By the time the taxi arrived at the apartment block on the corner of Sunset and Vine, Vargas had begun to regain his focus. He and Hembury had viewed the CCTV footage of the attack at least a dozen times. The camera was positioned about fifty yards down the street from his building and it clearly showed the parked van with two tiny objects poking out of the side. After a few seconds, two large puffs of smoke emerged from the rocket launchers and a massive fireball appeared where his apartment used to be. It resembled a scene from a war-torn Middle Eastern city rather than an upmarket district in Buenos Aires.

As the two men walked towards the building, Hembury leaned across and grabbed his friend in a bear hug. After a few seconds they broke apart and Hembury was the first to speak.

“Franklin’s declared war on you and your team and the way to pay him back is to expose his lies and bring him to justice. Together we will find a way.”

“Troy, you realise those bastards must have thought I was at home. They obviously figured all the evidence was in there as well.”

Hembury nodded. “Yes, and maybe we can turn that to our advantage.”

* * *

Richard Franklin sat at his desk in the oak-panelled study of his Pacific Heights mansion and flicked through the news channels. They were leading with the breaking story that his son had just announced his running mate for the November election. John Franklin had gone for the charismatic governor of California, who he hoped would help shore up the female vote. Richard had produced a list of three prospective candidates for his son, with Shirley Jones being the number one choice. In her former life, before becoming a politician, she had been a hugely popular movie star and was adored by millions of fans across the country.

At that moment, he relished the feeling of knowing he was one of the masters of the world who continued to pull the strings on his son’s unstoppable charge to the White House. As he flicked through the channels to check on the prominence of the coverage, he caught the tail end of a news report from Argentina about the rocket missile attack on the home of a chief inspector of the Buenos Aires Police Department. While they didn’t reveal the identity of the murdered detective, he knew the name. He reached into his desk drawer and picked up a photo of Vargas, which showed him receiving a commendation for bravery at a police awards ceremony in Buenos Aires four years earlier. After he had received the initial phone call from Vargas, he had downloaded an image online and kept the A4 copy in his desk drawer. He picked up the heavy crystal-cut glass of Jim Beam and toasted the picture in front of him.