Читать книгу Kennedy’s Ghost - Gordon Stevens - Страница 9

The photograph was in a silver frame, and the girl in it wore a white confirmation dress. When the photograph was taken she had been six years old, now she was nine. For the past two months of those years she had been missing.

Lima, Peru. Seven in the evening.

The weather outside was hot and humid, the city gasping for breath beneath the cloud which hung over it at this time of year.

Wonder where the next job will be, Haslam thought. South America again, possibly Europe, and Italy was always a favourite. He’d have a break, of course, needed a break after this one. As long as it went down tonight and as long as he got little Rosita home safely.

The room was on the first floor, overlooking the courtyard of the house. The furniture was large and comfortable, the pictures on the walls lost in the half-light. The mother and father sat side by side on the sofa opposite him, one of them occasionally standing, then sitting again, not knowing what to do. Behind them, almost lost in the shadows, the family lawyer sat without speaking.

The mother glanced again at the photograph. You’re sure it will work – it was in her eyes as she realized he had seen her looking, in the nervousness on her face as she turned away.

Even now they couldn’t be sure – Haslam had been through it with the family the night before, again that morning, yet again that afternoon. But at least they were trying something different, at least they were dictating the rules of the game. Which is what the others hadn’t done in the past, which was why their children never came home.

The others hadn’t been his cases, thank Christ, but they haunted him nevertheless. In the first the parents had paid the ransom but heard nothing more. In the second they had met the first demand, then a second, yet still heard nothing, received nothing, not even a body to bury. In the third the consultant had insisted upon visual contact with the child before the money was handed over, but then the child had been spirited away in the bustle of the street where the kidnappers had insisted the exchange should take place, the boy’s body found three days later.

There were certain similarities, of course – the insistence that a member of the household staff be the courier, for example. And the police had normally been informed. That was one of the things which worried him now: how Ortega would react when he found out what Haslam had done.

Perhaps Ortega had brought some of his techniques with him when he had come over from one of the cocaine units, though more likely they had always been there. Nine months earlier Ortega had agreed with a hostage family not to move on the kidnappers until the victim was safe. Instead he had followed the pick-up to the house where the gang were counting the ransom money prior to releasing the victim. Officially all the gang had been killed; unofficially one had survived, though he had probably wished he had not. It had taken Ortega less than thirty minutes to extract the location at which the kidnap victim was being held and just over two hours to secure the victim’s release, though it had been another twenty-four before he had informed the family that their father was safe. After that the kidnappers had switched to children. After that none of the victims came back alive.

It was five minutes past seven.

Ramirez should have received the call by now. Ramirez’s instructions were to telephone them to confirm that he had heard. No words though, because the telephone at the house was certainly tapped. Therefore three rings, repeated a second time, if the kidnappers had been in contact. Six rings, also repeated, if they had not and he was returning to the house empty-handed. Ramirez was the girl’s uncle, also a lawyer. Good contacts in the presidential palace, though none would do him any good tonight.

It was ten past seven.

Haslam rose and poured himself a mineral water, added a handful of ice and a sliver of lime.

Christ how he hated kidnapping, how he hated Latin America. More specifically, how he hated kidnapping in Latin America. All crimes were against the law, but kidnapping was immoral. Europe, however, was civilized compared to here. In Europe the people holding the victims were still bastards, but both sides played to at least a semblance of rules. In Central and South America you were never sure whose rules you were playing or even whose game. Whether a kidnapping was commercial or political, whether you were being sucked into a feud between political rivals, even between army and police, between the liberals and the death squads.

The mother glanced again at the photograph and he smiled at her, tried to convince her it would work.

Why haven’t we heard, why hasn’t Ramirez called? It was in the father’s eyes now. In the layers of grey the man was seeing the ghosts of the children who had not been returned, was already seeing the ghost of his own daughter.

The phone rang. Instinctively the mother stretched to pick it up then stopped as Haslam’s hand fell on her wrist. She looked up at him, eyes haunted, pleading. Counted the rings. Three. Silence. Three again.

Hope came into her eyes for the first time in two months.

Still a long way to go before we get Rosita home, Haslam told her, told them both. Told himself.

Three previous child kidnappings – he was still analysing, trying to see where he had made the right decision and where he might have made the wrong one. Certain threads common to each, plus the policeman called Ortega. He had pored over it every hour of every day since he had been called in, could see there was no way out, no way round the fact that Ortega was the problem. Then he had begun to see: that perhaps Ortega was not a problem, that – conversely – Ortega might be the key. For that reason, seven nights ago, he had made his suggestion to the family.

That for the sake of Ortega and the telephone taps, they continue to negotiate with the kidnappers in the normal way – Rosita’s father taking the anonymous calls and the maid acting as courier. But that they also open a separate channel of negotiation with the kidnappers – different phone, different courier, in this case the girl’s uncle.

At first the family had been too frightened, then they had agreed. When the kidnappers telephoned the family house the following evening, therefore, Rosita’s father had insisted on proof that his daughter was alive. The next evening the maid was directed by the kidnappers from telephone to telephone, to the point where she would pick up the photograph of Rosita holding that day’s newspapers. At the second location, however, she had given the caller the number of the public phone where Ramirez was waiting.

When the kidnap negotiator had telephoned that number the uncle had told him that the family had a package for the kidnappers and requested details of where it should be dropped. Inside the briefcase was a letter Haslam had dictated, informing the kidnappers of the police involvement and the taps on the family telephones, and suggesting an alternative system of communication, including the number at which Ramirez would be waiting the following evening. Also in the briefcase were fifty thousand United States dollars, in used notes and a mix of denominations, as a sign of the family’s good faith.

The following evening the family had received a call at which the kidnappers threatened the life of Rosita if the family did not pay immediately. Ten minutes earlier the kidnappers had telephoned Ramirez on the second line and agreed to open discussions on a channel concealed from the police in general and Ortega in particular. Then the negotiations had begun.

Three hundred thousand, the kidnappers had demanded. A hundred and fifty, the family had responded. Two-fifty, the kidnappers had come back at them. Two hundred, the family had replied. Two hundred and twenty-five thousand, the two sides had agreed; Ramirez standing by, seven o’clock Thursday evening.

Now it was almost nine; the dusk closing in and Ramirez signalling he was on his way ninety minutes ago. Be careful, Haslam had warned him: they’ll build in switches, cut-outs, might go for a double ransom, might seize you as well.

It was gone nine, almost ten; the dusk giving way to the dark and the mother’s eyes boring into him. Lose me my daughter and I’ll haunt you for ever; bring her back to me and what is mine and my husband’s is yours.

