‘That’s the problem, you didn’t bloody think.’ The finger jabbed again, this time the long fingernail grazing Mavers’s pallid skin. He tottered backwards, the overbearing, buffoon-like character Silva had talked to earlier reduced to a cowering wreck. ‘I’m beginning to wonder if you are ambassador material after all. I might have to reconsider my offer.’

‘Please, ma’am, give me another chance, I—’

Silva eased away from the door. A security guard was coming down the corridor so she moved off towards the toilets. The guard disappeared inside the green room and moments later reappeared with Hope and Mavers. Mavers dabbed at his cheek with a tissue and scurried along a couple of paces behind Hope as she made for the gallery entrance. Silva followed.

Outside a limo had drawn up. The director of the gallery waited on the pavement and shook Hope’s hand as a press photographer took pictures. Hope’s demeanour had changed and she was all white teeth and smiles for the camera. Silva thought about Fairchild’s words: appearance is everything in politics. He was right. Hope wasn’t what she seemed. Silva had seen a chink of what lay beneath the surface when she’d come face to face with her at the reception, and in the green room the mask had slipped completely.

With the pictures done, Hope said goodbye to the director and sauntered towards her car. Mavers opened the door for her and she climbed in. More smiles and a wave, Hope exuding confidence, acting as if the election was in the bag. Slam dunk. Home run. Touchdown.

Silva stepped to the side of the pavement and leaned against a wall as the car pulled away. Her nausea had returned with the realisation that this woman, this murderer, this… bitch, would be the next US president.

Unless somebody could stop her.

Chapter Fourteen

The evening in London hadn’t ended well. Eventually Sean emerged from the gallery, but he was on a high, unable to pick up on Silva’s mood. When they got back to his apartment he wanted to talk about Hope.

‘You saw her,’ he said. ‘Sensational. Just what the country needs – damn it, what the whole world needs.’

‘Are you sure about that?’ Silva said as she slipped out of the black dress. ‘Sure she isn’t just a little bit too good to be true?’

Sean eyed Silva as the dress fell to the floor, misreading her again. ‘This is a little bit too good to be true.’ He threw off his jacket. ‘Do you want a drink?’

Silva reached for her jeans and motorbike leathers and began to pull them on. ‘Never when I’m driving, thanks.’

‘Rebecca? What’s going on?’

‘I’m leaving. I have to get back.’

‘For what?’