He stood stock still, listening, but couldn’t hear any sound at all. He walked very slowly and quietly into the cubicle next to the one that was occupied and closed the door. He put his ear to the partition, eyes closed to help him focus. Clearly the one next door was not being used for its intended purpose. There was far too much body movement, and too many rustling sounds. And then the unmistakable sound of Velcro.

That stopped the instant the door from the corridor opened and the hustle and bustle of the outside world filled the room.

Tom heard a guest go into the cubicle at the end, the seat being lifted, and a stream of urine fired into the pan. The flush was activated, and there was a quick wash of hands before a burst of hustle and bustle from outside as the door opened again, then silence.

Tom waited with his hand on the door as a bit more Velcro was ripped and there was more movement. The cubicle door opened, and footsteps went past. The door to the corridor opened and closed, Tom came out of the cubicle. In the waste-bin below the basins was the white box, collapsed and neatly folded, along with the red ribbon.

Tom followed Sahim Kovacevic as he joined the crowd heading for the ballroom. The mobile in Tom’s pocket vibrated but he put his hand in and cut it. Woolf was surplus to requirements just now. He had got his target. All Tom’s efforts now, both mental and physical, were focused on the man who was gently and politely edging his way through the throng. He didn’t appear to be hurrying; he wasn’t even sweating; he was perfectly calm. He was even smiling his thanks to people as he split up their little cliques to move through.

Sahim Kovacevic being calm meant nothing. It didn’t mean that nothing was going on. He could be on a high, in a good place in his head because he thought he was doing the right thing. He could be almost floating on air at the moment – either because he’d been promised a place in Paradise or because this was what had to be done to get his brother released. This must be what the leverage was about, Tom thought. It had to be.

Sahim was still easing his way through the crowd. Tom focused not on his head – he didn’t want to risk eye-to-eye with him – but on his nicely polished black shoes under the dark blue suit, on his way to his place in history. Stutz’s ‘outcome’; Rolt’s ‘gesture’. This was what was playing out right in front of him, right now.