JACK FORD is a novelist and is the author of six gritty British crime novels published under a pseudonym. Having studied global political Islam and American politics Jack went on to take a Master of Science degree in counter-terrorism, and will further those studies next year by tackling a PHD focusing on radicalisation and extremism. Jack lives in a quiet part of England and has three children along with lots of dogs and horses.

Copyright

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018

Copyright © Jack Ford 2018

Jack Ford asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © August 2018 ISBN: 9780008204563

In loving memory of my Mum and

Dad – always and forever.

‘And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free’ (John 8.32)

CENTRAL INTELLIGENCE AGENCY MOTTO

‘It is estimated that between 26.4 million and 36 million people abuse opioids worldwide, with an estimated 2.5 million people in the United States abusing prescription opioids’

– US CENTERS FOR DISEASE CONTROL AND PREVENTION

THE ENDGAME – The Endgame is the last stage of chess when only a few pieces are remaining. Not having the skills to turn the resulting endgame into a checkmate can cost you many wins, turning many otherwise easily won positions into draws or… even losses.

Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Chapter 86

Chapter 87

Chapter 88

Chapter 89

Chapter 90

Chapter 91

Chapter 92

Chapter 93

Chapter 94

Chapter 95

Chapter 96

Chapter 97

Chapter 98

Chapter 99

Chapter 100

Chapter 101

Chapter 102

Chapter 103

Chapter 104

Chapter 105

Chapter 106

Chapter 107

Chapter 108

Chapter 109

Chapter 110

Chapter 111

Chapter 112

Chapter 113

Chapter 114

Chapter 115

About the Publisher

MEMPHIS, TENNESSEE

USA

12.45 pm

TODAY

1

CHESS MOVE d4 Nf6

Heartburn, or whatever the hell it was, had a way of creeping up at the most inconvenient of times – at least that’s what Huck Barrington Jnr. liked to tell himself the burning sensation and fluctuating pain was.

Letting his symptoms occupy such a bromidic term was certainly easier to digest than acknowledging the pre-cursor warning signs of the heart attack his cardiologist liked to tell him – on a depressingly regular basis – was waiting round some proverbial corner for him. And, if scaring the hell out him wasn’t enough, his physician sanctimoniously backed it up by talking figures, like some smart-ass Wall Street statistician. Figures of the millions of Americans killed each year by ventricular fibrillation. The number one killer in the US. Jeez, the guy made it sound like a sniper was on the loose.

Aggravated, Huck sighed. Rubbed his chest.

Knew it only served as a purely psychological curative, and decided to convince himself for the third time in the same amount of minutes that it was just acid reflux, caused by the extra portion of eggs over easy and red sliced onion he’d had at the grill bar in the entrance of the airport. Despite being a married man – twelve long years married – Huck had to accept the pretty waitress with the honey blond hair, size eight waist, and showgirl bust had featured in his decision to stay to feed his unsatisfied hunger.

He burped.

Loudly.

Loud enough for the grey haired lady next to him in the check-in line to sniff the air and turn her head away in disgust.

Not apologising, Huck caught the eye of a girl who was stood a few feet away by the escalator, under the large American flag hanging down from the ceiling. She was staring at him. What the hell her problem was he didn’t know. Well he’d go on ahead and stare right back. Ended up being the first to turn away.

With a dampened ego – never something Huck Barrington Jnr. took lightly – he chanced another side glance. Damn her, she was still staring. Can’t have been more than fourteen. Wore an oversized thick blue jacket along with thick blue jeans. Small. Olive skinned. Plaits too tight. Skin blemish free, unburdened by the curse of adolescent acne which had plagued his own teenage years.

He sighed again. Turned away. Glanced around. And thanked God – though being an atheist he knew it was a very loose term – that he was catching a flight to Pittsburgh. The place was a sea. A heaving mass of overweight bodies dressed in white satin and frayed tassels as tourists descended on Memphis for the Elvis revival weekend. A deluge of stick-on sideburns walking through check in.

‘It doesn’t look like it, Mr Barrington. I’m sorry.’

Huck flushed red. ‘You can’t just cancel a flight and then tell me there isn’t another one… There must be.’

‘There is, sir, but like I say, the next one is full. The only available seat isn’t until twenty-three, twenty.’

Huck cleared his throat. Raised his voice and spoke to the immaculately groomed airline service agent with as much disdain as he could muster. ‘Perhaps I’m not making myself clear. So let me spell it out to you, ma’am. I don’t care how you do it, but you need to get me onto the next Goddamn flight!’

Security stepped in. Big. Tall. Eyes dog mean.

‘Is there a problem?’

Huck answered with the disdain still swirling in his mouth. ‘Actually, yes there is. I want to get on my flight and get the hell out of here. That’s not a crime is it?’

‘Sir, there’s no need to be aggressive.’

Agitated, Huck felt the prickle. The sweat. Seeping down and through his shirt.

Rubbed his chest again. Kneading. Caressing with the yellowed tips of his fingers. And over the security guy’s off-white shirt shoulder, he gazed at the girl. Still staring. The look in her eyes making her seem older. Judging him, when her fledgling life gave her no room to judge.

Christ, it was getting hotter and he could hardly breathe. He scratched hurriedly at his collar as if hands held and throttled, and he pulled at and undid his top shirt button.

‘Look, I just need to get my flight.’

‘Sir, are you okay?’

‘I’m fine.’

Huck didn’t hear the agent’s reply, as he felt the heat wrap round him like a snake constricting his prey. His panic rose as fast as his heart raced and the sweat rolled down. It was finally happening. This was it. This was the end. This was what his cardiologist had warned him would happen.

And as Huck waited for his heart to stop, to give up right there in the middle of the white-washed airport, his terror-filled eyes watched the girl undo her button. Undo her jacket. Mirroring his actions…

Then it suddenly hit him. Relief engulfing him as hard as terror had just done. Goddamn his doctor for fuelling his fears, because right then he understood what was happening. What his trouble actually was… He was just hot… She was hot. Quickly he looked around at the short sleeves and open collars. Everyone was just Goddamn hot. They were in Memphis, for God’s sake.

Huck exhaled. Wiped the dripping sweat off his face. Laughed into his hands.

Loud.

‘Something amusing you, sir?’

He’d forgotten about the security with the mean dog eyes. ‘Far from it. I’m just hot, that’s all. Hot!’

‘Sir, have you been drinking?’

Ignoring the guard’s question, Huck’s stare flickered back to the girl. Decided to try a smile. Hell, she was only a kid after all.

