Fortress

60

Tom declined the offer of a driver and walked back to the hotel, a lone figure on the sun-blasted sidewalk. The hot Houston air felt unexpectedly cleansing after the oppressive atmosphere in the Oryxis boardroom. Stutz had made the call to Rolt but Tom didn’t get to hear what was said. Now Rolt was calling him.

‘This is it! We’re on our way. I owe you, Tom.’

‘All I did was trot out a few old war stories and shake their hands.’

‘Stutz told me you did a lot more than that. I’m proud of you, Tom.’

There was a beat while Tom absorbed this. But Rolt was still talking.

‘He says you passed with flying colours. He says you’re a great asset.’

So that was what it took. It might as well have been an initiation into a Hell’s Angels’ chapter. Kill to order to get to the next level.

‘Well?’

‘It’s very flattering. I don’t know what to say.’

He was in. Right under the wire. Woolf had put him there and he had come good. But where was Woolf now?

‘Look, give it some thought on the way home. You coming back tonight? We certainly need you. The bombing has raised everybody’s game.’

Right now all he could think of was sleep. ‘I’ll keep you posted. It’s been a long twenty-four hours.’

Tom dropped his phone back into his pocket. He was on the forecourt of his hotel, just a few feet from the revolving doors, when he was halted by an unfamiliar voice.

‘Tom!’

He turned to see a stunning young black woman, dressed impeccably, if a little warmly for the weather.

‘Alicia. UNHCR, Baghdad. Remember?’

She had a British accent and a beautiful smile: not the sort of combination a man would easily forget. He smiled back. ‘I’m sorry — who?’

She laughed. ‘You really don’t remember me?’

She was moving towards a side-street. As he rifled through all the faces he might have remembered from Baghdad, and that was a lot of faces, he followed her. She turned and came up very close as if she was about to kiss him, and as she did so her expression changed. Something made contact with Tom’s thigh and he heard the sigh of compressed nitrogen. He couldn’t do anything except take the pain as the Taser barbs embedded in his flesh and the force of the electric shock slammed him into the ground. Apart from fifty thousand volts, the only thing that went through his mind was the idea that he should try to curl up and protect his head as he tumbled off the kerb.

As he tried to retake control of his legs, a blacked-out MPV screeched to a halt at the kerb and two men jumped out.

They bundled him into the vehicle as easily as if he were a child and accelerated away.

Tom had no energy left for any of this — whatever it was. ‘Look, it’s been a long day and I’m fresh out of moves. Could we just cut the foreplay and I’ll call you in the morning?’

Tom turned to find himself in the centre well of the MPV. The memorable Alicia sat up front with the driver, and with their backs to them, facing the rear, sat two compactly built young bloods in shades, with blandly inoffensive faces, like shop dummies but with less personality. They looked alert and fresh from a good night’s sleep; just gazing at them made him feel weary.

‘Buckingham, listen up. Look at me.’

Opposite them was the talker, a tall, patrician man with neat silver hair, the sort who might have been a prefect at his old school.

‘You are Tom Buckingham?’

Tom struggled. ‘Who wants to know?’

The patrician bent down and thrust his face close to Tom’s. ‘Don’t be tiresome, Buckingham. We’ve had the FBI on our backs, wanting to know why you’re here. They seem to know things we don’t and that’s not how we like it.’

‘Sorry, I can’t help you.’

‘They know all about Bastion.’

‘Yeah? Apparently so does everyone. Have you honestly got nothing better to do than swoop out of nowhere with — Ant and Dec here and bother a private citizen on his holidays?’

The shop dummies looked at each other; clearly they’d been called worse things.

‘The FBI are concerned you may be seeking some kind of revenge.’

‘In Texas? That’s a bit paranoid even for them.’

It was Alicia’s turn to chip in: ‘For fuck’s sake, Tom. Everyone’s on edge back home and there aren’t any easy strategies. We can’t put tanks on the streets. We’re not the Russians. We need all the support we can get from the US and stuff like this makes them feel we’re not playing the game.’

Tom sighed. ‘Look, you can drive me around all day, if you like, but spare a thought for the poor old British taxpayer footing the gas bill for this barge, not to mention keeping these two in shandy and crisps.’

The boss sighed heavily and rubbed his eyes. It was clear they were on a fishing expedition. They had no real idea why he was there.

‘Look. Just be out of here by tomorrow. All right?’

This was madness, one arm of the secret service trying to employ him, the other trying to expel him. But in fact Tom was hoping to get out of there sooner than that.

‘Fine, whatever. Just let me out.’

The car lurched to a halt. He turned to them. ‘There is one thing. Masjid As-Sabur?’

The patrician frowned. ‘What’s that?’

‘“As-Sabur” is one of Allah’s ninety-nine names. Depending on your interpretation of the translation it means either the “Timeless One” or the “Patient One”. “Masjid”, I’m sure you know, means “mosque”.’

‘So?’

‘Asim Zuabi, imam and Syrian refugee.’

They all looked at him blankly. ‘Check him out. He’s building a big new mosque here. Some of the locals aren’t happy but he’s loaded so he’s bought off the authorities, apparently.’

‘What’s the significance?’

‘Honestly? I have absolutely no idea.’