‘. . . speculate at the cause of the loss of Flight PA16 at this time. Our entire focus is instead dedicated to the five hundred and thirty-four passengers and crew who lost their lives in the tragic events of this afternoon. Within those parameters, I will now take questions.’

Perfect timing.

Sarah had been at more press conferences than she could remember. Back in the day – before Trafalgar Square, before Belfast

– they had been almost daily. So she knew what to expect, as she had told Benson.

An empty statement, followed by questions that just echoed that emptiness. The story would not reveal itself here. Not tonight. It would come in the days to come.

That was the way these things worked.

Or at least it was how they were supposed to work.

At first Sarah couldn’t hear any individual questions. The press conference had descended into the usual shouting throng, with fifty reporters speaking at once. But then her sharp hearing picked one out against the background noise.

And she felt her entire body go cold.

‘Mr Edleson, Mr Edleson, can you please confirm that potential presidential nominee Dale Victor and his wife were aboard Flight PA16?’

Sarah did not move a muscle. She could not quite believe what she had just heard. Or that others still seemed to have missed it.

The question was asked four more times as the noise gradually died away, the surrounding media shocked into silence.

Finally there was quiet enough that the question could be heard clearly by all.

The entire room went still. Waiting for the answer. But Sarah did not need to hear it. She had watched David Edleson at the moment he had first heard the question, while it was still mostly lost in the surrounding noise, and she had noted his reaction.

The shocked look. The ashen face. The whispered consultation. All of them could mean only one thing.

Finally Edleson removed any doubt:

‘Yes. I can sadly confirm that candidate Dale Victor, his wife and a small number of Mr Victor’s corporate and campaign staff were on Flight PA16. Tragically they were all among the lives that have been lost today.’

SEVEN

Apartment 35D of The Stratford building on Manhattan’s Upper East Side had little that marked it out as ‘special’.

Its front door was one of an identikit number that lined both sides of the thirty-fifth-floor corridor. It opened directly into a living area that was longer than it was wide, but not by much.

Inside and to its immediate left was a doorway that led to a poorly equipped, narrow galley kitchen. A few feet further on, along the same wall, was a second door. Behind it was a strong contender for New York’s smallest hallway and the entrances to a bathroom and a single bedroom, both barely furnished.

At the apartment’s far end – a term that stank of exaggeration when describing a distance that could be covered in five good strides – was a steel-framed window and door that matched the width and the height of the living room.