She allowed herself to look bored and frustrated. It gave her an excuse to take in her surroundings. They were gathered in Blackstone’s living room. The library and lounge where he was sitting was a modest but comfortable space. It led on to a dining room in one direction, and to an alcove overlooking the garden in the other. With three flutes and a piccolo resting on an occasional table, and a piano sitting against one wall, this small space appeared to be a music room opening onto the lawn through French doors. They were closed against the chill of the night, but through them she could still hear the soldiers.

The house was not what she had expected. Unlike his office, his private living space was quite restrained. He didn’t hide himself away within a compound, nor was his residence the finest property available within Fort Hood. A simple, two-storey home, it stood on the edge of a golf course on the eastern end of the small city.

‘I’m sorry, Ms Monroe, am I boring you?’

She turned her attention back to the old man in the dressing gown.

‘Yes.’

He smiled. ‘That’s too bad. You are a captive audience, after all. And it’s important you understand this, Agent Monroe. I think it’s important that we all understand it. Especially well-intentioned liberals like your President Kipper.’

‘He was your President too, last time I checked.’

‘Touché. You are correct. We respect the office, if not the man. Would you answer a question for me, Caitlin? I hope you don’t mind me calling you that. I feel that after a rocky start, we’ve come to know each other so much better this evening.’

It was her turn to shrug.

‘If I do not care about race – and truly, I don’t – what is it you think that separates my politics, my beliefs, from the President’s? No, don’t answer – it’s a rhetorical question. Allow me to answer. It’s culture. Like President Kipper, like most thinking people, I do believe all men are born equal. But they do not end their lives that way, do they? And the difference, Ms Monroe, is culture.’

He seemed to spot something of interest on the bookshelf.

‘Could you get me that copy of Ambrose, please, Ty? On the third shelf, next to Davis Hanson.’

McCutcheon was careful to keep his gun trained on Caitlin and to stay well away from her while he retrieved the book, which he passed to Blackstone. The old man searched for the passage he wanted. It didn’t take very long. The copy was well thumbed and dog-eared.