He watched her continue to unfasten the buttons on her ugly, thick, blue jacket. Eyes dilated. Never blinked. Watched her mouth something to him. And Huck thought it was the darnedest of things; he was sure she just mouthed the word, Sorry. He shook his head. Waved abashed and said, ‘It’s fine. Are you okay?’

The girl reached inside her shirt. Then with only the slightest of pauses, pressed.

The wave of the bomb mercilessly struck and tore. Showering and scattering flesh like an unlicensed slaughterhouse. Smoke swelled and filled the airport as dozens of body parts lay unrecognisable in their shredded, dismembered, mutilated form. And by the blasted-out water fountain, the severed head of the 14-year-old bomber lay next to that of Huck Barrington Jnr.

WASHINGTON, D.C.

USA

2.45 pm

2

c4 g6

The bomb went off at the same time.

Time difference two hours.

It struck with indifference. The youngest victim, a 6-month-old boy.

JEFFERSON COUNTY

COLORADO, USA

3

Nc3 Bg7

Jefferson County, Colorado. Taking the name of the great third President. A place where vast plains collide with the Rocky Mountains. A place of harsh, white-painted winters where summers are reminiscent of Steinbeck novels. A place where thunderstorms catch travelers off guard along the miles of trail ridge roads, curving and snaking along the skyward spans of landscapes with pine trees sweet smelling like candy stores. Jefferson County. A place where the detention center is conveniently situated by the combined court. The court where Thomas J Cooper found himself sitting in with a judge who was swathed with hell and grit-like determination to have his name chalked on a jail cell by the end of the day.

‘You don’t just get to ignore a court order, Mr Cooper, no matter what the reasons. It’s clear you have no respect for any kind of authority, which frankly surprises me having read all about your distinguished career in the military… Mr Cooper, are you even listening to me?’

Cooper nodded. Said nothing. Thought it was best. Ninety milligrams of OxyContin and a hundred of Sertraline mixed with Valium had a way of making him not sound his best.

Cooper’s lawyer stood up and cleared his throat. ‘Your honor, I object to the insinuation that my client has no respect for authority. As the court knows he suffers from post-traumatic stress disorder as well as survivor guilt, in relation to the accident.’

Looking like he’d just sucked a slice of lime without the gin, the judge shook his head. ‘I take it, counsel, you’re referring to the accident which happened seven, eight years ago?’

‘Yes, your honor, but… ’

‘Eight years ago, Mr Edwards. We’re talking almost eight years.’

‘What the hell has eight years got to do with it?’ Cooper said.

The judge frowned. Tilted his head as if his hearing was playing tricks on him. ‘Excuse me? Did you say something, Mr Cooper?’

‘You’re too damn right I did.’

So Cooper’s old friend and attorney, Earl Edwards, the only person he knew in the county who was still willing to represent him, barked his orders. ‘Coop…! Shut the hell up. I’ll handle this.’

And Cooper did what he always did: whatever the hell he wanted. He stood up and then, like a game of Simon says, so did the court’s bailiff, twitching and hovering his fingers over the gun in his holster, that he never got to use but practiced fast-drawing in the mirror every night. But it wasn’t him Cooper was looking at. It was Earl. His deep-lined face, reminding Cooper of the sand ridges along the North Carolina shores, stared into his.

Cooper watched the perspiration on Earl’s forehead as he felt his own trickle of drug cold sweat trail down his neck.

‘Please, Coop. I got this.’

‘Is there a problem, counsel?’ the judge asked.

Earl got there before Cooper did. Diving in like a peregrine falcon.

‘No problem, your honor. No problem at all. I just need a minute to speak to my client.’

Earl dropped his voice. Real low. The kind of low saved for the movie theater.

‘Coop, please. You’re making this worse, if it can get any worse. Trust me, man, I’m in your corner, but you got to calm down and let me do my job.’

‘I’m not stopping you doing your job, Earl.’

‘Then sit the hell down! You know as well as I do you’ve messed up too many times. They’re not interested anymore. Not about the accident, not about what happened to Ellie.’

Earl’s words came right at Cooper. Shooting him down like a small-caliber pistol. And it was only after he felt the soft expensive silk between his fingers that he realized he was grabbing hold of Earl’s suit.

‘Don’t you say her name! You hear me, Earl? Don’t you say it!’

‘Mr Edwards…! Mr Cooper! Can I remind you we’re in court of law and not in some high school locker room! Any more behavior like that and you’ll both find yourself in the cells tonight.’

Earl shot Cooper a stare.

Pushed him off.

Made sure he sat back down in the chair.

‘Sorry, your honor. It’s just important the court understands…’

‘Mr Edwards, I hope you’re not going to start lecturing the court.’

‘No…No, it’s just my client has been in Africa for the past few weeks and…

The judge brought the gavel down hard, prompting Cooper to think of the end of a record breaking bid at Christie’s auction house. ‘Sit down, counsellor, you can save the speech till after lunch.’

‘But…’

With his waxy pallor further bleached by the rows of fluorescent lights which’d just been flicked on, and his Southern state voice sounding like each word was being played by an over tightened instrument from Manny’s music store, Judge Saunders said, ‘Mr Edwards, I advise you to listen to me, not least because my highly acidic stomach will not sit quietly through a long speech telling me how remorseful your client is for not turning up for his court-ordered psychological sessions, nor how contrite he is about the fact he’s only done three hours of the fifty-two hours’ community service he was sentenced to on June 9th. Whilst I’m sure your reasons will certainly try to appease the state of Colorado, at this moment in time, counsel, they certainly won’t appease me. I therefore think it’s wise to take a recess. However, let me warn you and Mr Cooper here: even when the irregularities of the body are once again in a state of contented realignment, I have to say that after hearing from the treating doctor on Mr Cooper’s psychological and drug rehabilitation progress report earlier, I already feel inclined to revoke his formal probation.’

‘Your honor, I…’

‘Mr Edwards, cut it right there and save the surprised look for the junior judges; we’ve all been to law school… You and your client were warned this might happen when the court changed Mr Cooper’s probation from summary to formal. And I’m sure I don’t have to remind you that to get your client to attend court today, the sheriff’s office had to pick him up from whatever hole he was hiding in. So it seems clear to me with no progression being made, even with the gift horse of prohibition, that a jail term, with sentencing in a couple of weeks, might be the only way to proceed. So if I were you, Mr Edwards, I’d think very carefully about what you’re going to say to the court this afternoon when we return at two thirty.’

4

e4 d6

The call came as no surprise, nor what was said, nor how it was said. Rounded. Meticulous pronunciation intentionally concealing the foreign accent. ‘We had a deal.’

