‘So Stutz is running Zuabi without his knowledge?’

Carter turned back to him, the desperation on his face that of a man who had given up his most precious secret and was trying to absorb the consequences of having crossed that line. He shook his head. ‘You can’t stop him. He’s too well connected.’

Then, as if jolted by a freak burst of electricity, he darted forward through the open window to the wall of the balcony and leaped over. Tom lunged after him and wrapped his arms round his left leg. Carter shook his head frantically. ‘No, no! Let me go!’

Tom fought to get a better grip but he was thrashing, gravity sucking his body out of Tom’s clutches. Tom grabbed the end of his coat but it was no good. The coat detached itself and he was absorbed into the darkness below.

Chapter 69

69

Pall Mall, London

There was something deeply comforting about walking back into his father’s club. After all that had happened in Texas, Tom felt calmed by the wooden panelling, the quiet, understated tone of the place. Even the frayed edges of the rug on the landing outside the members’ dining room was strangely reassuring.

‘There you are!’ Hugh rose to his feet. ‘I was starting to think we’d lost you.’

Tom glanced at his watch: thirty minutes late. It was odd that, after all his years in the Regiment, his father should fret about his being half an hour late for dinner; ridiculous, and rather endearing. He felt surprisingly happy to see the old man.

‘Sorry, I was in the bath.’

‘You?’

‘I needed a serious soak to get some of that oily American grime off me.’ He didn’t say that he had stood under the shower in his hotel room before he flew home, watching the last flecks of blood floating off him: his own, Jefferson’s, Kyle’s, Colburn’s and, most distressingly, Beth’s. A lot of people’s blood, not to mention the memory of Carter going over the balcony. It wasn’t the sight of blood per se, or death, that was shocking to him, but the world he seemed to have stepped into. The rules were different. And he didn’t like the people who made them. Worse, he didn’t trust them.

His father peered at him. ‘You look exhausted. But never mind. Sit down and have a drink. This Cabernet Sauvignon’s really quite good. A Le Bonheur 2006. Or would you prefer to open with a G and T?’

‘No, pour me some of that. Thanks.’

‘Did you have a good trip?’

Tom couldn’t think of when he had ever been more glad to be back in London. He sniffed the wine – it smelt like an old cigar box – then drank. It was rich, dark and oaky.

‘Hey, take your time, we’ve got all evening.’

‘Don’t tell me to slow down, Dad.’

‘Sorry.’