

### President Kills President

### Stuart Parker

Copyright © 2019 by Stuart Parker

Cover Design:  SelfPubBookCovers.com/JohnBellArt

### Prologue

### 1938, Nuremberg, Germany

The Nazis certainly knew how to put on a show. Their armed forces were on full display on the Zeppelin Field parade ground, like a wild dog baring its teeth. Panzer tanks, light artillery units and goose-stepping storm troopers all had their chance to impress themselves upon the Nazi faithful, under the keen, calculating gaze of its Supreme Leader, Adolf Hitler. In the bleachers there was enough blonde hair and blue eyes to give the impression they were part of the dress code. The 10th Party Congress of the Nazi Party was in full swing on the sacred ground of its Nuremberg heartland.

The signs of the party's raging thirst for war and conquest were so clear to see it was mystifying that Neville Chamberlain could ever have thought of appeasing it. Just the name the Nazis' had given their event, The Rally of Greater Germany, smacked of empire building. They had annexed Austria a few months earlier and that was to be just the beginning of what they had in mind. Many more countries were still to feel the Nazis' wrath. In fact, the 11th Party Congress scheduled for 1939 would be cancelled due to Germany's invasion of Poland two days before the rally was scheduled to begin. The Rally of Peace was the name it had been slated to have, but the Nazis found that they didn't have enough time and resources to both participate in a rally for peace and invade Poland at the same time. And so, to Poland they went, and World War Two was triggered. The irony of it all was not lost on Major Mark Pernitz, who was squeezed in amongst the crowd at the back of the Zeppelin Field. He was a thirty-year-old battle-hardened American Marine with short blonde hair, menacing grey eyes and the kind of powerfully filled-out black suit that had people nervously wondering if he were an enforcer in the secret police. It was especially Jews and gypsies giving him a wide berth \- not that there were any to be seen at the Nuremberg Rally. As much as Pernitz may have resembled a Nazi Party member, under no circumstances was he actually going to become one, and so he had instead relied on bribery and coercion to obtain a ticket to the rally. A significant sum had been required, though still putting him about as far away from where Hitler would deliver his closing address that it was possible to get. Certainly not a bad thing from Pernitz's point of view, for he could still recall the very blunt order given to him by Ed Chafee, the Chief Scientist of the International Airspace Agency, back in 2092: 'Just damned well leave Hitler alone.' The reasons were even clearer now that he was seeing the Nazis in the flesh. These people were deranged maniacs and, as bad as World War Two was, it could have been even worse. Killing Hitler might just have brought a more astute tactician in charge of these madmen. Someone with the wherewithal to bide his time with territory already seized until a nuclear weapon could be added to the Nazi arsenal. A world war that began in 1944 with the Nazis the sole possessors of nuclear and missile capabilities would have undoubtedly reshaped history very much for the worse. As tragic as it was, the only predictable history was that which had come to pass - and to change a bad history was no guarantee a better one would emerge in its place.

Still, it would surely one day prove a major political debate, possibly even an election issue. After all, what good was time travel if it wasn't to take out the likes of Hitler and his henchmen? Before that question could even be discussed, however, Pernitz needed to be successful in his stated mission: to prove that time travel was indeed possible. He was the one person in the whole history of the world who could confirm it because here he was, a man born in the year 2062, sitting in witness to one of the Nazi Party's most notorious political rallies. Proving to those back in his own time that he had actually made it this far and had not merely been vaporized in the Arkansas Particle Collider, was going to be a challenge. He couldn't just write a letter or make a phone call. Scratching his name into a pyramid or the Brooklyn Bridge might conceivably make it to 2092, but that would not be convincing enough to sway sceptics. Visual evidence was his best chance. Either in photograph or in film. And unless he somehow managed to break into Hollywood, film would be the less likely path to the future. So, photography it would be. Being in one of the most tumultuous times in history, meant there were impending photographs that were going to be in circulation around the world for centuries to come. Pernitz would photo bomb where he could. No point trying here in Nuremberg, for the Nazis were way too preoccupied with themselves. And the only crowd shots were of the masses hailing Hitler with blind obedience. He sure as hell wasn't going to be seen in amongst that. But there would be other opportunities to be recorded for posterity: The cabarets of pre-war Paris, the London blitz, V-J Day in Times Square. Civilian moments. Even though he was a decorated war hero in his time, he had been ordered to remain a non-combatant for the duration of the Second World War. The logic was that, as the world's first time traveler, he was far too valuable to risk getting killed or maimed in a war that had already occurred. This was especially the case as the war from which he had come was yet to be decided and threatened to wipe out civilization forever. Pernitz was struck by a pang of sorrow as his thoughts drifted back to home. He thought about the wife, family and friends that he had lost - in a sense, he had passed them on the way here. He thought, in particular, about his mother and father and wished he had been able to drop in on their little cottage in Connecticut for a visit one more time. But time travel was not as neat as that. He had been blasted into the gathering storm of World War Two with no hope of ever returning to his own time. 1938 was his new home and life was about to get uglier than just about anyone else on the whole planet could imagine. Still, the year 2092 had its own troubles and they were tearing the United States apart. So much so that even here, on the precipice of World War 2, Pernitz had a far better chance of living out a full life.