‘Not that deal. You know that was never on the table. It’s impossible. I told you that before. I would never and could never agree to it. You know that.’

‘What I know is you have to make this happen. However you do that is entirely up to you,’ the caller said.

‘I won’t be put in this position.’

‘You won’t? Are you sure about that?’

‘Abso-goddamn-lutely.’

There was a pause before the caller said. ‘Then we carry on until you’re persuaded otherwise. Though I am surprised. I would’ve thought the message of bombs and countless dead would be enough to make you realize there’s only one way out of this… The toll of the dead is in your hands.’

‘Goddamn you! I gave you all I could.’

The caller laughed mockingly. ‘No, we gave you all we could. You got what you wanted and now we want something in return.’

‘You had it already. There is no more. And you know nothing was ever one sided. What we had was a fair deal. We both know that and we both got what we needed… Look, even if I wanted to do this, what you’re asking is an impossibility. I can’t do it on my own. There are two people needed to make such an action happen. It isn’t just me. It’s not like before.’

‘Then you find a way for the other person to see it your way. I don’t think you want a war. I think you have enough of those already… But if it does come to that, it’ll be like nothing you’ve seen before. Hell will be unleashed.’

‘And you don’t think there’d be a war, a massive fall-out if I did what you were asking? You do know who he is and what he stands for?’

The contempt from the caller was palpable. ‘What you say he stands for.’

‘What I know he stands for. What you’re asking doesn’t make sense! It’s not in either of our best interests, because we’ll end up coming after you… It can only end one way. Jesus Christ, you gotta see that this will cause a resurgence and reignite everything we’ve fought against for the past few years… I can’t do it. The answer’s no.’

The caller’s tone was light but heavy with threat. ‘I pride myself on my English but it seems you’re not understanding me clearly. This is not a negotiation. We shall cast terror into the hearts of those who disbelieve. Their habitation is the fire and you will suffer in this life and go to hell in the next.’

‘Listen to me and listen carefully…’

The caller interrupted. ‘No, it’s you who’ll listen… Eventually you’ll realize you need to sacrifice a pawn to continue with the game you started.’

‘But it isn’t a pawn, is it? We’re not talking about a pawn.’

‘That depends on how you look at it. And in case you think that this is just an empty threat, we have another reminder for you. Hopefully this one will help to persuade you to come to the right decision.’

‘You bastard. You don’t have to do this.’

‘Look at it this way. At least you’ve got a warning this time… Next Wednesday, the government building. Eighteen forty-five hours. Chatham, Illinois… Do what you think’s right.’

5

Nf3 O-O

‘What the hell did you think you were doing in there?’

Earl Edwards slammed Cooper hard against the cool tiles of the court house restroom, reminding Cooper of the fact Earl had been the high school wrestling champion.

‘Earl, listen…’

He slammed again. Only this time harder. High school state champion three years running.

‘Don’t. I don’t want to hear any crap coming out of your mouth, Coop. But I do want to know why only one of us was trying back there? It’s always the same with you, Coop. Destroy everything you got going for you. If it’s jail you want to go to, carry on doing what you’re doing.’

A bald guy on the wrong side of two hundred pounds walked in. Looked at them. Walked right out.

‘What do you want me to do, Earl?’

‘I want you to let me do my job! And let me tell you something, Coop, you’re not making that easy. Look at you. We’re here to try to convince the court you got it together. That you’re willing to do the programs. But can you do that? The hell you can. You come here so wired I’m surprised you can even hold your head up… Where did that tall, handsome, clean-living guy go to, Coop?’

This time Cooper slammed Earl hard. Reminding him of the fact he’d been the armed forces wrestling champion… Four years in a row. ‘Don’t pull that one on me, Earl. Not you. I’m trying, okay. Things have been a bit tough lately.’

‘Coop, you’re losing it, man. We all get what’s going on. We all feel for you, but when’s it going to stop? You’ve messed up your marriage. You’re messing up your job. And it’s starting all over again.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘I’m talking about Ellie.’

There it was again. The shot. Only this time it wasn’t done with a small-caliber pistol. This time Cooper felt the hit from a Remington pump.

His breathing was fast. Hard. Short. Shallow. Damn it, he could hardly get his breath.

‘What did I say, Earl…? I told you, didn’t I? I made myself real clear… I said, Earl, don’t say her name. But what do you go and do…?’

Cooper punched his fist into one of the cubicle doors, swinging it wide open. Any other time a guy sitting on the john with his pants round his ankles and a face full of shock might’ve made him smile. Right now, there was nothing funny about anything.

‘… You went and said her Goddamn name.’

Earl shook his head. His left cheek going into tiny pulsating spasms. Always did when he was under stress. Always did when he was about to say something he knew Cooper wasn’t going to like.

‘You listen to me right now. You’re freefalling, man. I don’t know exactly what’s happened in the past couple of weeks, but I do know you’re going backwards. We all love you. I don’t know another guy who’s got a big a heart as you do, or is as loyal. But since you got back from the Congo, I don’t recognize you.’

It was Cooper’s turn to shake his head but he added his hand, interweaving fingers through his strawberry blonde hair. It needed a cut. Hell, when didn’t it? ‘You sound like my wife.’

‘I would do if you even had one anymore. And that’s my point. Why throw it away because of…’

Cooper’s hands pounded into Earl’s chest. He stumbled back. ‘You really going to say her name again?’

‘I don’t have to because we both know who we’re talking about. Judge Saunders is right. It’s been almost eight years since the accident. Eight. And you know something, Coop? You’re as dead as she is.’

Cooper’s fist found Earl’s mouth before he’d decided what he was going to do. It split open like the skins of the fried red tomatoes at Mama’s diner on Main Street.

‘What is it with you? What is it with any of you? You of all people, Earl. You really saying that I shouldn’t at least have tried to find her? You think I was wasting my time looking for someone I loved? Do you, Earl? Is that what you think?’

Cooper watched Earl get up from the floor. Wiped his suit before his mouth. He said, ‘What I think is you need to let it go.’

Cooper stepped in close. Real close. Close enough to smell the blood on Earl’s lip. ‘I don’t care what you think I need to do, Earl. I don’t care what the others think. But for your information, I have given up on it… on finding her, but the guilt… the guilt, Earl, it kills me. From the moment I open my eyes to the time I go to sleep.’

‘Coop, listen… ’

Earl stretched out his arms, with his six-foot frame three inches shorter than Cooper’s. Giving Cooper that look which cut him down like a cotton plant at harvest back in Missouri. The look which told Cooper he was being unreasonable. The look Earl had given him when they’d had their first fight back in high school over twenty-five years ago. And like then, Cooper knew Earl was right. But like then, Cooper pushed those feelings away and looked right past him.

