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
He fixed his small, unblinking eyes on Links and continued.
‘As for Victor winning if an election were called tomorrow? Do you have any idea how this world works, James?’
‘I . . . I can assure you . . .’
‘You can assure me of nothing,’ Cunningham interrupted, his voice firm and calm. It gave away no emotion. ‘The White House had no concern for Dale Victor. He was an ill wind that would have blown itself out long before this thing reached the ballot box.’
‘But what about what Victor knew?’
Cunningham shifted his gaze to Harry Moore, also at the far end of the table. Like Links, he was a white man in his fifties. Unlike Links, he was carrying too much fat for even his expensively tailored suit to hide.
A sure sign of indiscipline, Cunningham thought to himself as he focused on Moore.
‘What did he know?’ Cunningham asked, prompting the inevitable.
‘Victor said he knew something about the president. Something he’d done during the war.’
‘Have you been waiting to ask me about this all night, Harry?’
Cunningham’s voice was as calm as it had been all evening. And yet he knew how to coat it in menace.
Moore faltered. Cunningham did not.
‘It certainly seems like you have,’ he continued. ‘And that you were just waiting for someone braver – or less sober – to knock on the door. So tell me, what is it you want to know?’
Moore did not answer immediately. Not with Cunningham’s unblinking eyes burning into him from the head of the table. A glint of sweat appeared on his left temple as the silence continued; none of the other guests – not even Links – were looking to take Moore’s metaphorical bullet.
‘It’s . . .’ Moore trailed off as soon as he began.
‘It’s what?’
The venom in Cunningham’s voice was now unmistakable. He leaned closer to his prey. It should have had no effect. Rail thin and barely five foot eight, Cunningham should have lacked the physical presence to impose upon the much larger Harry Moore.
And yet Moore seemed to shrink.
‘It’s what?’
No longer a question. Now a demand.
‘It’s . . . it’s . . . I don’t know, it’s just convenient, isn’t it? That’s all. Damned convenient.’
‘Tell me what you mean by that.’ The low purr of a predator. More spine chilling than any shout or scream could ever be.
‘I just mean . . . you know . . .’
‘Clearly I don’t. And clearly . . .’
The appearance of a figure at the end of the room made Cunningham pause. His instructions had been clear. No calls, unless . . .
. . . unless it was this one. This one had to be taken.
‘. . . and clearly we’ve all had far too much to drink.’
Cunningham climbed to his feet and flashed the closest thing he could to a smile. Every face at the table returned it, all grateful for the change in mood. No matter how forced that change might be.