“You will die a very painful and slow death unless you give me the names of your two associates, in which case I might spare you, although you will be under our supervision until we recover the rest of the haul.”

Gonzales knew he was being lied to. His interrogator was clearly a psychopath and was not to be trusted. He made up his mind to hold out as long as possible in the vague hope that something miraculous might happen to save him. However, his plan for resistance instantly changed when Paz produced a small power drill and held it directly above his genitals.

Paz’s face looked as if it were wearing a grotesque mask. His mouth was contorted with a fixed Joker-like grin. “Ricardo, I’m sure you used a far more powerful drill than this when you worked on the tunnel but I’m not planning to drill through solid earth.”

Chapter Twelve

11 January 2012

Los Angeles

The Beverly Wilshire Hotel provided the perfect setting for John Franklin’s latest fundraiser. Its magnificent Italian Renaissance facade exuded all the qualities he wished to portray to the American electorate: history, power and wealth, with a touch of glamour.

It was regularly visited by the likes of ex-presidents and high-profile celebrities. In a bygone era, some of its grandest, fifteen-hundred-dollar a night, suites had served as a permanent home for the likes of Elvis Presley, Warren Beatty and John Lennon. Franklin stood in the opulent Wintergarden reception room, alongside his campaign chief, Cathy Douglas, and surveyed the high-powered guests who were enjoying the champagne and canapé reception.

“John, there’s a hell of a lot of money floating around in here. Some very big hitters. The team thinks we might raise thirty million tonight.”

“Cathy, you’ve all done an amazing job getting these guys together under one roof and the speech Leon’s put together looks really good. I went through it with my father last night, who always comes up with some great one-liners, so we’ve added a few bits. Let’s hope it plays well.”

Cathy put her arm around her candidate. “They’ll love it, John, they always do but, right now, it’s time for you to mingle and do some one-on-one schmoozing.”

Franklin nodded and headed off to hunt down some prospective donors.

John’s father, Richard, was already in the thick of the fray, holding court in the centre of the room, entertaining three of California’s highest-profile businessmen whom he figured were all good for at least one-million-dollar donations to his son’s campaign.

“John’s going to be the best thing that’s happened for business in this country since Reagan was in the White House. He’ll put American business first and impose new tariffs on foreign goods that threaten our domestic businesses. But he’ll also sort out health care and welfare reform for the people, which makes him the perfect unifying candidate.”