All the same, as a soldier of the United States Marines, it was painfully hard to accept that killing Hitler right here and now wouldn't have been a good thing. Twenty-three million lives could be saved as a direct result. And how much untold misery averted? The only thing that prevented Mark Pernitz from going completely mad with this dilemma was the fact that he personally didn't know any of them. Back in his own time, it was a different story. The war had claimed his entire immediate family and the slaughter that was the Battle of New Orleans had taken the last of his comrades. Put simply, he had come to this mission as a sole survivor, a soldier with nothing left to lose. And just one task to complete, which had been given to him by the 54th President of the United States in person: He had to send word one hundred and fifty-four years into the future that time travel was now a reality and that the world's downward plunge to self-annihilation might somehow be arrested yet. Pernitz supposed for this reason he was currently the most important person on the planet - it was peculiar given how useless he was actually feeling. Anyway, if his mission was to consist of little more than to exist and stay out of the war, he would join the exodus from Germany as soon as he could. He certainly wasn't going to waste too much time trying to be photographed on the mean streets of Nazi Germany. It was good enough to let the future know they could put someone close enough to Hitler to do him some harm if they chose - 3am Saturday 10th September 1938, Nuremberg, Germany had been the precise place in history the Miraculine computer had despatched him to. From Nuremberg he would head to Paris. There was still a good year and a half before the Nazis would overrun it. Pernitz would book his tickets in advance so that, with the Nazis bursting through the Ardennes Forest, he could make a quick dash to Britain. By then, he would have needed to have established an identity that could withstand scrutiny when the war got serious and the citizenship started to grow suspicious of outsiders. There was only going to be one skill a career soldier of 2092 would be able to profit from in 1938: a form of insider trading uniquely reserved to time travelers. Pernitz had five gold coins in his pocket to get him started and with a few well-laid investments, he would be a millionaire within ten years. Although he could do it faster and bigger, that would only draw attention to himself. He could not let himself get too greedy. His initial investments would be in the war industries and pharmaceuticals. And he would place a bet or two on horse races to tie him over in the short term. Before he had stepped into the Arkansas Particle Collider, he had researched the winners of twenty races in Europe and the United States over the next two years. Not all of them were well-known races, but he would certainly place a bet on Jacola to beat Seabiscuit at Laurel Park in the following month. Such was the frenzy of betting that occurred there, he would be able to wager an entire gold coin's worth on it without raising an eyebrow.

Watching the soldiers on the Zeppelin Field turn their efforts from parades to exciting the crowd with a noisy, smoky battlefield simulation, it struck Pernitz how similar things were to his own time. In 2092, war was still a human fixation, with technological advancements only having made it cleaner and deadlier. It begged the question how could it ever be stopped? How could it be even possible to think that removing one man would somehow extinguish the euphoria for war that was so evident in this stadium? What good would getting rid of Hitler really do? And what about in the case of the Second American Civil War, that had so ravaged his own time? Whose demise could make a difference when so many countless millions had already fallen? But perhaps this was not so difficult a question to answer, after all. Pernitz felt a pang of anger when he thought about the 53rd President of the United States hidden away in his fortified skyscraper in central New York. His death would make a difference. Pernitz would never get to see it, to know if his contribution in this moment would help forge a future in which his family and friends did not get wiped out by war, but he was quite certain the death of Jefferson Hunt would change everything.

### Part One

### 2072, New York City

1

President Jefferson Hunt had made love longer than he should have with this beautiful woman whose bed he was in, but, knowing that this was to be her last night alive, he felt somewhat obliged to give her all he had. He eased off her stomach for the fourth time that night and propped up his head with an elbow dug into one of the bed's four luxurious duck-down pillows. 'So, will I get your vote for re-election?' he muttered with a wry smirk. He was particularly good looking, with thick blonde hair, piercing grey-blue eyes and a square jaw; and he had a tall, athletic build. He was forty-one years old and had been in politics for eleven years. Prior to that he had served with distinction in the military, reaching the rank of lieutenant. Primarily serving in Special Forces Command, he had fought campaigns in Afghanistan, Mexico and the Middle East. He had killed at least thirty enemy soldiers - many at close quarters. At the age of thirty, having survived six months of brutal captivity at the hands of a splinter terrorist organization in Afghanistan, he had resigned his commission to take up a career in politics. With powerful backers in New York, Chicago and Washington bankrolling his campaign, he had become, at the age of just thirty-eight, the youngest US Presidents in history - beating Theodore Roosevelt by a good four years. But now, in the early hours of Wednesday 20th July 2072, with only one year and a half before the Presidential elections, his low poll numbers suggested it would be an uphill battle to win a second term. By any standards, it had been a bumpy first term. The shadow of corruption, infidelity and dirty tactics had marked his presidency almost from the beginning. Even though nothing had been proven, the gossip linking him to a string of beautiful women, including the one sharing the bed this evening, and the whispers of extreme violence committed by his bodyguards, the notorious Unit X, who consisted of his most trusted ex-Special Forces comrades, created a feeling of disquiet amongst the general public. Indeed, the only poll in which he still enjoyed a healthy lead was in the Sexiest President of All-Time surveys. Hunt's Democratic rivals had tried to deride him about it but being a high-flying playboy who had jumped from the rank of lieutenant all the way to Supreme Commander, was precisely the way he liked to be known. And, despite all the doom and gloom, he was not at all concerned about the upcoming presidential elections, for he had a strategy that no one would see coming and that he was certain couldn't fail.