‘Coop, come on. This is me. Earl. What you trying to do? Drive me away? Because that’s never going to happen. Come on, dude. I’m your friend.’

‘If you’re my friend, you’ll get off my back.’ He opened the restroom door to go.

‘Coop!’

It took five paces along the highly polished floor of the court house corridor before Cooper turned round. Five paces and one thought…

‘Earl, I’m sorry… I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but…’

Interrupting, Earl glanced at his inexpensive wristwatch. ‘Shut the hell up and listen. We haven’t got time. There’s many a bar in town and many a beer we can do this over, but for now we gotta put everything aside and work out how we’re going to keep you out of jail. You’ve given Judge Saunders all the ammo he needs. So we gotta have a plan when we go back in there… Coop…! Coop! What the hell are you doing?’

Cooper lurched forward and grabbed hold of the woman who’d just hurried past him in her tight cream suit and curls done up too high. ‘Ma’am, what did you say to that man?’

She looked flustered and affronted all at once. ‘What?’

‘To that man back there… I heard you say something. I need you to repeat what you’ve just said.’

Maybe it was because she heard something in Cooper’s voice, or it was the fact he was still holding onto her arm, but she answered. Real quickly. As quickly as Earl had done back in the courtroom to the judge.

‘I… I heard on the news. There’s been a bomb. Suicide bombers apparently. Several in fact. Also shootings. Lots of people dead. Memphis, Washington… Denver. Apparently they’re saying the President was there.’

‘Where? Where was he?’

‘He was in Denver when one of the blasts went off. They said on the news he was visiting an elementary school…’

Cooper shook her as if trying to shake the words right out of her rouged mouth. He said. ‘What else?’

‘I… I… I don’t know.’

‘But is he okay?’

‘I don’t know… I guess.’

‘But you don’t know? You don’t know for sure?’

‘No… No… They didn’t say.’

Cooper didn’t even bother looking at Earl. Just ran. Heard him calling after him. Didn’t stop. Didn’t turn. He needed to go. And fast. Problem was he’d forgotten how fast his friend was.

Earl caught up with a heavy pant. Holding onto Cooper as they stood under the glass dome of the Jeffco court house.

‘Coop, what’s going on? What the hell are you doing? Where are you going?’

Cooper couldn’t see for the sweat which ran down his face in rivulets. ‘Let go of me, Earl. I gotta go.’

‘Is this something to do with the President?’

‘I’ll call you. I swear.’

Earl’s words followed Cooper. Landing on nothing but the still, dry heat of the afternoon.

‘Don’t bother… You hear me, Coop…? Don’t you bother!’

6

Be2 e5

The hard concrete of Jefferson County Parkway pounded through Cooper’s sneakers. Pounding through his head as he sprinted along the tree-lined sidewalk. Pulled down heavy from the drugs whilst the Colorado sun scorched a pattern of fire on his back. Parked car after parked car. Empty vehicle after empty vehicle fuelling his alarm.

He stumbled as he ran, looking for a cab in the deserted streets and not realizing the loud cry for help he’d heard had come from him, until the call of panic cut at the back of his throat. The only thought making sense to Cooper was somehow he had to make the twelve mile trip to Denver.

The sound of a car, an engine, had Cooper spinning round. He squinted. Shielded his eyes from the sun. And there on the other side of the road, driving down the public highway, like water to a thirsty coyote, was a rusting grey Honda.

Cooper exhaled. Long. Hard. Tasting every second of the relief because although the driver didn’t know it yet, Cooper knew that car was going to be his one-way ticket to Denver.

Quickly he darted across the middle section. Scrabbling up and along as the Honda began to drive past him. Briefly Cooper thought about hailing, waving the guy down like he was summoning a yellow Checker taxi in NYC. But for once, sense kept his mouth shut and his hand firmly by his side. His mind was messed up, but even he wasn’t going to bet on the driver stopping for a sweat drenched, wild-eyed guy.

Cooper dug for an energy he wasn’t sure he had, trying to push himself forward, feeling the burn of his legs as he ran to get in front of the station wagon.

He dived.

Threw himself round in a one eighty.

Closed his eyes.

Heard the slamming of brakes accompanied by the noise of the horn which told him he was still alive.

He peeled his fingers off the burning hot metal of the hood, thumping his fist on top of the roof to counteract the pain, then watched as the driver’s eyes welled with terror. Three hundred and twenty pounds of fear. His stunned deliberation – as to whether to risk driving off or not – costing him, giving Cooper the chance to fling open the door.

‘Hey, sir, how’s it goin’?’

The gaping mouth full of nachos and the remains of a cheese dip on his lap made Cooper feel bad for the guy.

‘Here’s the thing, sir. I need your help. I’m not going to hurt you but I need to borrow your car.’

The guy started choking. Real hard. Guacamole-colored saliva dripped from his mouth and onto his chin. He gave no words to Cooper, just nodded like a marionette on a string, his jowls wet with drool as he cowered from the hard pat on his back from Cooper.

‘Look, it’ll be okay… My name’s Thomas J. Cooper. If you go inside the court, ask for an Earl Edwards. He’s my attorney. He’ll vouch for me… I will return your car, sir. But hey, you can always ride along with me if you’re concerned that I won’t bring it back. Or if you prefer, you can always get out here.’

Cooper didn’t blame the guy. Heck, he didn’t blame him at all, though he reckoned it was the fastest the Guacamole guy had run since high school.

7

O-O Nc6

Cooper put his foot down and drove. Over the mid-section of Weimer Street. Over the sidewalk of Johnson Road. Over anything that got in his path. Swerving. Weaving through traffic. Keeping his eyes out for the cops as he sped down the freeway towards Denver.

Sign read, 60.

Speedometer read, eighty-five.

Sign read, Do Not Pass.

Cooper undertook using the shoulder.

Whatever it took to get there.

Trickles of sweat bled between his fingers, causing his hand to slip as he jabbed at the radio buttons trying to listen to the news of the unfolding events. To anything which would tell him where. How. But as for why, he needed to leave that one for another day.

*

Fifteen minutes in and Cooper was gripping onto the Honda’s steering wheel as if he had it in some kind of neck lock. Keeping it from running right out from under him. He was wired and if the drugs had worn off he couldn’t tell. The adrenalin hitting him harder than any handful of OxyContin ever could.

A couple of hundred yards past the Denver health center at the top of Bannock street, the crowd worked better than any satnav could, showing Cooper he’d arrived at his destination. A phalanx of the bewildered, of the traumatized, of cops, of news anchors, formed and filled the street.

