Fortress

56

Tom got to the van just as the cops came past in their cruisers, three of them, in a big hurry, bouncing across the ruts. Tom put himself in plain view: appearing to skulk furtively wouldn’t help him. He raised a friendly hand and smiled as they went by.

As soon as they were past he jumped into the van, fired up the engine, yanked the shift into drive and floored it. If the police were definitely there for Jefferson he needed to put as much distance as he could between them and himself. He kept going south until he hit the Loop, went east to the next exit, then dropped into a side road and pulled up at the kerb.

He turned on the interior light and checked himself over. There was a fair bit of Jefferson’s blood on him. He looked into the back of the van, evidently Kyle’s mobile headquarters. There was a stack of listening kit, a bunk, some cabinets and a fridge. He helped himself to a Coke, which felt wonderfully cool to his parched throat. Then he checked the closet and found a pair of camo cargo shorts and a khaki T-shirt. He changed into them, then took out the pay-as-you-go phone and dialled Woolf. It went to voicemail. He didn’t fancy risking that so he tried Phoebe.

‘Tom!’

‘Can you talk?’

‘I’m just on my way to Invicta.’

‘I need a name checked out. Asim Zuabi. He’s an imam based in Houston, Texas. Whatever you have on him.’

‘Okay, hold while I text that in.’

‘How long does it take?’

‘Only a few minutes. Tom?’

‘Yes?’

‘Thanks for not blowing us. I do want to say how sorry—’

‘Never mind, it’s fine. Just get me the info. How’s Rolt?’

‘I’ve hardly seen him. He’s been caught up in a whirlwind of meetings in Whitehall. The hostel bombing has changed everything. They’re taking him very seriously. There are some in the cabinet wanting him to join some kind of crisis task force. Hang on while I see what we’ve got on your man.’

While Tom waited, he took out Jefferson’s phone and looked at the call log. All the names in his contacts were abbreviated to one or two letters. One number he had dialled twice, and received four calls from, in the previous twelve hours belonged to a CF.

Phoebe was back on.

‘Okay, Zuabi’s showing no POI status: not a Person of Interest. Appears to have no form at all. He arrived in the US as a refugee from Syria in 2006, and seems to have carved out a presence for himself in something called the Southern States Caucus for Interfaith Learning. Otherwise, no profile. He’s not even showing up on the FBI’s Watch List.’

‘Okay, thanks. Look, if you’ve got the time to go deeper, he seems to be heading up a very generously endowed new mosque, part of the regeneration of a rundown part of Houston. It’s massive. Be good to know where the money’s come from. And something else: I need a caller ID.’

He read off CF’s number. There was a pause.

‘It’s a gun shop. Confederate Firearms, proprietor one Lester Colburn. There’s a red flag against him. He also runs a website called Refugee Resettlement Watch. I don’t much like the sound of that. Look, Tom, you can obviously handle yourself, but these are very murky waters.’

‘Yeah, I know. Hey — thanks.’

‘Can I ask how this connects with Invicta?’

‘I’ll have to get back to you about that. Thanks again.’

He killed the call and searched Confederate Firearms on his phone. For your weapon of choice, look no further. We have the most extensive range in the county… friendly attentive service. He looked at his watch: 4 a.m. A bit too early to go and buy a gun, even in Texas.