'Yes, you are definitely on tonight,' the young woman finally replied, flicking some strands of her ginger hair out of her eyes. 'It somehow makes me feel even more guilty knowing I am depriving the First Lady of this.'

Hunt laughed. 'A Wall Street banker feeling guilty? Isn't that a contradiction in terms?'

'Well, now that you have brought my profession into it, why don't we actually start talking about the economy? If I'm not mistaken, that's what we're supposed to be doing.'

Hunt loved the woman's British accent, scented with a real private school purity and sophistication. Her name was Jean Hitchlow and she was his most trusted economic adviser - at least, trusted to keep their little liaisons confidential. She and Hunt had started the evening eating cheese fondue on her bed, eighty-five floors above Wall Street in her luxurious live-in office. The views were far better than those in the White House. But, although Hunt appreciated the sprawling New York nightscape beyond the bay-windows, it was the toned, almost porcelain-white skin of Hitchlow that so mesmerized him. Megan Hunt, the widely regarded First Lady, simply couldn't compete with Hitchlow's classic beauty that began with her rich ginger hair and traveled on a highway of delicious curves and intoxicating smoothness all the way to her pedicured toes. Hunt had been sleeping with her on and off for three years and had used his contacts to lift her up through the ranks of Mackie Trust, one of Wall Street's biggest trading firms. Not that he ever thought to discuss it with her. After all, he wasn't sure he even did it for her. Sex and success were the ultimate cocktail and he liked the women he was liaising with to be bathed in its scent.

'Good idea,' he replied half-heartedly. He reached forward to the clock on the bedside table and noted that it had just slipped past 5am. 'My State of the Union address is in four hours, so I suppose it would be nice if you gave me a bullet point or two.'

Hitchlow ran her fingers probingly along Hunt's hard, flat abdomen. 'You could show them your six pack and explain that regrettably the economy is not in as great a shape.'

Hunt was stirred by her flirtation and only wished there was something left in the tank to give her some more. He settled for a kiss on one of her soft, beautifully shaped nipples and broke into a yawn. 'At least I'll look like I've been up all night worrying about it.'

'Yes, an all-night session. I have some sleep replacement pills in the cabinet if you'd like one.'

'No need. I have plenty of those myself.'

'Of course, you do. You must have many nights like this.'

Hunt put a hand on her thigh. 'Not quite like this. But what about you? You've only been married a year. You must still remember the honeymoon.'

Hitchlow sighed. 'My husband has never been what you would call affectionate. And he hasn't got the fuckability status of the United States President to push my buttons. So, it would be fair to say both he and I prefer to spend our horizontal hours asleep.'

'I'm sorry to hear that. Anyway, I'll be sure to favorably mention you in this morning's speech. That will give him something to be proud of.'

Hitchlow pulled a face and flicked him on the chest. 'You're a ruthless son of a bitch, Mr President.'

'Comes with the territory, Ms Hitchlow.'

Hitchlow stretched across to her bedside table and scooped up some more cheese fondue and picked up her glass of Dom Perignon champagne. 'If you want to show me some respect, you should at least listen to what I have to say about the economy. I am your economic advisor, am I not?'

'Of course, you are, honey. I would very much like to hear what you have to say.'

'Great, then listen to this. Your economic policies are fatally flawed and doomed to failure. And with it American society will collapse.'

Hunt rubbed his jaw playfully. 'Wow, quite a right hook you've got there.'

Hitchlow did not blink. 'You've heard such predictions before from other seasoned economists. But now you're hearing it from me. Your policies are well on the way to instigating another American Civil War. The ironic difference is that now the working class have now become the privileged class. They live in huge mansions with organic foods, extra fresh water allocations and clothes made of real textiles. Meanwhile, the masses, whose traditional careers have been fully automated, are growing ever more dissatisfied with their superfluous, trivial existence. I'm talking about people who once upon a time may have been teachers, fire fighters or accountants. A whole generation of the uneducated, bored and idle left to rot together in ghettos like unpicked fruit.'

'Hardly ghettos if you're going to bring history into it. The average life expectancy after all is eighty-two.'

'For the working class it is ninety-nine.'

'You might be right. I have heard that point made before. And my reply is the same. The working class must be the privileged group in society or else no one will be willing to work and study hard enough to get good at anything useful and we will become fully subservient to the machines we've built. Managers, IT technicians, scientists, police, judges, soldiers, farmers, architects, teachers, actors, singers and priests could all be automated in the name of equality and expediency, but is that the world we want to live in?'

Hitchlow's gaze softened. 'You forgot to mention bankers.'