She poured herself a whisky and stared at the glass, her strength almost shattering it. Her husband rose, took it from her, and made her sit again.

Ten-thirty, almost ten forty-five.

The headlights swept across the wall and the Lexus turned in to the courtyard. The parents ran to the window, saw the driver alone in the front and Ramirez in the back. Saw the figure clutched to him, clinging to him. For one moment Haslam feared that he had lost, that the figure was too small, too grey, almost too translucent, to be real. That the figure clinging to Ramirez was Rosita’s ghost. Then Ramirez stepped from the car and he saw the girl look up and wave.

The mother turned and ran for the stairs, the father close behind her. Haslam crossed the room, poured himself a large scotch, only a dash of soda, and downed it in one.

‘So what do we do now?’ The family’s lawyer spoke from the shadows. ‘

‘Square Ortega.’

‘How much?’

In the courtyard below the mother was holding her daughter as if she would never let her go, the girl’s father embracing Ramirez then looking up at the window to thank Haslam, the tears pouring suddenly and unashamedly down his cheeks.

Haslam poured himself a second drink and offered the lawyer one. In a sense the way they dealt with the policeman was the same as dealing with the kidnappers’ offer. Too little and he’d turn it down, too much and he’d want even more.

‘Twenty-five thousand should do it. You don’t want him on your backs for the rest of your lives.’

The call came twenty-nine hours later, at three in the morning. The settlement with Ortega had been agreed and the money delivered, the family lawyer told Haslam.

‘And Ortega’s happy?’ Haslam asked.

‘He appears to be.’

Perhaps it was the lawyer’s natural caution, Haslam thought, perhaps it was as close to a warning as he could get. He thanked the man, slept fitfully till the light was streaming through the hotel curtains, then confirmed his flight to Washington via Miami.

Even though he’d been paid off Ortega might not like it, because in his way Ortega had lost. And if he considered he had lost, Ortega would want his revenge. And if he did he would play it dirty, partly because it was his nature and partly to let his own people see he was top dog, partly to let the family know who was really in charge. And if Ortega decided to play it dirty he would go for him on the way out, because that was when Haslam should be relaxed, when Haslam should be thinking he’d got away with it.

He could leave the country illegally, of course; but then it might be difficult to return. He could leave legally, but with some sort of political or diplomatic protection. But that would mean he’d left under Ortega’s rules, so that when he returned it would be under Ortega’s conditions. Or he could both leave and return under his own terms, his rules of his game.

At seven he took breakfast, at eight he checked out, ignored the cabs waiting outside the hotel, walked to Plaza San Martin, let the first two cabs in the side street behind the Bolivar Hotel go, and took the third.

The city was already hot, and the cardboard slums which covered the foothills outside stretched for miles. No cars following him, he noted, but there wouldn’t be. The cab dropped him, he paid the driver and stepped into the terminal building. The departure lounge was cool, the queues already forming at the check-in counters, and the gorillas were waiting for him.

Sometimes you needed to look for them, other times their presence was deliberately obvious and menacing. Today it was somewhere between. Two of them, plus Ortega himself. The boss man wearing a smartly cut suit and seated at a table in the coffee bar. Dark glasses, though everyone wore dark glasses, plus a copy of La Prensa.

The business class check-in was clear. He lifted his bag on to the weighing belt and gave his passport and ticket to the woman behind the desk. She smiled at him, then saw the two men, saw the way they were looking at him and knew who and what they were.

‘Smoking or non-smoking?’ She fought to control the tremor in her voice.

‘Non.’

She punched the computer and gave him his seat number.

‘Thank you.’ He picked up the passport and ticket.

‘Have a good flight.’ She was mesmerized, like a night animal caught in a beam of light.

His rules, he reminded himself, his game.

The tails were between him and the departure gate, possibly more inside when he was out of view of the most of the public, and Ortega watching, amused. He walked past them, deliberately close, turned into the coffee bar, ignored the other tables and sat at Ortega’s.

‘Two espressos,’ he told the waitress.

Ortega was smiling, arrogant. What are you playing at, mother-fucker, what are you telling me? My country, my patch. So you don’t fuck with me. You know the routine, you know what happens to people who fuck with the likes of me.

Haslam sat back slightly, not speaking. Right hand on the table top, the third finger of his right hand tapping only slightly but enough to draw attention to it.

Why so relaxed, Ortega wondered, why so confident? Why the hand on the table? Why only one hand? Why the right? Gold ring on the third finger, symbol on it, but he couldn’t see what. So what game are you playing, cock-sucker, what are you trying to tell me?

The waitress placed the coffees nervously on the table. Haslam shifted slightly and picked up the cup with his right hand, fingers round it rather than holding the handle, the gold of the ring sparkling and the image on it clear.

Ortega knew who Haslam was and what he was. Where he had come from and what Haslam was telling him.

Three of you and one of me. The third might be interesting, the second no problem, and you’re first. No problems, my friend. I did my job, you did yours, and we both got paid. Next time will be the same. Unless you have problems with that, unless you want to call in your goons. But you’re number one, and you’re sitting next to me.

‘Sorry I missed you at the Abarcas’.’ It was Ortega who spoke first. ‘I thought I’d come to see you off.’

‘It’s appreciated. I’d hoped we wouldn’t miss each other.’

Ortega snapped his fingers at the waitress. ‘Dos cognacs.’ The shake of the head calling off the dogs was barely perceptible, little more than a movement of the eyes. ‘A good job, getting the girl back.’

‘It wouldn’t have been possible without your cooperation.’

* * *

The lights of Washington sparkled to the north and the dark of the forests of Virginia spread to the south. The Boeing banked gently and settled on its approach. Fifty minutes later Haslam cleared immigration and customs and took a cab in to DC.

Coming back from a job had always been strange.

The adrenalin that still consumed you mixing with the relief that you were normally in one piece. Depending on the sort of job, of course. Sometimes there were just a couple of you, sometimes a patrol. Sometimes, as in a terrorist scare, there were so many of you trying to get a piece of the action that you wondered if there was anyone else anywhere else. Sometimes you came back fit, other times slightly battered, occasionally torn to hell. It had happened to him twice, the medics waiting but one of his own always there first, staying with him and slipping him a cigarette or a beer when the doctors were looking the other way. A couple of times he himself had waited for an incoming flight, most recently in the Gulf. Inconspicuous, of course, lost in the crowd just as the lads would wait till everyone else had cleared the plane, which was part of what it was all about. Then the telephone call to the family, but that again was different.

