Kip had no idea who Murdoch was, of course. For James Kipper, one more military officer writing one more report was a matter of supreme indifference. For Jed, however, the President’s sudden, inconvenient awareness of the existence of ‘Murdoch’ was a source of diabolical uncertainty. It was just so frustrating having to wait on other people to finish something he had set in train. Especially since the end result could see him remembered as a national hero, or sent to jail.

His indigestion felt like a fist squeezing tightly just below his rib cage. Pizza was the worst thing in the world for it, but pizza was what he felt like. And for the moment, at least, it was about the only thing in his life he could control. Plus, he knew that for half an hour or so, the food would be a blessed relief as it sopped up his stomach acids. After closing the door of the apartment behind him, and silently thanking Marilyn’s forgetfulness – she hadn’t turned off the heating system when she’d left for home – Jed dialled up for a four-cheese pizza from the place on the corner, and poured himself a double measure of Mylanta as an aperitif.

He channel-surfed the news stations for a few minutes, but that did nothing to settle his stomach or his nerves. Fox News, as usual at this time of night, was taking its feed directly from Sky in the UK. The Greens leader, Sandra Harvey, was on MSNBC, causing him to rapidly surf away from that channel, and the local news station was still obsessing about the weather. In the end, he left it on a movie channel, where John Wayne was trying to remake his image in The Searchers. He had just enough time for a shower and one glass of Bulleitt Bourbon before his pizza arrived.

Jed knew he shouldn’t have been inhaling so many tons of cheese and starchy carbs that late at night. Marilyn was already on his case about the extra weight he was carrying, and she had a point.

‘Soon as I put this asshole away,’ he promised himself as he levered out the first slice. ‘I will bury Mad Jack Blackstone, and then I’ll get myself back into shape. Maybe even go back to wrestling. But there’s not much fucking point pretending it’s going to happen before then, is there, Duke?’

He saluted the TV with his drink.

He probably should’ve had a glass of wine with the pizza, but he was on a roll with the bourbon and didn’t want to change drinks. It would just make for a worse hangover in the morning.