Hunt smirked. 'Out of politeness I chose to leave present company out of the conversation.'

Hitchlow looked out the window to see the night was easing its grip with the emergence of the first wisps of dawn. 'If you look northward you can just make out the lights of Battery Town. They call it that because the population lives in their little apartments and are fed like battery chickens. And most of them are ignorant like you wouldn't believe. Hardly surprising. Education is hard to mandate when most people know they will be living their lives in a meaningless limbo.'

Hunt looked to the window, but his gaze did not get any further than their reflections. His chiseled features and hard body were impressive and her nakedness quite exquisite. 'The view is just fine if you ask me,' he muttered flippantly.

Hitchlow saw that he was looking at her and put a hand on his thigh. 'Just don't get caught with your pants down. The ignorant masses can look our way just as easily. And they see more than mere sprinklings of light on the horizon. They see towering skyscrapers and buildings in the heart of a city whose privileged lifestyle is denied them. It is fertile ground for revolution and there are agitators who would like nothing more than to instigate it.'

'I thought your specialty was economics. You are sounding more like a politician.'

'The economy is politics.'

'Politics is everything,' agreed Hunt, 'including my former profession.'

Hitchlow frowned. 'What are you talking about?'

'You're right about one thing. The masses are dangerously bored. I have legalized more drugs than any other President but that is clearly not enough. What they need is an enemy to keep them occupied. An enemy that is not me.'

Hitchlow sat up straight on the bed. 'Oh, my God, you're talking about a war.'

Hunt smiled smugly. 'Why not?'

'Who with? China?'

'Of course not. They aren't worth messing with.'

'Who then?'

'That I better keep to myself. I wouldn't want you arrested for insider trading.'

Hitchlow cupped his testicles. 'Tell me or I'll yank these clean off.'

'If you keep that up, I'll dispatch the Pacific Fleet after you.' Hunt kissed her on the cheek. 'Have a hearty breakfast and watch my State of the Union address on TV. You haven't given me anything new to talk about. But you've helped confirm the direction I need to take.'

'I wonder what direction that is.' Hitchlow still had her hand on his testicles. 'These are bigger than most, aren't they?'

'You're about to see how big.' He went into the bathroom and washed his face. The reflection he got to see in the vanity mirror belonged to the most powerful man in the world - he took it as his primary responsibility to ensure it remained that way. To that end, he needed to keep himself looking every bit the handsomest President in history - his key advisers were convinced that his magnetic good looks had proven the difference in three key swing states in his election. Piercing eyes and a chiseled jaw that many a voter, both male and female, purportedly came to his rallies just to experience. Having been vigorously making love most the night, Hunt had fallen below those standards. From his black plastic toiletries bag he took out his electric shaver and put it to work removing the stubble from his golden tanned cheeks, and he splashed on some rejuvenation lotion. The real secret to his youthful glow and strength were his morning martial arts workouts, which usually took place around this time. It perturbed him to miss even one session, but at least it would give his sparring partners an opportunity to recover from their bruises. He had really been laying into them the previous few workouts as he tried to shake off the tension of what was about to happen now: a turning point in US history that would likely never be forgotten. And it was about to start right here and now.

Hunt extracted from the toiletries bag a single red high heel shoe from his toiletries bag and inspected it closely. It was made of luxuriously soft leather and was sparkling with the rubies and diamonds embroidered into it. It seemed an extravagant choice considering there was an explosive device hidden inside the heel that was going to vaporize the shoe in an instant - Hunt took heart that at least the jewels would survive unscathed. He took the shoe with him back into the bedroom and sat down on the bed next to Hitchlow. She was curled up with a pillow under the sheets, her wild, long blonde locks concealing most of her face.

'The opera Carmen is opening on Broadway soon,' Hunt muttered although he wasn't even sure she was still awake. 'We really must catch it.' He twisted the heel a full turn clockwise to arm the explosive device and pulled it out to set off the two-minute timer. He then placed the shoe surreptitiously under the bed.

'The First Lady might not approve,' Hitchlow replied from the very cusp of sleep.

Hunt leaned over her and kissed her on the cheek. 'I'll see myself out. Thanks again. You've been a wonderful help.' He left the bedroom and stepped into the adjoining office. The office was minimally furnished with a desk, a couple of chairs, and a wall cabinet, and there were large windows boasting breathtaking views of downtown New York. Hunt sat down at the desk, finding the chair so comfortable he took a mental note to get one for the Oval Office. He picked up his briefcase from where he had left it at the foot of the desk and submitted to the iris scan embedded into the handle. The lock promptly disengaged, and Hunt plunged a hand into the briefcase's papers, grabbing the State of the Union speech he had scribbled out onto a couple of dog-eared sheets. He skimmed through the speech approvingly and recited aloud his favorite line: 'The incident has shaken me to the core. It was a hostile act against our entire way of life and must be met with swift retribution.' He said it a couple of times, trying to strike the right balance in tone between being both shocked and in control. It was all too easy to overdo it one way and come across as hysterical or the other way and look suspiciously relaxed. If only he had some kind of PR coach to work on his voice and manner. But the only person in the world he trusted enough to share this particular speech with was occupied in the corridor outside the apartment, guarding the front door along with the rest of his Secret Service contingent. He frowned and disgruntledly drew a line through it with red pen.