Except that was when you were regiment, and now he was by himself.

Because gradually the years sneaked up on you, so that although you did your ten miles a day and worked out whenever you could, you knew the time was coming when you would no longer be running up mountains, when instead of being out there you were the one doing the briefings and sending other guys out. Which was when you sat down with your wife, knowing that when she was alone she would cry with relief. Which was when you emptied your locker, had your last party in the mess, then went off to look for the rest of your life.

Sometimes you did private work, bodyguard stuff, except who in their right minds wanted to stop a bullet or a bomb meant for someone else? Sometimes, and especially if you had Haslam’s record and reputation, you joined one of the select companies run by ex-regiment people, even tried to set up your own.

The travel helped, of course; occasionally you were still in the thick of it, even though your presence there was coincidental, like the guys doing the jobs in the former Soviet Union. Sometimes you struck lucky, like the bastard whose people were doing some protection work in a certain African state at the time of an attempted coup, the British ambassador caught in the middle and Whitehall sending in the regiment to get him out. Except they needed someone who knew the ground, so while his wife thought he was supervising a job in Scotland he was really running out the back of a Herc into five thousand feet of velvet African night.

Because none of you could ever quite shake it off, none of you wanted to come off the edge, none of you could resist still looking for that last mountain. Even now he could see the words from James Elroy Flecker’s ‘Golden Journey to Samarkand’ on the clock at Hereford:

We are the pilgrims, Master, we shall go

Always a little further; it may be

Beyond that last blue mountain barred with snow …

Which was probably slightly literary, and the only words of Flecker’s which he hadn’t found boring, but it was also probably true. Which was why he’d gone his own way. Why he’d come to DC. Why he’d singled out people like Jordan and Mitchell. Why, in his way, he was still on the edge. Why he had still not given up on his own last mountain.

The condominium was on the eighth floor of one of the modern blocks near George Washington University, looking south-west towards the Potomac River. Most of the other people were university or government, there was a security system on the main entrance, a porter on duty twenty-four hours a day, and laundry facilities plus lockups in the basement. The furniture he had installed was comfortable rather than expensive, there was a Persian carpet on the floor, and the desk in the corner of the sitting-room was antique. On the walls were the reminders of his past: a Shepherd print of the battle of Mirbat and a Peter Archer of The Convoy in the sitting-room, plus a cut-glass decanter with the regimental badge – what others called incorrectly a winged dagger – the same as on the gold ring which had warned Ortega in Lima. Two photographs of D Squadron next to the basin in the bathroom and the letter from the White House on the back of the door.

It was almost midnight.

He let himself in, skimmed through the mail he had collected from the box in the foyer, laughing at the joint letter the boys had written him and enjoying his wife’s, then put the rest aside till morning and went to bed, deliberately not setting the alarm. When he woke it was almost ten, the morning warmth already penetrating the flat. He showered, made breakfast, and began the telephone calls.

The first was to the company for whom he had done the Lima job, the next four were to companies for whom he worked in Washington, informing them that he was in town again, and the sixth was to the office in Bethesda. The call was answered by a receptionist. He introduced himself and asked for Jordan.

‘I’m afraid Mr Jordan is at a meeting downtown.’

One of the government bodies for whom the company worked, Haslam supposed.

‘Can you tell him I called and ask him to phone back when convenient.’

Jordan telephoned twelve minutes later, told Haslam he had to get back into his meeting, and suggested lunch. When the calls were finished Haslam booked a table at the Market Inn, unpacked his travel bag, and left the flat. The restaurant was fifteen minutes away by metro rail and a little over an hour if he walked. He ignored the station and turned toward the Mall.

The grass was green and freshly cut, and the late morning was hot. The Vietnam Memorial was sunk into the ground to his left and the Potomac was to his right, the Memorial Bridge spanning it and Arlington cemetery rising on the hill on the far side, the Custis-Lee Mansion in the trees at the top, and the memorial to John Kennedy just below it. Even now he remembered the first time he had come to Washington; the night, pitch black and biting cold, when he had stood alone at the Lincoln Memorial and stared across the river at the tiny flicker of light in the blackness. The eternal flame to the assassinated president.

The following morning he had taken the metro rail to Arlington and walked up the slope of the hill round which the cemetery was formed. The ground had been white with frost, and it had been too early at that time of year for the tourist buses, so he had made his solitary way across the polished granite semicircle of terraces, then up the steps and on to the white marble surrounding the flame itself. And after he had stood staring at the flame he had walked back down the steps and stood – again alone – at the sweep of wall which marked the lower limit of the memorial and read the quotations from Kennedy’s inauguration speech. Seven quotations in total, three either side and the one he remembered in the middle:

In the long history of the world

few generations have been granted

the role of defending freedom

in its hour of maximum danger.

I do not shirk from this responsibility

I welcome it.

He lay on the grass and imagined Kennedy speaking, the voice fading as the sun relaxed him. Two months on any kidnap took their toll, two months on a kidnap in South America took more than they were entitled to. No more jobs for a while, he thought; he would go home, spend some time with Megan and the boys.

He picked up his jacket and walked on.

The morning was hotter, DC shimmering in the heat and the humidity already building. The White House was three hundred yards to his left, the needle of the Washington Memorial to his right, and the brilliant gleaming white stonework and exquisite outline of Capitol Hill half a mile in front of him. There were other parts of DC, there were urban ghettoes and unemployment and homelessness, often violence and murder. But today DC looked good.

By the time he reached the Market Inn it was one o’clock and the restaurant was already filling. The manager escorted him to a table in the room to the left and a waitress poured him iced water.

Most of those present wore suits and almost all were on what Haslam thought of as the computer break. He’d forgotten how many times he’d sat in offices and seen it done: the telephone call, incoming or outgoing, then the swivel of the body to the computer and the telephone hooked on the shoulder, Yeah, let’s do lunch … The diary called up and the name entered for 1.00 PM. Arrive at five past the hour and leave fifty minutes later, the next computerized appointment at two. Washington Man, in which he also included Washington Woman, at work.

Jordan arrived three minutes later. He was dressed in a suit, the jacket over his arm. The pager was on his belt and the shoes were a give-away to anyone who knew: smart but soft-soled. He dumped his briefcase under the table, hung his jacket on the chair, shook hands, and sat down.

‘Good trip?’

‘Eventually,’ Haslam told him.

‘When did you get back?’

‘Last night.’