Not bothering for the car to stop fully, nor waiting to turn off the engine, Cooper opened the door. Jumped out and raced into the crowds, pushing through, ramming and wedging himself towards the front.

‘Move it…! Move it…! Get the hell out of my way!’

He gave loan of his emotions to a stranger, turning and yelling in his face as if somehow it was he who’d caused this pain… Panic. Terror inside him.

‘Did the bomb go off here…? Where’s the President…? Is he still in the school…? Answer me, dammit.’

The dark-haired stranger’s head lolled back and forth as Cooper held his shoulders. Tight. Shaking. Hell, he just wanted answers and he didn’t care how he was going to get them.

‘No…’

That was all he needed. Didn’t need more. More would’ve cost time.

Frantically, Cooper ran back to the car, and without looking to see if anyone was in his way the Honda burnt up rubber as he reversed the car, taking it into a J-turn.

Clutch in.

Clutch out.

Shift to first.

Up and along the side walk, over the mound, banging the gears full throttle. Didn’t know where he was going but wherever it was he knew he had to find it.

Within five minutes, Cooper had got himself back on the highway and beyond, forcing the rusting station wagon well outside its limits. Sun in his eyes. Pain behind them. A migraine screwing in. He pressed his palm against them to stop the throb. Took his hands off the wheel for only a moment. But he knew that’s all it took.

The Honda swerved, running onto the grassland like a breakaway horse. Smashing and slamming the axle along the rock scattered terrain, dragging the steering off balance as the brakes began to lock.

Fighting to regain control, Cooper drove into a snaking skid whilst the mismatched tires ploughed up the prairies. And although it took less than a minute to pull up sharp, for the second time that day, he trembled as he exhaled. Real long. Real hard.

He rubbed his head, for all the good it did. Glanced at the sun. Knew he was looking due east. And then Cooper looked some more. But it wasn’t the direction that interested him. It was what was on the crest of the hill.

Without hesitation, Cooper floored the accelerator, forcing the old ’83 Honda’s speedometer to touch and quiver at ninety. The engine was racing faster than the car seemed to be able to move. Smoke was billowing up and the smell of burn-out filled the car, but it could’ve blasted right in half for all Cooper cared. As long as it got him over that ditch he was headed for… He angled the car so he could hit it like a ramp. Fast. Forward. But most of all up. Cooper knew it needed to go up.

A dense cloud of smoke thickened in the car’s interior, making it difficult to see, while the car juddered at maximum speed. ‘Come on…! Come on…! Come on!’

Wheels hit the edge at well over a hundred. A brief sense of suspension followed by a bone-shattering impact.

Head flicked back.

Front teeth sunk deep into his tongue.

Blood filled his mouth.

The Honda nose-dived, crashing into the hard ground on the other side. The engine seized and the grey driver’s door swung open. Fell right off.

Desperately, Cooper rolled out. Running. Scrabbling. Holding his shoulder at the same time as trying to pop it back into its socket. He ignored the pain and the cold sweat and the clothes sticking and the blood dripping down his chin like he was the Guacamole guy.

But none of it mattered to Cooper because now he could see the President’s black motorcade in the distance. And as crazy as he knew it was, right there was where he was heading.

*

Cooper felt it before he knew what was happening and it took him clear off his feet. Sending him through the air. Heat and energy expanding, blast-waves of air rushing out from the Honda as it exploded into a fireball of orange flame. Black smoke storming up to fill the skies.

The explosion flung him down as unceremoniously as it’d picked him up. Thundering him into the ground. Pain shot through his ribs, ricocheting into his shoulder, whilst teeth once again found his tongue to sink deeply into.

Sucking up the pain Cooper crawled onto his knees. Pushed himself up onto his feet. He didn’t turn but he could hear sirens. Cars breaking away from the motorcade. Drawn by the blast, racing towards him.

Instinct had him running but he was aware there was nowhere to run on the grass covered plain. They were closing in. Herding him up like the buffalo.

He could almost feel the heat from their engines as the Tannoyed words crashed across the quiet of the Colorado land.

‘STOP! THIS IS THE FBI… GET ON THE GROUND… DO IT NOW…! I REPEAT, THIS IS THE FBI… GET ON THE GROUND OR WE WILL SHOOT!’

Then, like someone had reached into his body to tear out his muscles, a raw torture of fifty thousand volts surged through him, dropping Cooper hard onto his knee caps.

Neck snapping back.

Eyes rolling up to sockets…

… teeth through tongue.

8

d5 Ne7

It was the call he was expecting. Later than he thought. But with the same meticulous pronunciation. And once again there were no surprises. None.

The caller said, ‘I congratulate you on your initiative. I must say I’m impressed. I did wonder how it’d play out because there’s no doubt that you couldn’t afford anyone to find out exactly what it is you’re doing. Have done… Are about to do. Though next time there won’t be any warning. There’ll be casualties. Lots. Next time we’ll let slip the dogs of war. Unleash hell. And make no mistake, there will be another 9/11.’

FIVE MILES OUTSIDE GOROM-GOROM,

BURKINA FASO, WEST AFRICA

9

Nd2 a5

On any other day the boy would’ve wiped away the large droplets of sweat which sat and mixed with the dust on his sun scorched skin. But today was different. Today he needed to concentrate and finish off the present he’d been making for his mother. And although the brightly colored paper collage had been trickier and taken longer than he’d imagined, he was certain she’d be pleased.

His faded Mickey Mouse T-shirt, and bleached out jeans held up by a piece of string, gave him little cool. And the corrugated roof, like iron waves sitting on the brick house, painted in hues of summer barley, gave him no shade. But he smiled, his happiness as it always was; warm and strong like the winds which blew across the burnt yellow grasslands under the African skies.

Above the sound of the exciting buzzing of flies, a noise in the distance made the boy look up. He tilted his head, listening again. Not recognizing the sound. Frowning, he got up, only then wiping the sweat off his face, leaving the precious collage on the ground.

He walked forward to the wide dirt road, the dust like a haze making the sun seem darker than it should be and the afternoon seem later than it was. Beneath his feet a rumble. He looked down at them curiously, as if somehow they would speak and tell him of the mystery of shudder.

The tremble began to become harder and with it the noise greater. Roaring louder, reminding him of the stories of the animals which preyed and stalked in the forests. He shivered at the thought of such creatures but curiosity moved him forward. He was, after all, seven years old, and at seven years old, he knew he was almost a man.

