The President’s official representative in Texas didn’t look wary so much as calculating. ‘I’m always happy to be friendly over a couple of beers . . . Ty. But Colonel Murdoch does have a point. It’s a lot easier to be friends with someone when they’re not trying to ass-fuck you on a daily basis.’

Tusk’s voice sounded reasonable enough, friendly even, but there was no mistaking the steel underlying his tone. It seemed to have no effect on McCutcheon. He caught the female soldier’s attention with a backward tilt of his head and signalled for another round before answering the general.

‘Look,’ he said, showing them his open, honest palms. ‘We got us a face-facts moment here. I can’t pretend relations between my boss and yours have been good. I can’t even pretend I’ve done anything to make that better until now. The two men have their history, and there’s probably no forgetting it. Hell, I was with General Blackstone in Seattle and I’ve been with him ever since. I can guarantee you there’s no forgetting what happened up there for him. And to be honest? There’s no forgiving either.’

Caitlin accepted the second drink when it arrived, but she put it aside. The background buzz in the room had come up again, but she was aware that their group was still the centre of attention. McCutcheon seemed to be aware of it too. She was certain he was playing to the audience, in fact.

‘But this isn’t 2003. Those days are gone, thank God, and we recognise there’s a whole new set of problems down here. Problems that are a hell of a lot bigger than any personal disagreements between the President and the Governor of Texas. We are willing to put all of that behind us, to admit we made mistakes. More than our fair share of them. And to move on with making up for those mistakes.’

Caitlin said nothing. She agreed with Musso that Morales simply wasn’t a major threat. On the other hand, that didn’t mean Blackstone didn’t see him as one. He might be a raging ego monster, but in some ways Mad Jack was also a very delicate soul. Ego monsters were often like that: hard but brittle. If she wanted to gain the former Ranger’s trust, appealing to his fears and indulging his delusions might just pay off. Across from her, however, leaning back deep into the embrace of a black leather club chair, with one foot propped up on the coffee table, General Tusk Musso appeared to be less inclined to let bygones be bygones. Perhaps he’d been inspired by Colonel Murdoch, the castrating bitch from central casting. Or perhaps he just felt like getting his own back for all the hours he’d spent trapped at McCutcheon’s roadblocks.