They ordered salad, blue cheese dressing, swordfish steaks and iced tea, and updated each other. At every table in the restaurant the process was being repeated: not the same words or details, but the same thrust. Nothing confidential: even though the voices were low, it was not the place for security. Occasionally someone would glance at another table and nod at a colleague or an acquaintance.

The two men were seated near the front wall. When Haslam had arrived he had nodded to the one he knew; when Jordan had sat down he had acknowledged them both.

‘Who’s with Mitch?’ Haslam asked.

Mitchell was mid-forties, fit-looking, hair thinning and cut short, his body size deceptive and making him appear shorter than his five-nine. The man seated opposite him was a similar age, slim, dark hair neatly combed, an energy about him, and even in the heat of early summer he wore a three-piece suit.

‘Ed Pearson.’ Jordan did not need to look across.

‘Who’s Ed Pearson?’

‘Donaghue’s AA.’

AA, Administrative Assistant; what some called a Chief Executive Officer.

‘Jack Donaghue?’ Haslam asked.

Donaghue nearing the end of his second term as Senator after two successful terms in the House of Representatives.

Jordan nodded. ‘A lot of people in this room would like to be where Ed Pearson is at the moment.’

‘Why?’

‘Like I said, Ed’s Jack Donaghue’s AA. November next year the country votes for its next man in the White House. Barring accidents, the president will run again for the Republicans. If he enters, Donaghue will get the Democrat nomination. If he does, he’s the next president.’

‘How can you be so sure?’ Haslam glanced at Pearson.

‘You’ve seen Donaghue, heard him, read about him?’ Jordan asked.

‘I know about Camelot if that’s what you mean.’ The words used to describe the thousand days of John Kennedy’s presidency before he was gunned down in Dallas. The mantle many had passed to Robert Kennedy until he had been assassinated in Los Angeles five years later.

Jordan nodded again. ‘Whichever way, a lot of people think Donaghue’s the new Kennedy.’

Funny how even now the name had an aura, Haslam thought. How even now people linked it not just to the past but to the future.

It was as if Jordan understood what he was thinking. ‘Donaghue’s father grew up with John Kennedy, the families are still part of the Boston mafia. Donaghue’s as close as you can get to a Kennedy without actually being one.’

‘But he hasn’t declared.’ Because I’ve been away, therefore I’m out of touch.

‘No, he hasn’t declared yet.’

‘You’d vote for him?’

‘Yes,’ Jordan said firmly.

It was fifteen minutes to two, time for the restaurant to start emptying.

‘If Donaghue made the White House where would that leave Pearson?’ Haslam shook his head at the dessert list and asked the waitress for coffee.

‘As I said, Pearson is Donaghue’s right-hand man. If Donaghue was elected Pearson would be his chief of staff, the alternative president.’

‘So what’s Mitch doing with him?’

Jordan laughed. ‘Not just having lunch.’

‘Who’s that?’ Pearson asked.

Mitchell did not need to look. ‘The one farthest from the door is Quincey Jordan.’

A long journey for the skinny runt who wasn’t tall enough to play basketball and who’d got his ass kicked – as Jordan himself would have put it – because he’d therefore had to spend his evenings hunched over his school-books. Because in America in die sixties and seventies, in America today, sports scholarships were the normal way up if you were poor and black.

‘I know Quince,’ Pearson told him. I know that he used to work the Old Man, as they say in the trade; I know that before he left the Secret Service, Jordan was on the presidential detachment; that now he runs one of the select companies providing specialist services to both government and private organizations, as well as to people like me. ‘Who’s the other?’

‘A Brit. Dave Haslam.’

‘Tell me about him.’ Who he is and what Jordan’s doing with him.

‘Haslam’s a kidnap consultant. Ex British Special Air Service. Worked with our Special Forces people in the Gulf.’

‘What did he do there?’

‘He doesn’t talk about it much.’

‘But?’

‘I gather he’s got a letter from the president stuck up in his bathroom.’

‘Why?’ Pearson asked.

‘Why what?’

‘Why’s he got a letter from the president?’

A waitress cleared their plates and brought them coffee.

‘One of the great fears during the Gulf War was that Israel would become involved. They didn’t because for some reason which no one’s ever explained, Saddam didn’t launch his full range of Scud missiles against them. Saddam didn’t do that because someone took them out. That’s why Haslam’s got a letter from the president stuck on his bathroom door.’

It was ten minutes to two, the restaurant suddenly emptying. On the other table Haslam paid the bill, then he and Jordan rose to leave.

‘Ed, Mitch.’ Jordan crossed and shook their hands. ‘Good to see you both.’

Haslam greeted Mitchell and waited till Jordan introduced him to Pearson.

‘Join us for coffee,’ Pearson suggested.

‘Thanks, but we’ve had our fill,’ Jordan told him.

‘You’re from England.’ Pearson looked up at Haslam.

‘How’d you guess?’ It was said jokingly.

‘Working or visiting?’

‘Working.’

But you know that already, because you’ve already asked Mitch about me.

‘Next time you’re on the Hill, drop in.’

It was Washington-style, part of what the politicians called networking.

‘Which room?’ The reply was casual, no big deal.

‘Russell Building 396,’ Pearson told him. ‘Make it this afternoon if you’re passing by.’

He watched as Haslam and Jordan left, then turned back to Mitchell. ‘You have much on at the moment?’

The first frost touched Mitchell’s spine. ‘Nothing I couldn’t wrap up quickly.’

‘Jack and I would like you on the team.’

‘Anything specific?’

‘Jack might want to announce a special investigation, but before he does he wants a prelim done to make sure it will stand up.’

‘What on?’

‘Something the man and woman in the street can identify with and understand. Something like Savings and Loans, perhaps.’ The financial scandal in the eighties in which many people had lost their money. ‘Banking and the laundering of drug money are also front runners.’ But it could be anything Mitchell chose – it was in Pearson’s eyes, Pearson’s shrug. As long as Mitchell could deliver.

Why? someone else might have asked. ‘When exactly would Jack like to announce the results?’ Mitchell asked instead.

Pearson finished his coffee and reached for his napkin. ‘Possibly next March or April,’ Pearson told him.

The party would choose its candidate at its convention in the August, but the votes at that convention would be governed by each candidate’s share of the vote in the primaries three months before. The right publicity at that time, therefore, and a candidate might leave his rivals standing.

‘If not in the primaries, then when?’ Mitchell asked.

Because if a candidate’s bandwagon was already rolling, his team might hold back certain things till later.

‘October of next year,’ Pearson said simply.

A month before the people of America voted for their next president.

‘When do you want me to start?’

