and an enormous mahogany wardrobe in another. Behind the bed was a window that looked out onto the neglected back garden and, perhaps 200 metres beyond that, the brim of the cliff on which this old house stood, overlooking a grey sea that was only just visible through the rain. Three pictures hung lopsidedly on the wall: two of them were inexpertly painted oils of the imposing house, each from a different perspective, framed in cheap plastic with thick layers of dust and grime along the tops; the third, right next to the window, showed a sailing ship battling through stormy seas.
The floor was littered with big cardboard boxes – about fifteen of them – and taking up the centre of the room was a circular table about two metres in diameter and covered with a crumpled yellow tablecloth. Piled high on this were stacks of papers, files and photographs; books; a chunky Dell computer and what looked like an early mobile phone – boxy and with a six-inch antenna – but which was actually an Iridium satellite phone: Mr Ashe’s sole link with the outside world in this remote region where internet connectivity and mobile-phone reception were nothing more than rumours.
Closing the bedroom door behind him, he carefully laid on the table the cat’s hair he had pulled from the sofa, before walking over to the wardrobe. His few clothes were hanging next to some long-forgotten garments of Mrs Jones’s. He selected a heavy green Barbour raincoat and loosened the hood from its pouch, before returning to the table. Lying on top of the Dell was a book. It was about two-thirds the size of an ordinary paperback, but a good two inches thick, and wrapped in a sturdy leather binding with a push-button fastener. Embossed in gold on the front were the words ‘Holy Koran’, in both English and Arabic. Mr Ashe picked up the book and slipped it into the inside pocket of his coat.
Then, rummaging around in one of the cardboard boxes, he found a small tube of superglue. He recovered Dandelion’s hair, left the room and locked the door: the key he used was newer and shinier than the one Mrs Jones had given him, because the very first thing he had done on moving into his new lodgings had been to change the lock after the old woman had gone to bed. She’d never mentioned that her key no longer worked, but that didn’t mean, of course, that she had never tried to get in, or would never try in the future. Half blind and confused, it was unlikely that she would ever understand the significance of anything behind the locked door, but Mr Ashe still didn’t want any prying eyes. He squeezed two tiny blobs of superglue, one onto the top of the door, one onto the frame, then carefully fixed the cat’s hair to them. It would only take a minute to dry, and nobody would notice it was there if they weren’t looking for it. He went downstairs again.
The voice coming from the television was slightly muffled here in the hallway, but it was loud enough for him to make out. ‘More details are emerging of the daring raid in Pakistan by US Navy SEALs that has killed Osama bin Laden…’
Mr Ashe could not help a brief smile. He pulled the hood of the coat over his head, patted his pocket to check that his Koran was still there, and stepped outside. He made it a rule to drive here as little as possible, and Mrs Jones, of course, had no car. So he walked briskly into the rain, not stopping to look back at the solitary shape of the house standing on that deserted clifftop. His face was dripping wet in seconds; within a minute, the rain had soaked the leather of his inadequate brown shoes. When he had walked the thirty-metre length of the driveway and exited through a pair of rattling iron gates, he turned right onto the road that would lead him, if he continued for another four miles, to the nearest railway station, Thornbridge. Perhaps one of the infrequent country buses would pass him before then, but if not he was prepared to walk.
A crack of thunder ripped the sky overhead. Mrs Jones’s house disappeared in the distance. Mr Ashe continued to walk, his shoulders still slightly stooped, his brow furrowed, the lower part of his trousers already sodden, his mind deep in thought.
THREE
‘I got to hand it to you, Mason. The President’s grinning like a goddamn lunatic – I think he’d do just about anything if you asked him.’
Mason Delaney felt his lips twitching with pleasure as he rested his hands on his neat little paunch. ‘Well, there’s a thought, Jed,’ he replied, his voice as quiet as it always was when he was receiving a compliment and pretending to be modest. His eyes sparkled behind his horn-rimmed glasses. ‘You make me sound like the new Monica Lewinsky!’
Delaney giggled. Jed Wallace, the President’s Chief of Staff, smiled patiently. It was an expression that didn’t suit his hawk-like face. His auburn hair was cropped military fashion and Delaney had no doubt this was a conscious style statement. Wallace ran the show in the West Wing, and he did it with military precision. ‘Seriously, Mason, you made a powerful friend yesterday, and one who expects to be around for a while. His approval ratings are through the roof. You just bought him another four years in office.’
‘I live to serve, Jed. I live to serve.’ Delaney inhaled deeply and, with a pleasant smile, looked around his office. The May sunshine was streaming in through the window, casting its light over his desk and the coffee table in front of the comfortable sofa on which the two men were sitting. He had made this office very much his own, transformed it from the bland, beige box it had once been into a place which, he felt, more accurately represented his character. An antique chaise longue stood along the opposite wall, and on the walls were prints of his favourite Michelangelo sketches. He adored the way the artist caught the male form. Really, he felt he could gaze at them all day.
‘Shall we take a look?’ Wallace interrupted him politely after a full minute of silence.
Delaney snapped out of his reverie. ‘I beg your pardon, Jed?’
‘The images. Shall we… ’
‘Had enough coffee?’ Delaney indicated the china coffee pot and the two full cups on the table.
‘Sure.’
‘Cookies?’
‘No cookies, Mason. Thank you.’
‘I only ask, Jed, because I think you might lose your appetite when you see them. If you’d rather not put yourself through it…’
‘I’ve finished my coffee, Mason.’ Wallace pushed the cup away from him to underline this.
Delaney gave him a bland smile before standing up and shuffling over to his desk, where he picked up a manilla A4 envelope and brought it back to the sofa. He sat down, fixed Wallace with a stare that he knew would make the Chief of Staff uncomfortable, then removed a sheaf of photographs from the envelope.
The photographs were in colour, but they were grainy and occasionally out of focus. The first showed an unmade bed and a large bloodstain on the rug in front of it. The second showed the same thing but from a different angle.
‘Mason, none of these show the—’
‘Always wanting to fast forward,’ interrupted Delaney, ‘to the money shot.’
‘It’s what I’m here to talk about, Mason.’
‘Then let’s talk, Jed.’ Delaney held out a third photo with his arm outstretched so that they could both admire it, much as Delaney had been admiring the Michelangelos a moment before. It was a close-up of a mangled and bloodied man’s face. Even Mason Delaney, who had no use for or knowledge of guns, could clearly identify the entrance wound, just above the right eye: a small dot of dark red, surrounded by an orange sun that had spread across the side of his face, taking out the eye and the upper part of the cheek. The rest of the face, including the grey beard, was spattered with blood. The mouth was open, and the man looked as though he had been gunned down just as he was screaming in terror.
Delaney dropped the photograph onto Wallace’s lap before reclining on the sofa with his hands clasped behind his head. The Chief of Staff looked nauseous. ‘Of course,’ Delaney said, ‘you might be of the opinion that the great American public ought to be shown this. On the other hand’ – he coughed gently – ‘you might decide that publishing such a sight would be a tad inflammatory.’
Jed Wallace appeared unable to take his eyes off the photograph.
Delaney continued to talk, a little quieter again, but his voice still as nasal as ever. ‘What is it that that Sagan doesn’t like about me, Jed? Is it the way I look? The way I sound? Is it that I wear a Turnbull & Asser dicky