Suddenly, there came a loud thumping boom from within the bedroom. The blast force was powerful enough to force from its hinges the door Hunt had just passed through. Flames, smoke and the sickly-sweet smell of Semtex and burning flesh permeated out through the gaps. The overhead sprinklers unleashed a torrent of water into the suite and Hunt lunged forward to shield his speech with his body; he hurriedly stuffed it back into his briefcase and closed the lid.

Five Secret Service agents, with Doug Graze in the lead, came bursting through the front door with guns drawn and their eyes wildly alive. Screaming loud, they dragged Hunt from his chair to the floor and formed a protective circle around him.

'Are you alright, MP?' asked Graze, kneeling so close his knees were sticking into Hunt's ribs - MP was short for Mr President and was as close to his official title as Graze usually got. Aware that the best soldiers were never the best saluters, Hunt was happy enough to go with it. Graze was a tall, solid man in his mid-thirties and had grey-streaked brown hair and blue eyes as still as the hands of a surgeon. He had fought alongside Hunt in the special forces and had loyally allowed himself to be transferred across to the Secret Service in order to keep watching his friend's back like he had always done. A little less broad at the shoulders and a little wider at the waist, Graze's best soldiering years may have been behind him, but his loyalty remained steadfast. Having saved each other's life more than once in the thick of combat, a trust had formed between Hunt and Graze that could not have been forged any other way.

'Yes, I'm alright,' Hunt replied. 'The explosion was in the bedroom. Jean Hitchlow is in there sleeping.' His voice quivered in an emotion he did not need to fake because he knew Hitchlow's sleep had just become permanent, and he was going to miss her terribly. His voice was also shaky because of the moment's gravitas: with that one small bang he was well on his way to reshaping America just the way he wanted.

2

Barely thirty minutes after the explosion had occurred, Hunt was back in the White House. Thomas Garnett, Hunt's personal butler, was waiting for him at the front entrance with a warm, moist refresher towel neatly folded on a silver tray. 'Good morning, sir. I hear it has been a rough night. Shall I prepare your breakfast now?'

'Yes, thank you, Thomas.' Hunt took the refresher towel and pressed it soothingly to his forehead. 'I'm in the mood for pancakes with maple syrup. And black coffee.'

'As you wish, Mr President. Shall I bring them to the Oval Office? The Defense Secretary and NSA Chief are waiting for you in the Oval Office.'

Hunt sighed. 'Just the coffee. And make it extra strong, will you?'

'Yes, Mr President.'

'Deliver the pancakes to my living quarters and try to keep the kids off them.' Hunt discarded the towel back onto the tray and strode the familiar path through the White House to the stairs leading up to the Oval Office - the march of power. Beyond the door of dark oak, the two key players in his inner circle were sitting on the other side of his desk with crossed legs and clenched jaws. By all reports they didn't get along particularly well, and Hunt didn't get the impression they had been passing the time with idle chatter. 'Morning, Angel and Bill,' he said as he took to his chair.

'Morning, Mr President,' dived in Bill Lomax, the Secretary for Defense. 'You had a close shave this morning.'

'Is that a pun?' snapped Hunt. 'It's true I had just shaved before the bombing.'

'No, it wasn't intended as a pun,' replied Lomax sheepishly. 'The reports I've received are that after a long night working together to balance the countries books, Hitchlow went to get some shut eye while you remained in her office to run over the State of the Union speech.'

'That sounds about right. But prior to that I went to the ensuite to prepare myself for the day to come.'

'Initial reports suggest the bomb had been placed under her bed,' said Angel Powers, the dour, forthright head of the NSA. 'This is perplexing as both our officers and your own Secret Service agents swept the apartment for explosives. Unless the explosive device proves to be something new, there is no realistic explanation for our failure to detect it.'

'And our preliminary investigations indicate that the explosives were Semtex,' chimed in Lomax. 'A garden variety version.'

Powers leaned forward across the desk. 'The most likely scenario is an inside job and the only member of the security detail not to be fully vetted is the man you brought in from your Unit X - Doug Graze.'

'Graze had seven years of war zones to see me dead if he wanted it so,' snapped Hunt. 'The reason I am alive today is because he has only ever done the exact opposite.'

Powers frowned. 'What makes you think a bomb planted in some woman's bedroom might have been intended for you?'

Hunt bit his lip to prevent himself being provoked into saying something compromising.

'Whether or not he was the intended target,' interjected Billy Lomax, 'the fact remains no one has got this close to killing a President in fifty years. If we had state-of-the-art security before, which I am sure was the case, we will need to make it even better now.' He glanced at Hunt admonishingly. 'Maybe next time you'll invite your Wall Street banker friends to the safety of the White House for your late-night accountancy.'

'A safe, secure place where nothing ever gets done,' Hunt muttered. 'The United States is in decline both economically and socially and only the smartest people will get us through. Unfortunately, we have lost one of those people this morning. And you're right, Angel, possibly it was her being targeted and not me.'