‘As soon as you can.’

‘And when does Jack want to announce he’s setting up an investigation?’

Because then he’d be in the news. Because then he could use it to help launch his campaign. But only if he was guaranteed of delivering.

‘A precise date?’ Pearson asked.

‘Yeah, Ed. A precise date.’

There was an unwritten law among politicians running for their party’s nomination: that in order to win the primaries, there was a date by which a candidate must declare. That day was Labour Day, the first Monday of the first week in the preceding September. This September. Three months off.

Pearson folded the napkin slowly and deliberately, placed it on the table and looked at Mitchell, the first smile appearing on his face and the first laugh in his eyes.

‘Labour Day sounds good.’

The heat of the afternoon was relaxing, which was dangerous, because he might think he had unwound. And if he thought that then he might accept another job before he was ready.

Haslam sat on the steps of Capitol Hill and looked down the Mall.

Thirty-six hours ago he’d been dealing with Ortega, and thirty hours before that he’d been praying to whatever God he believed in for the safe delivery of the little girl called Rosita.

He left the steps and walked to Russell Building.

The buildings housing the offices of members of the US Senate were to the north of Capitol Hill and those housing members of the House of Representatives to the south, the gleaming façades of the US Supreme Court and the Library of Congress between. Two of the Senate offices, Dirksen and Hart, were new and one, Russell, was the original. Five hundred yards to the north stood Union Station.

Haslam entered Russell Building by the entrance on First and Constitution Avenue, passed through the security check, ignored the lifts and walked up the sweep of stairs to the third floor. The corridors were long with high ceilings and the floors were marble, so that his footsteps echoed away from him. He checked the plan of the floor at the top of the stairs and turned right, even numbers on his left, beginning with 398, and odd on his right, a notice on the door of 396 saying that all enquiries should be through 398.

The reception room was pleasantly though functionally furnished, the window at the rear facing on to the courtyard round which Russell was built. There were two secretaries, one female and in her mid-twenties and the other male and younger, probably fresh out of college and working as a volunteer, Haslam thought. He introduced himself, then looked round at the photographs on the walls while the woman telephoned the AA.

Some of the prints were of Donaghue, which he expected, others were of the Senator’s home state, which he also expected, and one was of President John F. Kennedy.

Pearson came from the door behind the secretary’s desk and held out his hand. He had taken off his jacket, but still wore a waistcoat.

‘Glad you could make it. Coffee?’

‘Milk, no sugar.’ Haslam shook his hand and followed him through. The next room was neat, though not as large as Haslam had expected, with two desks, each with telephones and computers, leather swing chairs facing the desks, and more photographs on the walls. The bookcases were lined with political, constitutional and legal texts.

‘So this is where it happens.’ Haslam glanced round.

‘Sometimes.’ The secretary brought them each a mug. ‘Let me show you round.’ Pearson led him back through the reception offices to the one on the far side, then to those on the opposite side of the corridor, identifying rooms and occasionally introducing people. It was the PR tour, albeit executive class. The sort visiting dignitaries from the Senator’s home state might get.

They came to the conference room.

‘Rooms are allocated according to seniority and positions held. Senator Donaghue is on three committees and chairs a subcommittee of Banking, hence he gets this.’

If Donaghue’s nearing the end of his second term and he’s on so many committees, then why doesn’t he get a modern suite in one of the two new buildings, Haslam thought.

They were back in Pearson’s room. The AA opened the door to the left of his desk and showed him through.

The third door from the corner, Haslam calculated, therefore Room 394.

The room was rectangular, the shortest side to their left as they entered, and the windows in it looked on to the central courtyard. The walls were painted a soothing pastel and hung with paintings and photographs. The Senator’s desk was in front of the window, with flags either side. In the centre of the wall opposite the door through which they had just entered, was a large dark green marble fireplace. At the end of the room furthest from the window was a small round conference table, leather chairs round it; in the corner next to it stood a walnut cabinet containing a television set and minibar, a coffee percolator on top.

The desk by the window was antique, the patina of the years giving it a soft appearance. The top was clear except for a telephone and a silver-framed family photograph – Donaghue, a woman presumably his wife, and two girls. On the front of the desk was a length of polished oak, the face angled, on which were carved three lines:

Some men see things as they are and say why;

I dream things that never were and say why not.

ROBERT KENNEDY, 1968

The inner sanctum, Haslam thought. ‘May I?’ he asked.

‘Of course,’ Pearson told him.

Haslam walked round the room, looking at the paintings then at the photographs, and stopped at the two above the fireplace.

The first, in black and white and of World War Two vintage, was of two young men in the uniforms of naval lieutenants; in the background was a PT boat.

‘I recognize Kennedy. Who’s the other man?’

‘A friend of the Senator’s father,’ Pearson explained. ‘He was to be the Senator’s godfather, but was killed in action before Donaghue was born.’

The second photograph, this time in colour, was of a young Donaghue, also dressed in naval uniform, and the citation beside it was for bravery, the date fixing it in the Vietnam War.

To the right of the fireplace were another set, plain and simple: Donaghue as a small boy, Donaghue at school, Donaghue at Harvard, Donaghue with the woman in the family photograph on his desk.

The print next to them was black and white and had been blown up, so that its images were slightly grainy. The photograph was of mourners at a funeral and there was a tall, good-looking woman in the second row. She seemed deeply distressed. Her head was bent slightly, as if she was listening to someone on her right who was obscured by the mourners in the front row, but her eyes were fixed rigid and staring straight ahead.

They left the room and returned to Pearson’s.

‘Interesting photos,’ Haslam suggested. ‘Almost the story of Donaghue’s life, except that I don’t understand some of them.’

‘How’d you mean?’

‘Vietnam, for example. I thought he opposed the war.’

Pearson nodded. ‘There’s something you should understand about Jack Donaghue.’ He settled at his desk, swung his feet up and held the coffee mug in his lap, Haslam opposite him. ‘Some would say Donaghue is an enigma: of the Establishment but against it. The fact that he’s against it makes him a good Senator, the fact that he’s from it makes him an effective one.’

‘How’d you mean?’

‘Jack Donaghue’s background is Boston Irish.’ It was in line with the PR tour – nothing said that wasn’t on a cv or in a file somewhere, nothing controversial or private. ‘Privileged upbringing, Harvard of course, which was where his politics began.’

‘How?’ Haslam asked.

‘It was at Harvard that Donaghue first declared his opposition to the Vietnam War.’

‘So why the photo of him in uniform? Why the awards for bravery?’

