Contents ( 84)
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- FORTY-TWO
- FORTY-THREE
- FORTY-FOUR
- FORTY-FIVE
- FORTY-SIX
- FORTY-SEVEN
- FORTY-EIGHT
- FORTY-NINE
- FIFTY
- FIFTY-ONE
- FIFTY-TWO
- FIFTY-THREE
- FIFTY-FOUR
- FIFTY-FIVE
- FIFTY-SIX
- FIFTY-SEVEN
- FIFTY-EIGHT
- FIFTY-NINE
- SIXTY
- SIXTY-ONE
- SIXTY-TWO
- SIXTY-THREE
- SIXTY-FOUR
- SIXTY-FIVE
- SIXTY-SIX
- SIXTY-SEVEN
- SIXTY-EIGHT
- SIXTY-NINE
- SEVENTY
- SEVENTY-ONE
- SEVENTY-TWO
- SEVENTY-THREE
- SEVENTY-FOUR
- SEVENTY-FIVE
- SEVENTY-SIX
- SEVENTY-SEVEN
- SEVENTY-EIGHT
- SEVENTY-NINE
- EIGHTY
- EIGHTY-ONE
- EIGHTY-TWO
- EIGHTY-THREE
- Acknowledgements
Knowles shook his head. The thoughts. The questions. They were coming too fast. This could not be right. This could not be the world? Surely . . . surely someone would have stopped them?
‘But the presidents? They haven’t all had the same agenda. They—’
‘We allow them to do their job when it doesn’t affect us,’ Dupart replied. ‘Just as we have with you. But when it’s our interests? Then we’re in charge. And it works, John. You’ve seen it. It works.’
‘Not always.’ Knowles held out his hands, indicating their current predicament. ‘Not always.’
Dupart smiled again.
‘Ah. You think you’re the first. You’re not. Kennedy, he was a problem. You know how we dealt with him. Nixon? A drunk and an addict. We handled him more delicately. Reagan? He was warned and then he was sidelined. And those are the just ones who made it this far. Others? The ones we knew we couldn’t control? The likes of JFK Jr and Dale Victor? We stopped them before they ever got close.’
Knowles felt sick. A horrible, gut-wrenching emptiness in the pit of his stomach. What he was being told was turning everything he knew upside down. Complete control, going back to a time before his birth? That might continue far beyond his death?
It was more than he could accept. More than he could allow.
He glanced down at his desk, trying to shake off the effects of Dupart’s words. As he did, his eyes fell onto the small, brass plate that had sat there for three years. It carried an individual presidential motto. Every president had one, ever since Harry Truman and his reminder that ‘the buck stops here’.
Knowles had chosen Memento Mori.
Remember you are mortal.
Words that had been whispered in the ear of every Caesar by his most trusted slave, reminding him that for all the power he held, he was just a man.
A reminder to himself. To a man with, he had once thought, near absolute power. Now, as he read the words again, every drop of confusion – of hesitation – left his body. Replaced by focused determination.
He looked at Dupart.
Remember you are mortal.
Knowles covered the few feet between himself and Meyer in two steps. He moved fast and with the advantage of surprise, but still Meyer reacted. Age. Exhaustion. Distraction. None of it stopped the veteran agent from raising his pistol and firing a round.
Luckily for Knowles, what it did affect was Meyer’s aim.
The bullet ripped into Knowles’ left bicep. He hardly seemed to notice; his perfectly aimed right hook was already inches from the sight of the vagus nerve exposed at the point where Meyer’s jaw met his throat. Their height difference gave Knowles a clear shot with the power advantage of an upward trajectory. He felt his fist connect, hard.
As he knew it would, the blunt trauma to the essential parasympathetic nerve was all it took to render Meyer unconscious.