We—Wombat and I—thought hard about what to send you on your New York visit. We settled on using a diplomatic pouch, which by law can’t be opened by anyone except embassy officials or the intended recipient. Keep the lining inside the packaging. It will allow you to travel with the handgun in planes, but best to stow it with your main luggage.

We chose another Glock. We know you favour them. If you lost it or left it anywhere, it would be just another American agent’s gun. Most US law enforcement agencies have at least some of them in use. This modified version has a new-style in-built silencer, which is a minor step up on the one you took to Tasmania. Your comment on it would be appreciated.

I’ve added a couple of new multi-purpose keys. One is an electronic card, which should open most modern hotel doors. The other will open any old-style lock. Also find some new design slippers [gloves]. You can wash these more easily than ever before.

Very good luck. And a word of advice: be careful how often you play with your Glock. I am told you can go blind with overuse!

Cheers,

AJ

Cavalier removed the outer layer to reveal a black, plastic-like inner packet. He unzipped it. The contents included the gun, a new lightweight shoulder-strap holster, fifty bullets and the all-purpose keys. Cavalier examined the packet’s lining, which was made of a fabric he’d not seen before. He ran his hands over the weapon and strapped on the holster, which fitted on his side and under his left armpit. The cold weather ensured he would wear a zip-fronted jacket that concealed the weapon. There was no bulge. Even when his jacket swung open, the holster could not be seen.

Not even Mr X, who had liaised with Haut, was aware of Cavalier’s presence in New York. Cavalier sent Haut a text, suggesting they meet outside the Roosevelt.

Haut replied in twenty minutes.

Meeting Donnelly’s brothers at the Freemasons’ Arms pub over the billion he promised to invest. Let’s meet there after, at 8 p.m.

*

Haut sat facing the door to the pub. Prim Texan Shelley Northam, Donnelly’s 45-year-old former secretary, walked in and sat with Haut. Northam, her blonde hair coiffured and fingernails painted a bright pink, smiled unconvincingly and apologised for the fact the brothers were not turning up. She quickly changed the subject.

‘Your eulogy was so beautiful,’ she purred in a warm Texas drawl, ‘I’ve never heard anything better.’

Haut gave a small smile of thanks and asked, ‘Why won’t Christine let me see William’s body? It’s part of my ministry to pray over it.’

‘Sorry, Al,’ Shelley said, ‘you’ll have to ask her.’

‘She won’t answer my calls. Nor will the brothers.’

Shelley blinked, smiled nervously and shook her head.