‘As some would say, Jack’s an enigma.’ Pearson switched easily between first and second names. ‘He opposed the war yet at the same time felt a duty to his country. Others dodged the draft or used their connections to get safe postings, but when Jack’s number came up he did neither. Ended up commanding a Swift boat, doing runs up the deltas. He was awarded a couple of Bronze Stars, plus a Silver Star. Apparently he might have been up for a Navy Medal, even a Medal of Honor, but hinted that he would turn it down. Said he was being considered because of his connections, and that everyone on his boat deserved an award and not just him.’

‘What was that for?’

Pearson looked down at the coffee mug. ‘He doesn’t talk about it much. Seems some recon guys were holed up on a river bank, heavy casualties and surrounded by NVA. The choppers couldn’t reach them and they were finished. Donaghue got them out, though he himself was wounded.’

Except if Donaghue got a Silver Star and was up for a Navy Medal or a Medal of Honor, there was more to it than that, Haslam thought. ‘After Vietnam?’ he asked.

‘Law school. Legal practice, then assistant District Attorney. All this time arguing that we should pull out of Vietnam, but at the same time fighting for veterans’ rights.’

‘Then?’

‘Two terms in the House of Representatives.’ Which was when Pearson had met him, when Pearson had become his alter ego. ‘Now in his second term in the Senate. Outstanding record since his first day in DC.’ Pearson smiled. ‘Which I’m bound to say, of course. Supports industrial development but not at the expense of the environment. Believes in budget control but not at the expense of things like health care. Sees the need for a strong national economy but not at the expense of the Third World.’

Haslam remembered the photograph on the desk. ‘Family?’

‘Jack met Cath at Harvard. She’s a lawyer, specializes in human rights. They have two girls, both at Sidwell Friends.’

So now you know Jack Donaghue – it was in the way Pearson stopped talking, the way he put the coffee mug on the desk.

‘And from here?’

Pearson laughed and stood up, looked out the window. The door from reception opened and Donaghue came in, followed by an aide. He was taller than Haslam had expected, leaner face and steel-grey hair.

‘Senator, may I introduce Dave Haslam from England. Dave’s a friend of Quince Jordan and Mitch Mitchell.’

‘Good to meet you.’ The handshake was firm. Behind Donaghue the secretary and aide were reminding both him and Pearson that they were due somewhere else ten minutes ago.

Sorry – Donaghue’s shrug said it – have to go. He held out his hand again. ‘As I said, good to meet you.’ The eyes were unwavering. If Donaghue runs for the Democrat nomination he’ll get it, Jordan had said over lunch. And if Donaghue gets the nomination, he’s the next president. Donaghue turned and left the room, the aide trying to keep up.

Pearson held out his hand. ‘Stay in touch.’

By the time Haslam reached the corridor it was already empty. He walked to the ground floor, found a set of pay phones, called the apartment and activated the answer phone. There were three messages on it, two asking him to call about security consultations and the third from Mitchell inviting him to beer and barbecue at the Gangplank.

Donaghue’s last formal meeting on the Hill that evening ended at six. At six-fifteen, and accompanied by an aide, he attended a cocktail party thrown by one of the lobby groups, at seven a second. It was the standard ending to a standard day. At seven-thirty he drove to the University Club on 16th, between L and M. The building was six-storey red brick, with a small drive-in in front. In the daytime the street would have been lined with cars bearing diplomatic plates from the Russian Federation building next door, the parking tickets plastered over their windscreens always ignored. In early evening, however, the only vehicle was a patrol car of the uniformed division of the Secret Service, the White House emblem on the side and the driver slouched in his seat and reading a Tony Hillerman.

Donaghue parked the Lincoln in one of the bays and went inside.

The atmosphere was refined yet relaxed – the University Club had long enjoyed a more liberal reputation than others in town. The main dining-room was on the left, and the library and reading-room on the right, behind the reception desk. On the first floor was another set of rooms, one of which he had hired for his fortieth birthday party, plus a more informal restaurant, and the bedrooms were on the floors above.

He smiled at the receptionist, spent three minutes talking to a group of other members, then went to the fitness rooms in the basement. Even here the upholstery was leather. He collected a towel, stripped, hung his clothes in a locker, took a plunge in the pool, and went into the sauna.

Tom Brettlaw arrived two minutes later.

Brettlaw’s day had begun at seven. At seven-thirty the inconspicuous Chevrolet had collected him from the family home in South Arlington and driven him the fifteen minutes to Langley. The only clue to its passenger was the greenish tinge of the armoured windows and the slight roll of the chassis. The guard on the main gate was expecting him. The driver turned the car past the front of the greyish-white concrete building, down a drive beneath it, and into the inner carpark. Brettlaw collected his briefcase and took the executive lift to his office on the top floor.

The head of the CIA – the Director of Central Intelligence – is a presidential appointment, as is his deputy, normally a serving military officer. Beneath the deputy are five Deputy Directors, all career intelligence officers. Of these the most powerful is the DDO, the Deputy Director of Operations, the man in effective control of all CIA overt and covert operations throughout the world. For the past four years Tom Brettlaw had been DDO.

His office was spacious: two windows, both curtained, a large desk of his own choosing with a row of telephones to his left and a bank of television screens in front. The leather executive chair behind the desk was flanked by the Stars and Stripes and the Agency flag, and the walls were hung with photographs of Brettlaw meeting prominent politicians, most of them heads of state. The mantelpiece of the marble fireplace was filled with the mementos given by the heads of those foreign intelligence services with whom he had liaised over the years, and the floor was covered by a large and expensive Persian rug. To the left of the main room was a private bathroom. In the area of the room to the right of his desk was a conference table, chairs placed neatly round it, and in the bookcase along on the wall to the left of the door was concealed a minibar. During his street days Brettlaw had done his time in the jewel of the CIA crown, the Soviet division, heading it before his promotion to DDO. It was a background he did not allow to pass unnoticed. Even before the collapse of the Soviet empire, those in the division noted with satisfaction, Brettlaw had always made a point of offering visitors a beer, and suggesting they tried a Bud. Not the Budweiser from the US corporation bearing the name, but a Budvar from the Czech Republic. Failing that a Zhiguli from the Ukraine.

The report from Zev Bartolski had come in overnight, for his eyes only and requiring him to decrypt it personally.

Brettlaw and Bartolski had joined the Outfit at more or less the same time, done their field training together at The Farm, their explosives and detonation training together. Worked together in the Soviet division when the going was rough and the shit was hitting the fan. Shared everything, the risks on the way in and the rewards on the way out. Which was why Zev Bartolski was now Chief of Station in Bonn.

