checked shirts bulging over their belts.

‘Good morning!’ Tom figured a friendly demeanour, plus the accent, might help break the ice, along with a few knowledgeable but generic questions about the merchandise. He glanced up at a wooden plaque with the motto ‘sic semper tyrannis’. ‘Thus always to tyrants’.

Colburn nodded. ‘That there’s the state motto of Virginia, my home state.’

‘And the words shouted by John Wilkes Booth after he shot Lincoln, I believe.’

Colburn nodded again, slowly. ‘God rest his soul.’

‘Lincoln’s or Booth’s?’

Colburn’s mouth came close to what might have been described as a smile. ‘Ain’t it obvious?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘You figuring on making any purchase today?’

‘Absolutely.’ Tom took a step closer and lowered his voice. ‘Actually, I was also hoping to find out about Refugee Resettlement Watch.’

Colburn changed his tone. And the two assistants moved closer. Their earnest expressions struck Tom as faintly comical. Their name tags said ‘Don’ and ‘Phil’, one late forties, the other maybe sixty: weightlifters, but sluggish with it. ‘What’s your interest in that?’

‘Well, you’ve seen the news about Britain?’