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
‘In the meantime, Mr Mansour, this interview is over. And now no one is entitled to question you further. Understand?’
Mansour nodded enthusiastically, his eyes flitting between Bull and Meyer.
Bull turned his attention to the still standing agent, enjoying the look of shock on Meyer’s face.
‘And that, Special Agent Meyer, means that you can go fuck yourself.’
EIGHTEEN
‘But it’s got to be a relief, right?’
James Links sat at the far end of the table.
He was one of six guests at a late-night dinner party in a classic but discreet colonial townhouse in Georgetown, Washington DC.
Each of the guests were men. One in his early forties and the other five well past middle age, with two of them well into what should be their retirement years.
These six men were rich and powerful enough that, in any other company, any one of them would be the focus of all attention.
In any other company.
Around this table, only one man mattered.
‘Why?’
Kelvin Cunningham’s voice was slow. His soft Atlanta accent drew out the single syllable of the word.
As a response it was both a message and a challenge. A clear indication that the topic was as unwelcome now as it had been earlier in the evening.
Back when his guests had been sober enough to avoid it.
He was daring Links to take it further.
At 11 p.m., and with the group’s sixth bottle of Burgundy now as empty as the first five, Links was less cautious than usual.
‘Well, come on, let’s, let’s be honest,’ Links unwisely continued. ‘If Victor had lived . . . if he had, you know, if he had run for president, your man would have been toast, surely?’
‘You think so?’
Another clipped response from Cunningham. Another hint.
‘What I think, it’s . . . it’s not relevant.’ Links was still missing the message. ‘The polls, though? They matter. And they had Victor beating Knowles in every swing state if the election was called tomorrow.’
‘President Knowles.’
‘What?’
‘John Knowles is the president of the United States,’ Cunningham explained, a hint of malice in his voice, ‘our current commander-in-chief and not only is he a close, personal friend, he also happens to be my employer. So when you refer to him while you are in my home, I would prefer that you do so with the due respect. Is that clear?’
Links looked confused. And suddenly a little nervous.
The reaction made Cunningham smile.
Few people could so easily dominate a man like James Links, the CEO of three companies listed in the Fortune 500 and a dollar billionaire. Cunningham – a poor black boy from Georgia, as he always styled himself – was one of them. And it pleased him immensely.
Cunningham controlled this room. And it was important to him that they all knew that. They were men from generations of privilege. Ruthless men. Powerful men. Yet every one of them sat in thrall to Kelvin Cunningham, deputy assistant to the president of the United States. And so much more besides . . .