With a gentle knock on the door, the First Lady, Megan Hunt, entered the office. Megan was a dark haired, long-legged ex-actor in her early thirties. She was freshly made up and was looking particularly smart and corporate in a white blouse and black skirt. Hunt found himself trying to read her just the way the people seated around his desk were trying to read him: to pinpoint thoughts, motivations, and physical and mental wellbeing. She appeared genuinely concerned about what had happened and relieved that he was still in one piece, though not quite to the levels of conviction that had won her an Academy Award as a twenty-two-year-old.

'You should freshen up for the State of the Union address, Jefferson,' she said. 'Addressing the country while looking bedraggled won't put anyone at ease.'

'You're right, honey.' Hunt leaned forward on his chair, seizing the opportunity to cut short the meeting. 'Let's make this a joint operation,' he declared to his two operatives. 'NSA, CIA, ATF, FBI and any other damned initialism with a kick. Billy can lead it.'

'Thank you, Mr President,' the Secretary of Defense replied.

'It isn't his area of expertise,' exclaimed Angel Powers heatedly. 'This has nothing to do with the military.'

'Any attack on the President is an attack on the whole country.' Hunt stood up. 'We'll meet back here in six hours. And I want there to have been six hours of progress.' He went to the doorway and took Megan by the hand. He was struck by how cold and clammy it was. He realized then just how upset she was about what had happened with Hitchlow. It was just regrettable he couldn't risk talking about it for fear of finding out exactly what she thought had happened. Certainly, he rated her as far more perceptive and intelligent than the department heads in the room. 'Are you alright?' he murmured meekly.

'The children are up,' Megan replied curtly. 'And your breakfast is on the table. So, come say good morning.'

Hunt had had enough of Lomax and Powers and so readily agreed, even though his wife's invitation had been barely warmer than her hand.

He followed his wife across to the second floor of the Executive Residence to find their two children, Susie and Neil, riding electric go-karts in and out of the East and West rooms. Twelve and ten years old respectively, the daughter and son were screaming with delight as they exuberantly weaved haphazardly around the many obstacles that included sofas, coffee tables and a burgeoning jigsaw puzzle. Hunt put his hands on hips and watched them intensely. He wasn't sure how he wanted to react. Was he angry or did he even care? He could tell them to stay away from the jigsaw puzzle for risk of disturbing it. Still, that would give them something to do that was much quieter than this. Megan could join them as well. After all, now that she was no longer acting, she had plenty of time on her hands - just the odd charity luncheon and school appearance to help fill out her days. The charity was something to do with sick kids, and those kids were always in bed nice and early.

'What the hell -,' Hunt finally started to bark only to hold himself back. He was far more used to shouting orders at soldiers than children and they still seemed a bit young for that kind of treatment. So, he folded his arms and watched them some more. He liked the reckless streak with which they tore about the residence; he could see a lot of himself in that. He was tempted to set up a race between them to settle who was fastest.

But their mother, who had slipped briefly into the presidential bedroom, returned screaming: 'Slow down for Heaven's sake!' The way her eyes were fixed on him, Hunt wondered if it was not him being addressed. She was holding a freshly ironed white business shirt, which she pushed into his chest. 'The CIA and the FBI will be scouring for clues,' she muttered bitterly, 'but there is one clue a wife notices quicker than the best of them.'

Hunt took the shirt. 'What's that, honey?'

'There's lipstick on your collar.'

Hunt had been trained by Special Forces in how to resist torture and so accusations by a suspicious wife weren't going to faze him. He pulled off his shirt, sending buttons spraying across the floor, and looked the collar over. Sure enough, the smudge of lipstick was there: the glossy red kind Jean Hitchlow had been wearing. Hunt looked at his wife earnestly. 'Not everything is as it seems. Just know for sure that the First Lady always comes first.'

'But should I be sure?' replied Megan Hunt with exasperation in her voice.

Hunt nodded slowly and deliberately. 'Of course, sweetheart.' He headed for the bedroom, continuing to feel his wife's burning gaze upon his back.

3

Hunt took a long, cold shower in the ensuite of the presidential bedroom and patted himself dry in front of the tall, lean wall mirror. He was pleased to see that his body was in comparative shape to when he had been an active serviceman. So, Jean Hitchlow's last sight in this world had been something of note. All the same, Hunt had found it a lot easier to look himself in the eye in Hitchlow's ensuite mirror, before he had blown her to pieces; now he was struggling to get much higher than the six pack she had so admired. He forced his eyes up to his hard, grey eyes just to prove a point and then set about putting on the shirt his wife had handed him. He stepped out of the bathroom, hoping to find his wife waiting expectantly for a conciliatory kiss, but instead it was his bodyguard, Doug Graze, standing watchfully as he was in most rooms he was ever in.

'Ready to go?' Graze queried. 'You wouldn't want to keep the joint sitting of Congress waiting, would you?'

'Where's my wife?' Hunt queried, looking around the expansive living quarters.

'She ran off without saying a word. She must have been overwhelmed by your lucky escape from the clutches of death.'

