Four years after joining the board, John married socialite Caroline Bush in one of the most talked about weddings of the year. Twelve months later, she gave birth to their son, Bill, and, in the same year, at the age of thirty, he became the youngest mayor of San Francisco in over a century.

In 2009, he became a senator and now, just three years later, he was the runaway front runner for the presidential nomination of the Republican Party. John Franklin’s growing momentum appeared to be taking him on an unstoppable ride straight into the White House.

He headed directly for his large glass-fronted office with its spectacular views of the bridge. Waiting for him was his campaign chief, Cathy Douglas. They had been friends for over twenty years, having been classmates at both Harvard and Stanford.

Cathy was staring out of the window, watching the rush-hour traffic struggle its way home across the bridge. She turned to face Franklin and smiled warmly as she handed him a stack of papers containing the latest poll data.

“Fourteen-point leads in Iowa and New Hampshire. Seventeen-points clear in Nevada and, wait for this one, twenty-one points clear in South Carolina. By the time we hit Super Tuesday, it will be a fucking coronation.”

Franklin laughed as he studied the latest report. “Cathy, you’ve done an amazing job but let’s keep our eye on the main prize. We’re still a few points behind the man in the White House. Once we nail the nomination, we’ve got to move everything up a gear.”

Franklin’s mobile burst into life. He saw the identity of the caller and gestured to Cathy that he needed some privacy. As she left his office, he took the call from his father.

“Dad, the latest figures are insane. We are hitting forty per cent plus across the country. Every day we are climbing by two or three points. It’s totally—”

Richard Franklin interrupted his son mid-sentence. “John, I’m in the car at the back of the building. I need to see you right now.”

The black Rolls-Royce Ghost glided elegantly through the traffic in downtown San Francisco and for ten minutes neither man spoke. Eventually, it pulled up in a quiet residential street and Richard Franklin turned off the engine.

“John, there could be a problem. Over the weekend there was a robbery at the Banco Estero in Buenos Aires. They hit the safety-deposit boxes and one of them was mine.”

John Franklin glared at his father, his skin slowly starting to turn puce. “You told me there was nothing left – no papers, no photos, no trail. So, what the fuck is inside that box”?