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The strains of some Bach wound their way through the crowd from a chamber orchestra. A greeter swooped down on him. ‘Hi, my name’s Charlie. Can I help you with anything tonight, sir?’

‘You could tell me the order of ceremony.’

‘Sure. So, in about a half-hour the President will be joining us for a few minutes’ walkabout. Then, with your prime minister, he’ll do a short welcome speech and there’ll be a line-up for a few handshakes with selected guests.’

‘How do I get on the list for that?’ Tom wasn’t too fussed about meeting the prime minister, but it wasn’t every day you got to shake hands with the President of the USA.

‘Aw, I’m real sorry. That won’t be possible this time.’ Charlie looked genuinely disappointed on his behalf. ‘The President and prime minister’s staff do the list. It’s prepared well in advance.’

‘Of course. As long as I get to see them, I’ll be happy.’

A waiter with a tray of drinks swept towards him. ‘We have a Californian champagne from Sonoma County.’

Tom knew that wines from outside that region of France weren’t called champagne, but let it pass.

‘And a very fine 2007 rosé from Gloria Ferrer.’

Tom declined. He needed to keep his head clear. ‘I’ll take a Coke, please.’

But he could sample the food: orange morsels of Alaskan salmon — so said the woman in the Stars-and-Stripes waistcoat serving it — with pickled ginger on ‘wild rice blinis’, seemingly some kind of tiny pancake. Another was carrying a tray of dates stuffed with almond, wrapped in bacon. Pass on that one. He swallowed two of the salmon things, then took a mini steak sandwich with a little American flag on a cocktail stick in it. Not bad.

‘They’re steak and Stilton,’ explained the waitress, ‘to represent the Special Relationship between Britain and the United States.’

And sure enough, after the delicious steak, an unwelcome lump of cheese dissolved on his tongue. Special Relationship — perhaps, in an unsubtle, blundering way.

He sipped the Coke as his gaze swept the crowd. A couple of retired generals he recognized were deep in discussion with a former British ambassador to Kabul, now an academic. And the home secretary who had a crowd of suits round her, was looking as if she wished she was somewhere else. He caught sight of Mandler, who raised an eyebrow a millimetre.

Tom decided to let his guard down and came up alongside him. ‘Rolt’s not coming. He was pissed off about not getting a one-to-one with the PM.’ He nodded in the direction of the home secretary. ‘You briefed her yet?’

A gale of laughter exploded around Sarah Garvey. She managed a wan smile.

‘Somewhat,’ Mandler replied, with a guarded look. ‘We got an A-plus for the garage, but I chose not to spell out all the loose ends. She’s got enough on her plate as it is.’

‘Did you mention Clements?’

‘Mm. She didn’t react. They’re not exactly each other’s greatest admirers. If we were to start poking around in his dark corners, it might look as though she’d put us up to it. Westminster’s a very small village.’

He deposited his empty glass on the tray of a passing waiter. ‘Anyway, I can’t hang around. It doesn’t do for Madam to think I’m bunking off at this hour of need.’

‘She’s not exactly looking overworked herself.’

The suits had moved off and Garvey was now talking to the old generals. Mandler shrugged and, with another raised eyebrow at Tom, melted into the crowd.

He would hang around for the President, then make his escape. He could call up his dad, see if he was still free for dinner. He had been a bit sharp with the old boy about his scheming with Delphine, and owed him an apology. He was musing on whether he could ever come clean with him about his true role at Invicta when he felt his phone vibrate. He moved through the french windows onto the terrace.

It was Woolf.

‘Tom. The man in the hole: he’s been stabilized and is able to talk. His name’s Karza Kovacevic, a Bosnian by birth, now a British national and a returnee from Syria. He’s not making a whole lot of sense yet. He claims he wasn’t a member of the group in the garage — says they abducted him.’

‘Okay…’

‘But here’s a thing, we’re checking out his family and — get this — his brother’s working for the government. “Speaks on multiculturalism”, according to the Party’s blurb.’

‘If they lifted him, they wanted something.’

‘Anyhow, we haven’t got to him yet.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Sahim Kovacevic.’

Tom stood, the mobile to his ear, thinking. The only reason to lift someone and keep them is leverage.

‘Tom? You still there? Tom?’

‘Forward me a mug shot. I’ll find out if he’s here.’

88

Tom went back inside to find Garvey. An admiral was now bending her ear.

‘Excuse me. Good evening, ma’am. I’m Tom Buckingham.’

She peered at him. ‘Do I know you?’

‘Not exactly. I work for Stephen Mandler.’

The admiral looked particularly perturbed at the interruption. Tom ignored him, keeping his focus on Garvey.

‘Do you know a Sahim Kovacevic? Do you know if he’s here? I need to talk to him.’

Garvey’s frown deepened. ‘Oh you do, do you.’

‘You know if he’s here?’ Tom repeated the name. ‘This is important.’

The admiral stepped between them. ‘Look here, I don’t know who you are but the home secretary does not want to be interrupted.’

Something about the directness of Tom’s look and tone must have made her realize that he wasn’t wasting her time. ‘He’s with a pretty girl in a blue dress. Should I be concerned?’

‘Not for the moment. Thanks.’

He snaked back into the crowd and wove his way through the guests, searching for a blue dress. The throng was getting thicker as the minutes ticked down to the President’s appearance.

The woman in the blue dress — the one he had seen in the queue — was about fifteen feet away, with a young man, black hair, who could have been from Bosnia or Blackpool or a hundred other places. They weren’t with anyone else. Tom’s phone buzzed: a photo from Woolf of Sahim in a TV studio. Definitely the same guy. When Tom looked up again, the woman was alone.

Tom stepped left, then right, and got eyes on him moving off to the left and away from the main crowd. Tom followed. Sahim went out into a wide carpeted hallway with fancy Regency-type lampshades on the walls. He seemed to be heading for the Gents. Ahead of him was a security guy, easily identified by his shoulder epaulettes, carrying a white cardboard box gift-wrapped with red ribbon. He went through the door to the cloakroom and Sahim followed.

Tom waited outside. He wasn’t going to let Sahim see his face. There might come a stage when he had to get up close to him. But for now there was no need: he knew where he was; he wasn’t going anywhere. Tom carried on to the other side of the door, where there was a row of chairs. Before he got there, the security guy came out again, but he was no longer carrying the box.

Tom was committed to passing him. The security guy was walking with purpose, and as soon as he’d disappeared, Tom went straight to the door and stepped inside. He was confronted by a bank of four cubicles, all with beautifully varnished, full-height wooden doors.

The door at the far end was engaged, so he stood at a basin, ready to wash his hands if someone came in.