‘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.’
61
Tom was in the bathroom doing some maintenance on the previous night’s damage when there was a knock at the door.
‘Room service.’
He looked through the peep-hole: Beth, carrying a bottle of champagne and two glasses. He had been looking forward to some time alone and catching up on some much-needed sleep. Besides, he didn’t feel like celebrating; Kyle’s demise and the carnage at the gun shop had left him feeling deeply troubled. But maybe this was a chance to get another angle on Stutz. He reached for a robe. The accumulated damage had left him with a number of welts and angry-looking bruises.
He opened the door and she strode in on those endless legs.
‘Courtesy of Mr Stutz. I believe congratulations are in order!’
She looked different today, less of the efficient PA, more Jack Wills at the Beach. She had on a vest that clung nicely, shorts and trainers, evidently her off-duty kit. He took the bottle from her: Krug, Clos du Mesnil 2000.
‘Mr Stutz says you Brits know your champagne.’
‘Very thoughtful, thanks.’ He glanced down to see that one of the cuts inflicted by Colburn and Co was oozing onto the carpet. He pulled the robe closer round him. ‘Just give me a minute.’
She brandished the bottle. ‘Would you like me to open it?’
‘Go ahead.’
He went back into the bathroom and put on a long-sleeved fleece and trousers to cover the evidence.
‘Where did y’all get to last night?’
He laughed. ‘I’m afraid I don’t remember. We rather overdid it, I’m ashamed to say. I think I might have come off his bike at some point.’
He heard her turn the inside lock on the door. That wasn’t right.
He was only halfway through the doorway when a jolt stung him on the thigh and he went down for the second time in less than an hour.
What was this, Groundhog Day?
He lifted himself up a little and, without even turning, she jabbed her left elbow into his chest, forcing all the air out of it. Then her face followed, like thunder, as if she’d just ripped off her happy mask to reveal the scary android beneath. She smashed the back of her hand across his face. This helped him focus just enough to grab her wrist and pull her down. He didn’t see the foot heading for his left temple until it was too late.
He was on the carpet. His limbs felt like sludge, but he grabbed the foot and twisted it hard. She rotated with it, trying to avoid the crack, and crashed into the side of the minibar. He grabbed her ponytail and pulled her head down. She fought hard with her fists, hammering his face, chest, shoulder — wherever she could land them — twisting all the time like a hooked marlin. With a huge effort of will he forced her off him, but as he did so, she used his momentum to send him smashing into the wall.
He tried to open his eyes. The room was on its side, a blur. He twisted to try to see the right way up, but it was painful. When he recovered a little, he found he was on the floor and she was standing over him, the Glock in one hand, a small black wallet open in the other. He focused on the wallet, in particular the three white letters: FBI.
62
‘What happened to the nice, smiley Beth? The one who doesn’t Taser guys in hotel rooms.’
No sudden moves, he told himself — at least, not until you know if everything’s working.
She glared at him with contempt. ‘What are you — some kind of one-man crime wave?’
He lifted himself an inch. She pushed him back down with her heel. ‘Okay! Okay!’
The muzzle of the suppressor was less than two feet from his face. ‘Believe me, I am more than capable of using this.’
‘I believe you. Can you just move it out of my face?’
‘I’m calling this in, Tom Buckingham — if that’s even your name. You just booked yourself a long-stay cell in Huntsville.’
Tom had never heard of the place but he was pretty sure it didn’t have sun loungers and a pool. He adjusted his sore leg. She raised the weapon again.
The thought flashed through his mind that this was another test, commissioned by Stutz, but the badge and the wallet looked like the real thing, as did the way she handled the weapon.
‘Can I at least straighten up a bit?’
His head was wedged half under the table and his zapped leg was smarting unpleasantly.
‘What do you know about Zuabi?’ She took a half-step back.
‘What’s that?’ Tom tried to straighten his legs.
‘You don’t know? How long did you say you’d been under cover?’
He gave her the heads-up on the mystery mullah.
She listened, saying nothing, which suggested that it was all new to her. Since he had her attention, he went on: ‘What’s in this for Stutz? Seemed to me his thing is sending people like Zuabi back where they came from.’
She sighed, her patience running on empty. ‘Okay, you’re still fucking with me, Tom. You need to get yourself a better scriptwriter.’
‘Syrian refugee builds mega-mosque in downtown Houston. Nazi nutter plans to kill him. Stutz sent me with Kyle. What else could I do? You know the score. Under cover, you get to do all kinds of surprising stuff — like being filmed by Skip, yeah? How does that feel?’ He thought he had crossed a line but she didn’t rise to it. ‘He was testing you. That’s what he does.’
‘Then I guess I passed.’ She sat down on the edge of the bed, keeping the Glock trained on him, not letting down her guard, but at least she was responding. Tom pressed on.
‘MI5 think Invicta is deliberately provoking the unrest in the UK. They put me in to see if I can join up some of the dots. The dots led to here.’
‘And a lot of collateral.’
He shrugged. There was no point debating that. ‘Okay, I showed you mine. How about you show me yours?’
She shook her head in mock-disbelief. ‘Jeez, you Brits are something else.’
‘Well, go on. Why have the FBI got you running around for these creeps?’
‘That’s none of your fucking business.’
‘But maybe what I have is your business.’
She shook her head again. It was getting to be a habit. ‘I just don’t get it, what are you trying to do here?’
‘We can help each other.’
Her eyes narrowed.
‘Look, we both know Stutz’s ambition is for Skip to deliver the software equivalent of ethnic cleansing. Rolt’s been talking up something similar in the UK — and he’s getting an audience. There’s evidence he’s been helping the process along — stirring up ethnic hatred. Stutz talked to me about the Invicta hostel bombing like it was preordained. What if it was planned — by them? The FBI could be missing a trick here.’
‘Meaning?’
‘That you and I may have a chance to stop the biggest orchestrated terror initiative since Nine/Eleven.’
She looked at him for several seconds. Tom could almost see the debate going on in her head. Is this guy for real or some fuckwit?
He noticed the Glock wasn’t pointed at him now. Beneath what was left of the shiny gloss of her cover, he detected the frustrations of her assignment coming to the surface. She looked at him for a long time. When she spoke again, it was through gritted teeth.
‘Stutz is impenetrable. He’s very meticulous, and very secretive. He’s got all the detail in his head. Maybe working with Skip has convinced him that, no matter how many firewalls you put in, nothing is safe. He hardly uses the phone, he doesn’t do email. Everything’s word of mouth. He has people from his security outfit couriering messages all over. And they’re all totally loyal to him, just like Kyle was.’