There was an empty look in his eyes.
Tom struggled to move. ‘For fuck’s sake, Kyle. What is this shit?’
‘Too many questions.’
‘Just listen a moment. Let’s calm down, shall we, and talk this through?’
But Tom could tell that wasn’t going to happen. He dived out of Kyle’s line of sight just as he fired.
The shot slammed into the cabinet door he had just been leaning against, narrowly missing his shoulder. A cloud of wood chippings erupted and scattered over Jefferson’s body. No more negotiation. Tom’s reflexes took over and his shot burst a hole in Kyle’s forehead as he collapsed in a heap in the doorway.
Tom didn’t move for several seconds, struggling to absorb what had just happened. He had killed a man who had once saved his life. But he had been left with no choice. Whatever Kyle had signed up for, it didn’t take account of friendship. The only other sound apart from his heaving chest was the chorus of cicadas outside. He reached forward, and pulled Kyle’s corpse further into the trailer.
Mullah Zuabi — who the fuck was he? How did he fit into Oryxis’s agenda? Too many questions were mounting up.
Tom knew he needed to get the hell out of there before anyone came looking, but the opportunity to search the place for more information about what Jefferson was up to was too good to pass up. He reached over Kyle and closed the door. Then he pulled him over to the seating area and folded him as best he could under the table. He wouldn’t be entirely hidden but was at least less obvious if someone were to peer in. Then he pulled up the blinds to let a little more light in. He ducked while a pick-up rolled past, blaring Johnny Cash, a couple of dogs perched on the deck, then began his search.
He didn’t have much time. Eventually someone would notice that Kyle hadn’t shown up, and as for Jefferson, even neo-Nazis looked out for their own. Luckily, since he was definitely a minimalist in the furnishings department, there were very few places to look. On the table was a yellow legal notebook. He flipped it open and read the large, childlike handwriting.
Today, according to the latest U.S. Census — only 23 % of the American population under the age of 18 is WHITE. Already, four U.S. states are MAJORITY NON-WHITE, and 10 % of all counties in America are MAJORITY NON-WHITE. World-wide, white women of child-bearing age comprise only 3 % of the earth’s population. Do these FACTS disturb you…?
It was disturbing all right. But he put it down when he spotted a rectangular shape under the thin bedcovers: a laptop. He carefully lifted the lid and stroked the trackpad: it came to life. Nolene’s Escorts. Proudly serving Houston surroundings, available 24/7. A girl for every taste. What’s yours? Call now to meet one of our fifty luscious babes. So far, so normal. There was an AOL email account, one of the last in existence, but it needed a password. He clicked on the Search History. The last twenty or so pages were more of Nolene and her luscious babes, then some local news pages: UH tops Florida on Senior Night. Evidently his racial obsessions didn’t get in the way of his interest in basketball. Then Teen leads cops on high speed chase… Arms seized in South Houston drug bust… Grand Mosque nears completion. He opened it: a front page from the Houston Chronicle — Houston’s largest mosque nears completion. The photo: a group of men in suits and hard hats, posing in front of a tower of scaffolding, with a much shorter, smiling bearded man, olive complexion, in a white topi and white robes. The caption: City councilors get sneak peek at Houston’s newest Islamic Center Masjid As-Sabur, hosted by Mullah Asim Zuabi.
Asim Zuabi — this guy was Stutz’s ‘associate’, whose would-be assassin he had sent them to kill?
From down the road not far away came the sound of sirens. Blue and red lights flickered in the distance. Tom closed the laptop and turned his attention to Jefferson. He took a photograph of the corpse, then patted down the pockets. Then he relieved him of his phone, pulled the blinds down, closed the door behind him and stepped out into the night.
53
Cabinet secretary Alec Clements was in the chair. ‘Thank you all for making the time to be here. The PM sends his sincerest apologies but, as I’m sure you can imagine, he is rather busy just now. I will relay to him whatever comes out of our discussion. In any case this is a good opportunity for those of us who don’t know him to get to know Vernon Rolt.’
He indicated Rolt, who smiled and raised a hand. Clements went on, ‘There is no formal agenda, hence the mix of attendees. May I remind all those here that this is a background briefing? Chatham House rules: nothing said here leaves these four walls.’
Sarah Garvey scrolled through the emails on her BlackBerry. They were the same messages she’d read twenty minutes ago, but she felt the need to concentrate on something else while Clements was speaking. She was by far the most senior politician present — the others were all comparatively low level — yet she had been added to the list at the last minute. Was this some kind of slight, to get back at her for her robust chairing of the COBRA meetings? Whatever was behind it, she smelt a rat.
Clements referred once again to his star guest and this time put on his grave face. ‘I’m sure I speak for everyone present when I say how profoundly shocked we all were by the atrocity at the hostel. And may I add my personal compliments to you, Vernon, for the restraint and moderation with which you have chosen to respond. An example to us all,’ he added, with a glance at Garvey, whose short temper and fondness for rapid-fire expletives were notorious in Whitehall.
She focused on Rolt. She found it disturbing that opinions which would have been considered toxic a matter of months ago were rapidly gaining credibility. Before, just being in a room with someone holding his views would have been political suicide, yet now his presence was regarded as a lifeline, politicians virtually queuing up for a photo-opportunity.
He was very seductive, no question. Partly it was his looks. He was timelessly handsome. With his thick, short dark hair and clear blue eyes, he could have been a film star: Sean Connery in his Bond days. Also his composure, the apparent lack of outrage combined with the quiet passion, were all great attributes, all the more so when he was seated beside Clements, whose oily manner and imperiousness were so repellent to her. She suspected his sexual proclivities did not even involve other humans.
Clements was still talking, ranging over the events of the past few weeks, firing out statistics of casualties, damage. He was in his element, presiding over his favourite kind of situation, semi-covert, with the promise of confidentiality for all, so he could soak up whatever thoughts people were having and pass them back to the PM. She was alarmed at the extent to which he’d had the top man’s ear since he’d returned from Washington. And she was not a little piqued at how her own role seemed to have been subtly downgraded.
Privately the PM had been full of praise for her handling of the unrest, but publicly he talked as if he had been in complete charge — even while he was poncing about at Camp David. But what could she expect? With an election coming, if he didn’t look strong and decisive he could take them all down with him.
Early that morning she had called Mandler, MI5’s director general, to tell him about the Rolt meeting.
‘We’re still watching him, but I’d be lying if I said we had anything concrete.’
She was grateful for his honesty, something that seemed to be in increasingly short supply. ‘I thought you were putting someone inside his camp.’