‘There’s nothing simple about this, Mr Culver. We have confirmation from Australia that Henry Cesky hired Parmenter to kill Pieraro and Zood here, and Ms Balwyn and Mr Ross in Darwin. And that was after hiring other contractors who failed in the same goals. Parmenter also appears to have killed his accomplice in Kansas City, but we have no idea who that was, yet.’

Jed rubbed at his temples, which were pounding with a headache. He felt ill and desperately wanted to hang up, vomit, and crawl back under the sheets.

‘And you’re telling me this is connected, but it’s not connected to what Agent Monroe is doing at Fort Hood?’

‘Only tangentially, sir. Our information is that Pieraro and his family were on the boat commandeered by Ms Balwyn. Pieraro attacked and humiliated Cesky in Acapulco while Balwyn was interviewing him for a place on board the yacht. Pieraro turned up on the margins of Agent Monroe’s mission because his was one of the four cases regarding attacks on homesteaders you’d flagged for her interest while she was in Kansas City. That’s the only connection.’

For one, brief, shining moment Jed had entertained the idea of possibly fitting up Blackstone for the Pieraro killing. Unfortunately, Larrison, like James Kipper, was not the sort of man to countenance villainy of that ilk.

A damn shame, thought Jed. If only I wasn’t surrounded by Boy Scouts.

He washed down a couple of painkillers with the cup of water he kept by the bed. When you were this deep in the briar patch, there was only one thing to do. Start hacking your way out.

‘Okay,’ he sighed. ‘Thank you for informing me about Cesky. As soon as we’re finished here, call the FBI and have him picked up. The first thing the President will hear about it will be when he turns on his radio in the morning. We can’t have any suggestion of him knowing or doing anything about a case involving his biggest supporter.’

‘No sir, we can’t,’ agreed Larrison. ‘And Agent Monroe?’

*

‘Yes, what are we to do with you, Miss Monroe?’

Jackson Blackstone stood before her in a plaid dressing gown nursing a glass of warm milk. With floor-to-ceiling bookshelves behind him, and a golden retriever curled up on a leather couch, he looked like a greeting card granddad. His demeanour was disappointed, deeply disappointed, rather than enraged. She wasn’t sure whether that was a good sign.

Caitlin stood in front of him, dressed as one of his troopers, with her hands still cuffed behind her. McCutcheon was the only other person in the room. But two squads of TDF soldiers waited outside the Governor’s humble residence, leaned up against the Humvees, smoking and laughing quietly.

Still, she said nothing.

‘Been like this all night,’ McCutcheon chimed in. ‘Worst case of sour grapes I’ve ever seen.’