Hunt snarled back at his cynicism. 'Follow me, Graze. We've got business.' He led Graze up a winding wooden staircase and along a corridor of red carpet to the sunroom atop the south portico – a recreational room of yoga mats, skipping ropes and deck chairs.

'This is not the way to the helicopter, Mr President,' said Graze coolly.

'I missed my morning workout.' Hunt took off his jacket and kicked off his shoes. 'So, we're going to spar a few rounds instead.'

Graze frowned. 'Are you mad? Your State of the Union speech is scheduled to begin in twenty minutes.'

'Congress can wait,' said Hunt, rolling up his sleeves. 'You better start thinking about guarding your own body. I'm going to dish out such a presidential beating you'll have to be wearing your ID even to be recognized in your own home.'

Graze stared hard. 'Is this concussion talking? Did the explosion mess with the slops in your brain cavity?'

Hunt readied himself in the fighting stance of his preferred shorenji kempo school of martial arts; his fists clenched tightly and his knees slightly bent. 'Possibly. But not as much as I'm going to mess with yours.'

Graze sighed and removed his jacket and the gun holstered against his ribs and put them down carefully on the decking floor. He then unlaced his shoes and rolled back his socks. He moved out to the centre of the sunroom, untucking the black short-sleeved shirt that clung tightly to his powerfully formed body. 'Let's do this, then. We'll see if you can make history as the only US President ever to beat up his own bodyguard.'

'If I do, I'll ensure the moment is memorialized in a statue on the East Wing lawn. Me kicking your butt.' Hunt immediately went on the offensive, striking at Graze with a combination of lightning fast kicks and punches.

Graze defended against them with a tight defense and fierce concentration. He pulled away a step and bounced on his toes with a sly grin. 'Quite impressive, MP. Any one of those blows could have placed me in hospital until next spring. The American people should count themselves fortunate having such a strong leader at the helm. It's just unfortunate that the trade-off seems to be that you're not so such a good husband.' He gestured in the direction of the South lawn. 'Does it bother you that your wife is kneeling down in the garden bawling her eyes out?'

Hunt wasn't sure if it was a ruse to distract him, but he couldn't resist a glance to see if it was true. Sure enough, his wife was there, kneeling on the grass beside a row of blooming purple Allium bulbs with her head buried in her hands. Even from this distance and with her back turned it was clear she was sobbing. Hunt had never seen her in such a state and it gave him pause. Still, he knew there was something wrong with himself, for he should have felt a lot more. Graze sensed his preoccupation and seized the moment ruthlessly, leaping forward with an open palm to the face and a leg-sweep that sent Hunt crashing onto his back.

'You let your guard down, Mr President,' he chastised, standing over him. 'You have to be more aware than that \- there are people trying to kill you for real.'

Hunt propped himself up with his elbows and shook his dazed head. 'And you're not?'

'I've given you a pretty, little shiner but nothing more than that. I get the feeling the First Lady would well approve.'

'She'll be alright. Tears always grow sweeter after victory.'

'How poetic. Perhaps, I hit you too hard, after all.' Graze held out a hand to Hunt and helped him back to his feet. 'Will there be any tears for Jean Hitchlow?'

Hunt shrugged. 'Hitchlow was a British citizen. Foreign interests have to come second at this difficult moment in history.'

'Well, I was born in Zimbabwe.'

'Shut the hell up. You're American now and you've got a big role to play in saving it.'

'Save it how? By playing Cinderella with exploding glass slippers?'

Hunt glanced furtively around him. 'You've swept the area for bugs, haven't you?'

'Of course. I didn't find any. Not like in the Presidential bedroom, where I found two. I didn't think the NSA would stoop so low as to bug you there.'

'Don't worry, they were more likely put there by wife.'

'Sounds like you better keep your distance for a while.'

'That won't be hard to arrange. America is about to be plunged into a crisis that will take all my attention to deal with.'

'Just as it has taken all your attention to initiate?'

Hunt clenched a fist threateningly. 'Shall we go again?'

'Let's not. So, what do you need me to do?'

Hunt peered out at the Washington Monument as he gathered his thoughts. 'Vice President Garner Exley is doing a competent enough job but change is looming. Be ready for it because you're going to be the next Vice President of the United States.'

Graze stared at him aghast. 'You really do have concussion.'

'I'm a little dizzy after that cheap shot, but I'm perfectly lucid. And I mean what I say.'

'The Vice Presidency is a position open only to democratically elected senators. I am nothing more than a gun for hire.'

Hunt smirked conspiratorially. 'I told you change is looming.'

4

'Madam Speaker,' bellowed the Sergeant of Arms to the House of Representatives, 'the President of the United States.'

