The shop dummies looked at each other; clearly they’d been called worse things.

‘The FBI are concerned you may be seeking some kind of revenge.’

‘In Texas? That’s a bit paranoid even for them.’

It was Alicia’s turn to chip in: ‘For fuck’s sake, Tom. Everyone’s on edge back home and there aren’t any easy strategies. We can’t put tanks on the streets. We’re not the Russians. We need all the support we can get from the US and stuff like this makes them feel we’re not playing the game.’

Tom sighed. ‘Look, you can drive me around all day, if you like, but spare a thought for the poor old British taxpayer footing the gas bill for this barge, not to mention keeping these two in shandy and crisps.’

The boss sighed heavily and rubbed his eyes. It was clear they were on a fishing expedition. They had no real idea why he was there.

‘Look. Just be out of here by tomorrow. All right?’

This was madness, one arm of the secret service trying to employ him, the other trying to expel him. But in fact Tom was hoping to get out of there sooner than that.

‘Fine, whatever. Just let me out.’

The car lurched to a halt. He turned to them. ‘There is one thing. Masjid As-Sabur?’

The patrician frowned. ‘What’s that?’

‘“As-Sabur” is one of Allah’s ninety-nine names. Depending on your interpretation of the translation it means either the “Timeless One” or the “Patient One”. “Masjid”, I’m sure you know, means “mosque”.’

‘So?’

‘Asim Zuabi, imam and Syrian refugee.’

They all looked at him blankly. ‘Check him out. He’s building a big new mosque here. Some of the locals aren’t happy but he’s loaded so he’s bought off the authorities, apparently.’

‘What’s the significance?’

‘Honestly? I have absolutely no idea.’

Chapter 61

61

Tom was in the bathroom doing some maintenance on the previous night’s damage when there was a knock at the door.

‘Room service.’

He looked through the peep-hole: Beth, carrying a bottle of champagne and two glasses. He had been looking forward to some time alone and catching up on some much-needed sleep. Besides, he didn’t feel like celebrating; Kyle’s demise and the carnage at the gun shop had left him feeling deeply troubled. But maybe this was a chance to get another angle on Stutz. He reached for a robe. The accumulated damage had left him with a number of welts and angry-looking bruises.

He opened the door and she strode in on those endless legs.

‘Courtesy of Mr Stutz. I believe congratulations are in order!’

She looked different today, less of the efficient PA, more Jack Wills at the Beach. She had on a vest that clung nicely, shorts and trainers, evidently her off-duty kit. He took the bottle from her: Krug, Clos du Mesnil 2000.