By eight Brettlaw had finished the decrypt and locked the report in the security safe; at eight-fifteen he was briefed on global developments in the past twelve hours. At eight-thirty he held his first meeting with his divisional heads, at nine-thirty his regular conference – when both men were available – with the Director of Central Intelligence, the DCI. From ten to eleven-thirty he conducted a further series of meetings with his divisional heads, plus section heads where appropriate, the topics covering the responsibilities entrusted to his stewardship.

Satellite intelligence; liaison with intelligence bodies in the new republics of what had once been the Soviet empire; economic intelligence and industrial counter-espionage. The significance of the Balkan conflict on Islam fundamentalism, and the march of Islam north and west. The surfeit of weapons on the world market, the possibility and cost of buying up part of the former Soviet stockpile, and the latest reports on the availability of weapons-grade plutonium on the black market.

Brettlaw’s personal system of operating reflected the Agency’s: each operation, each transaction, was placed in its separate box. Within each box were further boxes, boxes within them. Finance separated from analysis and analysis separated from operations, covert separated from overt. Of course there were overlaps and of course there were areas of shared knowledge, but only where appropriate and only where it would not endanger security. Only the Director of Central Intelligence fully cognisant of all that was happening. And below the DCI only one man knowing and planning where everything came together, where the jigsaw of pieces became one game. The Deputy Director of Operations, the DDO.

The discussions continued: a possible coup in a Central African state, the implications of the success or failure of such a coup and the loyalties of the current head of state and the colonel allegedly seeking to replace him. Developments in Central America, always a delicate issue, and conflict between the former Soviet republics.

All the topics and operations discussed that morning would be reported not only to the White House, but to the politicians on Capitol Hill. Not to all the politicians, of course, but to the select committees on intelligence of the House of Representatives and the Senate, the members of each appointed because of their maturity and sense of responsibility, and their deliberations closed. So that, constitutionally at least, everything the Agency did was accountable.

Except …

That sometimes the politicians who held the Agency’s purse strings would not understand. That sometimes even experienced men and women like those who sat on the select committees might not like what you were required to do. Because in his world you dealt not just with the present but with the future, therefore some of the sides you were required to support and some of the plans you were required to lay might not necessarily be those which the present politicians would like to be identified with. Because the politicians could never see further ahead than the vote that afternoon and how it would affect their chance of re-election.

It was for this reason that Brettlaw had instigated the black projects, for this reason he had constructed the system of switches and cut-outs by which he could conceal from his political masters those projects of which they would not approve, whose funding was hidden in the labyrinth which constituted the modern banking world.

Of course others had done before what he was doing now, and of course he himself did not always like what he was required to do or the people he was required to do it with. Of course he loathed the right-wing fanatics as much as the left-wing lunatics. Understand such movements, however, get the right people in the right places within them, get his people in the key positions, and in ten, twenty, thirty years’ time the US of A would still be safe.

For people like Brettlaw it was not just a dream, not even just a goal. It was the raison d’être, the reason for being, the source and the justification and the whole goddamn rationale for everything. That as the world crept sometimes too boldly into the next millennium, the children of his children – the children of everybody’s children – would be safe. Even though they did not know of him or the role he played in securing that right for them. Even though it was probably best that they did not know.

Of course some would find it strange: the funds to key figures on all sides of the Balkans conflict, be they Serb or Croat, Christian or Muslim; the politicians, military and intelligence people who would decide the future of the Middle East. The same with the black funds being channelled to those who would be the key people in those countries so recently released from Soviet domination and now facing internal and external crisis, even Moscow itself. Plus the plans for the Pacific Basin, the so-called democracies or the self-confessed dictatorships upon which the economic future of the nation depended.

Even things like economic intelligence.

Industrial counter-espionage, that was the buzz word on the Hill nowadays. Stop the opposition spying on America’s industrial secrets. And within the term opposition he included military and political allies. But if even your friends were doing it to you, then what the hell was he doing if he didn’t do it back? Industrial counterespionage was in, however, and industrial espionage was out, so he had to do it through the back door and forget to tell the people on the Hill.

It was eleven-thirty. The man who now sat opposite him, Costaine, was his Deputy Director for Policy, one of the operational people. One of the Inner Circle, therefore part of the black projects. Not the Inner Circle of the Inner Circle, not one of the Wise Men like Zev Bartolski, but there were few men like Zev Bartolski at any time and in any place. Which was why Zev was more than just CoS, Chief of Station in Bonn, why Zev was a cornerstone of Brettlaw’s plans for the future. Why his brief lay far wider than the standard operating orders. Why, in the best tradition of the best in the business, Bonn Chief of Station was little more than a cover.

‘Everything in order?’

‘Yes.’

Costaine was tall, mid-forties, with a crewcut which gave him a fit appearance.

They went into detail. Boxes in boxes, though; Costaine knowing only what he was allowed to know – not even Zev Bartolski was allowed to know everything. And Costaine knowing nothing of the financial arrangements which supported his operational activities.

It was eleven-fifty.

Myerscough was in his early forties and slightly overweight, with light wire-framed spectacles. Myerscough was good, one of the best. It had been Myerscough who had set up the financial network for the black projects, who had chosen the bank through which they would run the funds, then made the contact with the fixer in the bank and got him on side. Established with him the lacework of nominee companies through which the black funds were laundered. But not even Myerscough, especially not Myerscough, knew anything about how the funds were used.

Myerscough was also careful, even had his own little intelligence set-up, people in places like the Federal Bank and Congress who reported on any interest shown in any of his accounts. Not that they realized who they were working for, of course; and not that they looked for specific accounts. More like the old Soviet and East German systems: report on everything. Then Myerscough and his people would pull those in which they were interested. Brettlaw didn’t necessarily like it: Myerscough never had been a field man and never would be, therefore didn’t have the instinct, didn’t know when to shut up shop and get the hell out. But if Myerscough was happy playing in DC then he wasn’t looking elsewhere.

‘Any problems?’ Brettlaw asked.

‘Couple of minor things,’ Myerscough told him. ‘Sorted out within hours.’

‘What about Nebulus?’

One of the switch accounts in London.

‘Nebulus is fine.’

‘Anything else?’

Myerscough shook his head.

Brettlaw concluded the briefing, took his sixth coffee of the morning, lit another Gauloise, and began to prepare for his appearance before die House Permanent Select Committee on Intelligence that afternoon. Two, sometimes three days of every month were taken up with such appointments. For the DCI it was one day a week. When Brettlaw was a politics major at Harvard he would have called it democracy.