With renewed vigor, the boy stood in the middle of the road, looking into the thick haze which swirled and churned. Then like his mother pulling back the tattered drapes each morning, the curtain of dust parted, sweeping aside to reveal a huge object which reminded him of the giant horned beetles.

His face smiled, delighted at whatever it was that was moving towards him. His face a spectacle of amazement, of wonder, as the mechanical insects trundled forwards.

‘Run Bako… run!’

The boy whipped round at the cry of his name then watched as a vision of red burst up from the man’s head like a sequencing fountain before it imploded, splitting apart into pieces.

Bako’s scream seemed to freeze in the air, almost as if his anguished cry hung suspended, trapped between the visible heatwaves rising up from the road.

A loud explosion behind Bako triggered him to run as balls of flame fired from armored tanks burnt and blazed alongside him. He heard the cries of people, of neighbors, of friends as they fell, picked off, and pools of red became their final resting place.

Tears welled and ran down Bako’s cheeks, causing his vision to become blurred. But he was glad. He didn’t want to see the woman he knew dropping her baby as gleaming metal struck into her face, splitting it in half as if it were his grandfather cutting the cassava. And he didn’t want to see the tiny brick church crumble as the monster tanks blew it into rubble. Nor did he want to see his mother’s friend, filled with terror. Her top torn. Her skirt missing as two men dragged her inside a house. But he did want to cover his ears to drown out her screaming.

Through the machine gun fire and the grenades, Bako scrabbled along, tripping over the freshly dead. He turned the corner to see a man coming towards him holding a blood-soaked machete. Whites of eyes marbled, ruddy with rage yet laughing, opening his arms as if to embrace Bako like his uncle had done this morning.

Bako backed away, running again, now through the smell of the kill and the screams which cut through the air as violently as the parangs did.

Quickly, he headed round the back of the small brick houses, making his way home, the thought of it spurring him on to run faster, helping him to push through the pain of his torn feet.

In front of his house Bako could see his mother. Searching. Calling his name as smoke filled the skies. She cried out. Waving as he ran into her arms.

‘This way, Bako, we’ll be okay if we go into the bushes. But quickly… quickly.’

They began to run, but without warning, Bako slipped his hand from his mother’s, heading back towards the house.

‘Bako, no! Bako! Stop!’

He could hear his mother calling but he didn’t turn. He wanted to make her happy. Wanted her tears to stop falling and he thought he knew how.

Quickly Bako grabbed the collage before speeding back towards his mother.

‘Bako…! Come…! Bako.’

He reached out to take her hand but it was his mother’s hand which now suddenly slipped away from his, as she began to sink to the ground. Her yellow dress turning red, her eyes holding Bako’s stare one last time before rolling. Closing.

This time Bako’s cry splintered the air. He pulled at his mother’s arm.

‘Get up, mama, get up! Please get up… Look, mama, look what I made you.’

He pushed the collage to her as she lay in the tributary of blood which flowed and bubbled, stemming from the countless dead.

‘See what I made for you… See, mama, see.’

He stood up, stumbling backwards, tilting his head to the sun. Blinking. And just for a moment he didn’t know what it was he was feeling. A sudden warmth. Then cold. Such cold.

Glancing down, Bako touched his Mickey Mouse top. A hole where the face once was. Red. Wet.

And then slowly. So slowly. Bako dropped to the ground. His head lolling back as his body snaked, winding as it fell on top of his mother with his blood oozing, coloring the brightly painted collage red, whilst the chill of death rose and mixed with the warm winds of the ensanguined African plains.

JEFFERSON COUNTY

COLORADO, USA

10

Rb1 Nd7

‘Get your ass up!”

Cooper could hear a voice but he wasn’t sure where it was coming from. He didn’t bother trying to open his eyes to find out. Hell, he’d already attempted that one. And the way he saw it, no man was born to suffer a pain like that. And as for any attempt to move, from the position he was lying in, it wasn’t even an option. And so if that meant staying here forever, wherever here was, well, Cooper reckoned, all things considered, that was fine by him.

‘You listening to me…? Give me that water, Officer.’

‘Jesus Christ!’

Cooper scrabbled up as the water hit him. The sudden movement caused jolts of pain to tear through parts of his body he’d forgotten he owned. His limbs cried out in agony, along with his swollen, dried tongue which shrieked in searing, primal pain.

‘Okay, now we have blast off. That’s more like it… You look like shit, by the way.’

Cooper stared at Earl through paint-peeled bars whilst cold water trickled, dripping off from split ends to channel down the side of his nose and balance on his philtrum like a circus act.

Cooper cleared his throat, imagining his hands round his long term buddy’s neck. ‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you, Earl?’

‘Too damn right I am. At least in jail, you can’t go and run off on me.’

‘Where am I anyway?’

‘Where they brought you after your cannonball run, over a week ago. You were lucky they didn’t throw you in the county jail. Someone must’ve called in a favor.’

Cooper wiped his lips. Big mistake. Felt like he’d just been kicked in the mouth. ‘Don’t play games, Earl, tell me where I am. I haven’t got time for this.’

‘Oh, I think you’ve got plenty of time, Coop. In fact, with the list of things they want to charge you with, time seems to be all you’ll have. So off the top of my head, it goes something like this. Grand theft auto, aggravated motor vehicle theft in the first degree, reckless driving, exhibition of speed, vagrancy…’

‘Vagrancy?’

Earl nodded, his over-gelled, jet-black hair staying perfectly in place. ‘Take that one on the chin, Coop; something tells me that charge is going to be the least of your worries. Oh, and just in case you didn’t realize, this is before you add on skipping Judge Saunders’ afternoon court session, and everything he wanted to throw at you. Want me to carry on?’

‘Nope. I get it… How did you know I was here?’

‘Officer Monroe called me. He recognized your sorry butt. He was the officer who picked you up the last few times. Anyway, once the Feds realized you weren’t a significant threat to the president, and once you’d been checked out by the doc, they placed you in the custody of the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Department… Jeez, Coop, you got a big problem if you can’t remember any of this.’

And he was right. Not remembering was a problem because right then it led on to him remembering. The dam of amnesia crumbled, the flood of memory came crashing in, bringing an anxious tide of tight, strangling breath. ‘Is he… is he okay?’

Earl looked puzzled. ‘Who?’

Cooper gripped onto the cell bars as if a drowning man. He spilled his words as quietly as he could. ‘The President. Is he okay? Was he hurt…? Just answer me, Earl.’

‘Coop?’

Banging on the steel bars blasted an agony through Cooper’s shoulder. ‘Just answer me! Please!’

‘What’s going on?’

‘Earl, Goddamn it!’

