‘Our conclusion so far, Zuabi doesn’t exist. He’s a clever construct. Someone’s been fucking with the systems, some digital über-geek has created a persona for financial purposes. But we’ll keep digging.’

There were also a lot of difficult questions about Buckingham and his antics in Texas. ‘Your man pissed in our tent big-time.’

Mandler didn’t attempt to protest.

‘And now he’s untouchable, I suppose.’

Mandler gave him a curt nod, not wishing to rub it in. ‘I think that’s the right attitude.’

‘What will you do with him?’

‘That’s probably up to him, I suspect.’

It had been a long night for Tom. After the Secret Service heavies had fallen on him he was cuffed and carted off to a secure room where they’d tried to question him. He had told them to piss off and call Mandler. In the end Sarah Garvey had come to his rescue. She had witnessed the whole incident, and after one of her trademark bollockings, during which the men of the US Secret Service heard words they had never known a female politician to utter, she had sent them off to find him somewhere to shower and a change of clothes and Tom was released into British custody. Even then there were a lot of questions about what had made him focus on Nasima. The device in her hand was the answer. But what had also come back to him, from among the many mysteries about his time in Texas, was what he had heard on the building site. And as he had zeroed in on her, the thought had flashed through his mind: was she the woman to whom the mosque would be dedicated?

Woolf caught up with Tom later that night. He had been at Karza’s bedside, piecing together his story and wondering how long he could hold off telling him about the fate of his brother. They had contacted his mother, who sounded like a handful, and she was coming in by plane that morning.

Woolf didn’t go in for jubilation. ‘I think a drink is in order,’ was about the sum total of it. Very British, for two men who together had just saved the lives of the leaders of the Western world.

‘Your round, I think,’ said Tom.

‘So, what now?’

‘I’ll let you know when I know,’ he replied.

Low cloud hung over the city. Central London was still on lockdown. The tubes and buses weren’t running, checkpoints had been set up all round Westminster, and what looked like every serving member of the Metropolitan Police had been called out onto the streets. As Tom walked across St James’s Park, he marvelled at how only the ducks were calm, happy in their oblivion. The question on everyone’s lips: was this a one-off, or was there more to come?