It was twelve-thirty; he took a light lunch in the executive dining-room and was driven to the Hill. The committee began at two, jugs of iced water on the tables and die members in a semicircle facing him.

‘The payment of $50,000 to a Bolivian government minister was in line with Congressional Order 1765 …’

‘At present the Agency is running two operations in Angola …’

Even though the session was closed there were always too many members wanting to score political points, too many wanting to make names for themselves.

‘With respect, Congressman, I have already explained that to the Senate sub-committee on terrorism …’

You ever been a bag man in Moscow, he had wanted to ask one of them once. Your balls frozen and the KGB hoods sitting on you. Yet still you had to make the contact, still you had to bring it home.

The hearing closed at four-thirty; he made a point of shaking hands with each of its members and was driven back to Langley. At six-thirty he held his penultimate meeting of the day, an hour later he arrived at his last.

The Lincoln town car was parked opposite the University Club and the Secret Service car was half a block down, though he assumed there was another in the alleyway behind. It had been more fun in the old days, before the end of the Cold War, when the building next door had been the Soviet embassy. Now it housed merely the Russian Federation, so that even though the game was still running and the place was still staked out, the edge of driving up 16th had gone for ever.

He walked through the reception area, went to the fitness area in the basement, collected a towel, locked his clothes in a locker, took an ice-cold ten seconds in the plunge bath, and went into the sauna. The wall of heat almost stopped him. He took the towel from his waist, laid it on the wood seat, and sat down.

‘How’s Mary and the family?’ Donaghue asked.

‘Fine. Cath and the girls?’

‘Doing well.’

It was twenty-five years since they had been room mates together at Harvard, since they had studied together and worked their butts off to make the football squad together. A quarter of a century, give or take, since the long grim afternoon, still remembered, at the Yale Bowl. The annual game between the universities of Harvard and Yale, the Crimsons and the Elis. The last play of the last quarter. Yale leading, Brettlaw quarterback and Donaghue wide receiver, the ball in the air and the world holding its breath.

A little over twenty years since their numbers had come up and they had gone to Vietnam, Brettlaw into Intelligence and Donaghue into the Navy. Fourteen months less than that since Brettlaw had heard about Donaghue and kicked ass – filing clerk up to four-star general – to get him out and on the first flight home, to get him the best doctor in the best hospital in town.

A little less than twenty years since they had been best man at each other’s weddings, and, a couple of years after that, godfather to one another’s firstborn.

‘We ought to get together sometime. Have a barbecue.’

‘Let’s do it.’

The sweat was forming in beads on their foreheads.

‘Good session with the committee this afternoon?’

‘No problems.’

‘But?’

‘The enemy’s still there, Jack. Others might forget it but we mustn’t.’

The sweat was pouring in tiny rivulets down their bodies.

‘Hope you’re keeping your nose clean, Tom.’

Because if I run for the nomination I’ll need all the help I can get. And if I make the White House and if there’s nothing you’re trying to hide from me, then you’re head of it all, you’re Top Gun, you’re my Director of Central Intelligence.

‘You know me, Jack.’

The Potomac was silver in the evening sun. The six of them sat on the upper deck of the houseboat, sipping Rolling Rock and munching through the steaks, plus the crabs and lobsters Mitchell had bought from the fish market at the top end of the marina.

None of the others present that evening were connected with the security industry: two were actors, one was a lawyer and one a landscape architect, though all lived on the boats. Each of them knew of Mitchell’s Marine background, of course, each had laughed at the upturned helmet now used as a flower pot and the Marine Corps badge next to the family photographs, but few had noticed the scuba mask and parachute wings above the main emblem, and none had asked. Haslam had, of course, but Haslam knew anyway, because after Vietnam some of the boys from Force Recon had served with the Rhodesian SAS and Haslam had met a couple when, years later, they’d passed through London.

The evening was quiet and relaxing, the others at the front end of the sun deck and Haslam and Mitchell by the barbecue at the rear.

‘Make the Hill this afternoon?’ Mitchell checked a steak.

‘Yeah.’ Haslam was tired but relaxed.

‘Meet Donaghue?’

‘Briefly.’

‘What you think of him?’

‘Impressive, though all he had time for was a handshake. Quince was suggesting he might run for president.’

‘So I hear.’

Mitchell flipped the steak on to a plate and called for someone to collect it.

‘How’d you know Donaghue?’ Haslam poured them each another beer.

‘How do I know Jack Donaghue?’ Mitchell threw two more steaks on the grill. ‘Long story, Dave, long time ago.’ He hesitated, then continued. ‘You know what Force Recon was about, behind the lines most of the time, never off the edge. I was lucky, came back in one piece. Thought I’d come home the hero.’ He laughed. ‘Like the old newsreels of the guys coming back from World War Two, girls and cheer leaders and ticker-tape welcomes. Instead they treated us like shit.’

Criticize the war, Haslam remembered Mitchell had once said, but don’t criticize the kids who left home to fight in it.

‘No job, no past that anybody wanted to know, so no future.’ Mitchell was no longer tending the barbecue, instead he was staring across the river, eyes and face fixed. ‘Ended up doing the wilderness thing in upper New York state, a lotta guys up there, then joined the Forestry Service.’ He laughed again. ‘Finally I ended up on the coast, Martha’s Vineyard, picking up any jobs I could. One day I bumped into Jack Donaghue.’ When Donaghue and Cath and their first daughter – there was only the one then – were on holiday and he himself was serving take-outs at Pete’s Pizzas in Oak Bluffs. ‘Jack told me about GI loans.’ The following morning, drinking beer in the rocking chairs on the veranda of the wood shingle house on Narangassett Avenue which the Donaghues had rented, the smell of summer round them and the ease of the Vineyard relaxing them. ‘He and Cath talked me into taking one, hassled me in to going to law school.’ He laughed a third time, but a different, more relaxed laugh this time. ‘Didn’t even ask for my vote.’

When Haslam left it was gone eleven. He was asleep by twelve. The telephone rang at four.

Could be West Coast, he thought; three hours’ time difference so it was only just gone midnight in LA. Unlikely though. Or Far East, where it would be mid-afternoon, though he had few contacts there. Most probably Europe. Nine in the morning in London, ten in the rest of the Continent.

‘Yes.’

‘Dave. This is Mike.’

London, he confirmed. You know the time? he began to ask.

‘The two o’clock flight out of Dulles this afternoon. You’re on it. A job in Italy.’