Puzzlement drilled into Earl’s words and if Cooper hadn’t known him so well, it might’ve sounded like scorn. ‘Yeah… yeah, of course. He’s fine. Coop, what’s this about? What’s the President got to do with anything? I…’

Cooper didn’t hear the rest of Earl’s words. He just vomited. Right there. Retching up his relief. His fear from the pit of his stomach.

‘Christ, Coop. You okay? I’ll go and get someone.’

Cooper slumped hard on the iron contraption they called a bed. ‘No, it’s okay. Wait, look. I just need you to get me out of here. How much bail are they asking for?’

Earl’s feet shuffled. ‘Here’s the thing Coop, I can’t.’

‘Can’t what?’

‘Can’t get you out. Rather, I’m not going to do that.’

‘I love you, Earl, and I’m sorry about everything. Truly. But let’s put it right on the table; your jokes have never been funny, and right now, they’re even worse than usual.’

Earl’s expression became pitiful. ‘I’m sorry, Coop, this isn’t a joke. I promised I wouldn’t help to get you out, not this time. But I still wanted to come down to see if you were alright.’

Cooper stood up. Too fast. Pain ripped through. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

‘I promised I wouldn’t. Look, I’d better go, I’ll get one of the officers to come and clean that up for you. And I am sorry… I’ll see you soon. Okay?’

‘Earl…! Earl! Don’t you leave me here…! Promised who…? I’m talking to you, Earl. Come back here—’

‘Hello, Cooper.’

That voice which sang the backdrop of his childhood. Screamed the setting of his youth. Cried the resentment of his military days and the chant of sorrow. That voice, it explained everything.

Cooper stared at his Uncle. Captain Beau Neill. Commandant and kin. One-time martinet, these days a monk.

With as much hostility as he could muster, Cooper said, ‘I take it this is your idea, Beau, not to get me out of here.’

Beau chewed on his unlit cigar. Dug his fingers into the top of his throbbing sciatic nerve, something he often told Cooper was his test of suffering. With disappointment dripping from his voice, Beau pulled a disappointed face. ‘What the hell did you think you were doing, Cooper? You never change do you? But no, for your information, keeping you here wasn’t my idea.’

Cooper gritted his teeth. Regretted it straight away. ‘Just get me the hell out.’

‘Sorry, no can do. There’s a person who thinks keeping you here just for a little while longer might help you think about what you’ve done, and I have to agree.’

‘I’m not a kid, Beau.’

‘No you’re not, Coop, but you sure as hell act like one.’

‘Is this what they teach you in the monastery, Beau? How to be compassionate?’

‘Oh don’t worry about me, Coop. I’ve got a lot to learn and a hell of a lot of sins to repent, so I’ll just go on and add this one to the list. And hey, I can live with that.’

‘Is this funny to you?’ Cooper said.

‘Not one Goddamn bit…Tell me something, Coop, because I need to know if you’ve lost your mind completely… Enlighten me as to what made you think it was a good idea to follow the President’s motorcade? Because I’m guessing that’s what you were doing. But here’s the really big question… Why?’

‘I dunno… maybe it wasn’t the smartest of things to do.’

The shaking of the head in cold disapproval was the epitome of disdain. Something Cooper knew Beau was well versed at. ‘You got that damn right.’

Cooper took a deep breath. Tried to hold onto his temper. Gave up trying. ‘What the hell was I supposed to do? Come on, tell me, seeing as you’ve got all the answers.’

‘What the rest of us did. Keep our damn heads and find out the facts first. If I’d had a knee jerk reaction and acted like that when I was a Captain in the US Navy, just because I’d heard something, what kind of Captain would that have made me? Or when I was serving in…’

Cooper cut Beau down. ‘You don’t have to give me a history of your military career, Beau. I served under you and I know exactly the kind of Captain you were.’

Beau stepped closer to the bars. Hissed his words. ‘Are we going to go through this again? Cooper, I was not responsible for the accident, and you know that.’

Hurt bobbed off Cooper’s words. ‘I never said you were, Beau. Problem is, when I’m stuck on one side of the bars – the wrong side – and you’re on the other and you won’t help me out, well, I can’t help but feel resentful… Reminds me of that day.’

Beau came back with hostility. ‘You can’t help yourself, can you?’

‘You were not only my Captain, you were my Uncle, and when I asked you… begged you to help, you turned your back and you walked away…’

‘Now you listen here, Coop, I don’t know how many times over the years I’ve had to say it, but it was too damn late. Now let it go.’

Quietly Cooper said, ‘You make it out like it’s a bad thing to love someone.’

‘You puzzle me, Coop. I don’t understand you, because the only relationship you seem to have or want is with a dead woman. What about with all the other people who care about you? You push them away. You don’t give a damn about them or how they feel. That’s why I don’t get this crazy car chase you did. The majority of the time you don’t want to know. But yet, you do a mad dash. Was it the drugs? Turn your mind?’

Cooper wanted to smash something. Anything. Anything which would give him some breathing space from his Uncle Beau. ‘No, it wasn’t the Goddamn drugs. I just… I just…’

‘Don’t say you care, Coop, because we both know you don’t.’

‘That’s bullshit. It’s just…’

It was Beau’s laugh which cut in this time. Harsh. Bitter. And Cooper wanted to grab right hold of him until he shut his mouth.

‘You were going to say, It’s complicated, weren’t you, Coop?’

Flatlined by Beau, Cooper appealed. ‘Just let me out of here. Please.’

‘Oh no, like I say, there’s someone here who thinks a few more hours locked up might do you good. Put some sense back into that head of yours.’

‘I don’t know what you’re playing at Beau, but I…’

‘Hello, Tom..’

Mid-sentence Cooper stopped. Left his mouth wide open.

‘You look like shit by the way.’

He stared at his wife. Rather, his estranged wife. Rather, his almost ex-wife and mother of his only child. He said, ‘So people like to keep telling me, but hey, it’s good to see you too, Maddie.’

WASHINGTON, D.C.

USA

11

a3 f5

‘I don’t get it. What the hell have you guys been doing?’

President John Woods sat chewing the top of his pen. He watched the grainy CCTV recording of the latest bombing attack on home soil as he sat in the over-air conditioned situation room whilst ignoring the tight cramps in his stomach – a direct and unwelcome result of last night’s state dinner held for the Prime Minister of Canada, where he’d consumed in enthusiastic abundance the Appalachian cheese. Today, however, he was sure as hell paying for it. He said, ‘You’re telling me there was no warning?’

Charles ‘Chuck’ Harrison, acting chief of the CIA Counter Terrorism Center took a sip of the iced water in front of him.

Slowly.

