When he came into his office one of the tech guys was fiddling with a computer screen that had been set up on the boardroom table. Rolt was animated. ‘Ah, just in time.’

Phoebe followed him in with a pair of envelopes. ‘The reception tonight. You’ll need these.’ She handed one to each of them.

Tom opened his.

The United States Ambassador to the Court of St James, Denham Smart III, requests the pleasure . . .

‘Fuck that,’ said Rolt.

Phoebe looked taken aback. ‘But it’s come from Number Ten. They said it’s in recognition—’ She stopped when she saw Rolt’s face reddening.

‘Yeah, yeah, in recognition of the fact that the PM hasn’t got the guts to meet me in person. Well, fuck him. I’m not some groupie who’s going to wait in line for a handshake.’

Tom glanced warily at Rolt. It was a side of him that he hadn’t seen before, a fragile ego, enraged at being spurned.

‘I’ll send your apologies, then.’

‘If you must.’ He shooed her out.

The techie was finishing up. ‘Should be okay for you now, sir. You want me to stay and check the signal doesn’t cut out?’

‘No, off you go.’

Rolt waited until the man had gone. Then his whole demeanour changed. The outburst forgotten, he was now shining with almost child-like glee. ‘You’re going to appreciate this.’

‘What is it?’

‘What shall we call it? A bonus? A consideration for your good work in Texas.’

‘It was nothing much.’

‘Nothing much? You were on test – and you passed with flying colours.’

‘Okay.’

‘It wasn’t just you who was being tested – it was Invicta. Stutz doesn’t put his money out there until he knows what he’s investing in. You delivered, big-time. We got the investment, and this is a gift from him. Sitting comfortably?’

Tom smiled and nodded.

Rolt reached for the remote. ‘Okay, we’re live from Kabul. And . . .’

The screen came to life. A bare room, a man hunched over, manacled to a chair, stripped to the waist.

Someone out of vision prodded him with some kind of stick or baton, then placed it under his chin to lift his head. The face came into view.

Tom felt every muscle in his body tense.

It was Qazi, the Afghan National Army lieutenant from Bastion.

Rolt was grinning. ‘Stutz felt he owed you this, after what you did for him in Texas.’ He leaned towards the microphone on the computer. ‘Okay, gentlemen, we’re ready this end.’

An American voice, presumably the person off-screen with the stick, addressed Qazi.

‘Okeydokes, friend. Ready and waiting. Do your stuff, like we agreed.’

Rolt leaned towards Tom as if this were an everyday occurrence. ‘See? Stutz has his people embedded all over. He had them track Qazi down. They lifted him in Kabul yesterday. He’s in one of their secure compounds.’