Shuffled his papers.

Slowly.

Sniffed and then inhaled.

Slowly.

Making damn sure the dozen or so gathered in the ‘sit’ room knew he was going to make the President wait. Because he didn’t appreciate it. Woods’ tone. Not one Goddamn tiny bit.

He could have understood, if he was some nappy-ass kid fresh out of college, or even one of Woods’ sycophants – who to his mind filled every inch of the White house. But then he guessed that was Democrats for you. Brownnosers talking about tolerance.

Heck, George W. Bush had had his faults, but at least he hadn’t held back when it came to getting the job done with air strikes and boots on the ground, or when enhanced interrogation was needed – as it so often was – for some fundamentalist full of warped ideology, who was less than forthcoming with vital intel. And contrary to what the 2014 Senate report had said about EI, it did make a difference. A hell of a difference. A few days of walling, waterboarding, electrodes to the genitalia, along with sleep deprivation music made the most brainwashed of men begin to talk.

To his mind, the FBI had sold their souls, reporting to the Senate that it’d been them, not the CIA, who’d gotten most of the information from the alleged mastermind of the 9/11 attack, Khalid Sheikh Mohammed – or KSH, as he was usually referred to. And as a consequence of their perfidy there’d been a public outcry with emotions running high and liberalists bandying about the word torture. Hell, he just called it getting answers.

Then Obama had come into his administration with so much fanfare. The black man had crawled out and celebrated in the streets as if they’d just been emancipated. It was a Goddamn joke, with the irony being that Obama had become a puppet to the white man anyway, worried about not learning from Afghanistan or Iraq, and not wanting another war. But they were at war. Had been for a long time now. The war on terror. And the sooner everyone realized they were in the midst of world war three, the better. Though Chuck wasn’t certain realization was going to help matters, because now of all times America needed a Republican as Commander-in-Chief, and what they’d been landed with was Goddamn John Woods.

John Woods stared at Chuck, knowing exactly what he was doing. He’d never like the guy, and he wasn’t sure why but instinct told him the man was a sadist and a racist one at that. And hell, it wasn’t just because he’d read the classified CIA reports on the enhanced interrogation in the black sites where Chuck had been in charge – though those had certainly added to his theory. Savage, and in excess of what was already excessive. No, there was just something about the guy. The same something he’d had about the guys in the college football team who strutted around fanning their tails. Peacocks. And the same something he’d had when he’d first met his ex-wife, but had pushed aside. Shoot, he should’ve listened to his gut on that one.

But then, Chuck wasn’t about personal and liking him was beside the point. Maybe it was better that way so lines never blurred. He was real good at what he did. Damn good. Experienced. He’d been a military man first, before changing direction to join the CIA, Counter Terrorism Centre. Worked hard. Eventually became Chief of Station in Khartoum, Sudan in the nineties, moving to Tehran, before getting the top agency post in Baghdad at the height of the Iraq war.

And now he was acting Chief of CTC, since Brent Miller’s debilitating stroke last month. The stroke hadn’t come as a surprise, only that Brent hadn’t had one earlier.

Brent had lived at the job. Sustaining himself on sixty cigarettes a day and very little else. He’d even had an aluminum fold-up bed in the office, as if on summer camp. And folklore had it that when his wife had picked up her stuff and left him, Brent hadn’t even noticed, even when he’d returned home on a few occasions for a change of clothes. It’d taken an email from his wife’s attorney a couple of months later for him to realise she’d gone and had filed for divorce.

Chief of CTC was one of the most pressurized jobs there was. No doubt about it. Even more so than his, Woods figured.

So for now Chuck was acting Chief. The only man at the moment who was really up to it. Whether or not relations between them would withstand the position becoming permanent, only time would tell.

Clenching tight and refusing to excuse himself for the call of the bathroom, Woods said, ‘Chuck?’

‘Mr President?’

‘You need me to repeat the question?’

‘With due respect, Mr President, it didn’t feel much like a question. More of an accusation with the finger of blame pointing directly towards the CTC. Something I take exception to.’

Shifting his weight onto his other elbow, to try to ease the build-up of gas and excess cheese, and trying to curb his temper, Woods shook his head. ‘For Christ’s sake, accountability goes hand in hand with the job.’

‘I agree, and I’d be happy to hold my hands up, but as the bomb was on Homeland, I’d say it was the FBI who needed to answer your question.’

‘I’m asking you.’

‘I know you are. But may I remind you, Mr President, the CIA doesn’t work on home soil. It’s not our jurisdiction.’

‘Oh come on, Chuck, cut the crap, who do you think you’re talking to? Officially that’s what you like to put out there, but both you and I know that’s far from the truth.’

‘All I know is without procedure there’s chaos, and I run my department by the book.’

‘Like I say, Chuck. Cut the crap. This is the CIA we’re talking about, not the New York public library. Don’t ever try to bullshit me. People are dying and getting hurt out there. America is on red alert.’

‘I repeat, Homeland is not our jurisdiction.’

‘If that were the case, why do you have this guy, David Thorpe, in your custody?’

Drily, Chuck answered. ‘Because he’s there on the CCTV footage. It’s obvious to anyone he’s our bomber.’

‘Don’t get smart with me, you know exactly what I mean… I want to know why, when this is an FBI issue, you took him off American soil to Turkmenistan to question him almost immediately after his arrest? I’ve had the director of the FBI on the phone as well as the Attorney General. And let me tell you. They’re not happy. And hey, what do you know, neither am I, Chuck.’

‘Mr President, if you’ve got a problem with the way I’m managing the CTC, I feel I’d have no other option but to step aside so a more suitable candidate could take over the role. My duty to this country and the security of the American people is paramount. I won’t hesitate on doing what’s needed.’

Woods rolled his tongue in the back of his mouth. Tried not to be goaded by the glint in Chuck’s eye – nor by the fact Chuck knew he was the best man or woman for the job, so he had him by the balls… Failed on both counts. ‘Start explaining, because I need to tell the FBI what the hell is going on.’

Chuck looked around the room. Made a sweep count of the number of pens in the pot-holder. Began to count the number of files on the table. Forced himself to break away. It was a habit. A tiring one. Surveying everything including the most banal of stuff. A direct consequence of working too long in intel. There was no switch off button. Ever. Not when you were on vacation. Not even when you were making love.

Drawing his eyes away, Chuck said, ‘Mr President, not everyone here is privy to the level of classified information we need to discuss. Perhaps we can convene with just the necessary?’

Woods nodded. Slightly afraid to make a sudden movement. Watched most of the assembled men and women walk out. Envied the fact they could use the restroom.

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