Jefferson Hunt strode past him into the packed House, which, after a moment of uncertain silence, broke into thunderous applause. The majority of Republican senators even rose to their feet. Hunt was genuinely surprised. Even amongst his own party he was not widely liked - not since his detractors started dying in inexplicable accidents or just plain disappearing. He wondered if the red mark on his face from Doug Graze's right hook was helping to garner sympathy. He supposed it would have been another blight on his reputation if he came away from an alleged assassination attempt unscathed while the only other person in the office suite had been puréed. Had he realized this subconsciously when he challenged Graze to a fight? All he really knew for sure was that he was greatly enjoying the moment being afforded him. He walked to the podium and acknowledged the reception with a grateful smile and nod of head. This was his third State of the Union address and there had never been a response like it. Hunt halfheartedly waved the audience for quiet but, when this failed to have an effect, he could not resist stepping out to the front row to shake hands with some of the senators who had long since written him off as an incompetent and incorrigible playboy. Their facial expressions ranged from grimly earnest to sickly affectionate. Hunt knew they were not acknowledging him as an individual but as the figurehead of a political system they feared was on the verge of collapse. And their concerns were justified: even though the attempt on his life on this occasion had been concocted, the dissatisfaction amongst the electorate with Congress was very real and palpable.

Hunt returned to the podium and laid out the speech notes he had last read at Hitchlow's desk. He felt in his element: a soldier on a mission. But he knew he would have to make the moment count, for he would never be more popular or empowered than having just survived his first assassination attempt. Chunks of the speech were smudged where the fire sprinkles had got to it, but he knew the words well enough without needing to see them. After all, he had been planning this moment for a very long time. He gazed up through the bright stage lights at the packed joint sitting of Congress and began to speak: 'Senators of America, as the philosopher Nietzsche said so many centuries ago, what does not kill us makes us stronger. And so, to my enemies I say: thank you.' There was predictably another wave of cheering. He held up his hands for silence, more stridently this time. 'Although your support is greatly appreciated, we cannot pretend that the brazen attack earlier this morning was victimless. One of Wall Street's most respected financial experts has been taken from us far too young. Of course, I speak of Jean Hitchlow. To her family and loved ones I express my condolences and assure them that her last evening on Earth was spent doing what she did best. Before her untimely passing at the hands of terrorists, we had been able formulate a plan to take this country forward through uncertain times. I will honor her memory by ensuring these plans come to fruition and that they will bear her name. There are two parts to this plan and they will forever change the course of human history. Let me speak of them now.

'The first part of the plan is to tackle the fast losing battle to save democracy itself. The Democracy Dead Movement has been growing ever stronger and more brazen and includes, if I am not mistaken, no less than five independent senators right here in this House. If the Movement's involvement in last night's attack is confirmed, it will mark a dangerous new escalation in the uprising. Make no mistake, taking out the President and a Wall Street banker in one hit is the kind of victory that could embolden the misguided masses to revolution. And what would happen if it was successful? What kind of America would we be left? The past actions of the Democracy Dead provide a sobering insight into the fate that would befall the Working Class in such a scenario. I am sure most of you have heard of the case of the medical surgeon Dr Sim Patel. Kidnapped by the Democracy Dead and forced to work for a remote community in Ohio. Five years of merciless servitude before he somehow managed to escape. And it begs the question how many more of the working class are in similar situations right now? The answer is likely to be in the hundreds: that is how many of our number have simply disappeared. And if something is not done, those hundreds will soon turn into thousands. My greatest fear is that someday soon there will be no more working class remaining. Why would anyone want to invest six years or more in an education when their only reward will be to become enslaved by people who will use them like they use their robots. That is where our system has failed the non-professional classes. We have taught them how to use and how to consume and that is all. Their sense of entitlement knows no bounds.

'So, my decision as your President is to ensure that the working class are recognized as the elite of our society and treated accordingly: Highly paid and afforded the very best of education and healthcare. They will be to envy. I will do this by annexing the centers of every major city in the country. Giant electrified fences will be constructed at the perimeters and only the working class will be permitted to reside within. These centers will become the very pinnacles of modern civilization. They will have the very best infrastructure, housing, education, health care and policing. They will also be constantly protected.'

Hunt took a pause from his speech to seek out Dan Mulligan, the Republican Party leader, who was one of his greatest opponents; he found him sitting amongst his lackeys in the front row. A politician with the capacity to turn a hiccup into a speech given an ounce of encouragement, Mulligan was sitting bolt upright with his mouth locked shut in stunned silence. Hunt was pleased with the reaction and willed him to know that he was only getting started.

'Now, it goes without saying,' he continued, 'that the majority of Americans will not agree to this and will rally and protest and try to remove from office the offending government at the first election that comes along. The sad reality is that the most militant of these belong to the non-professional classes. They want a life of privilege despite being devoid of a skill or a thought That's artificial intelligence is unable to better. I can commiserate with them and wish them well in their life of leisure, but what I cannot do is let them drag our country into ruin. And so the decision I have made is to divide the political system as follows. The House of Representatives will govern the working class within the exclusive zones I have described, while the Senate will govern the non-professional class outside these borders.'

A horrified roar erupted throughout the House. Senators jumped to their feet to scream abuse and some marched indignantly for the exits. Hunt looked on with an amused expression on his face. Graze stepped up beside him with a far more intense countenance, his hand hovering about his unbuttoned jacket, ready to draw out his concealed weapon.

Hunt held up his hands placatingly to the crowd. 'No need to get upset. I am not a paid-up member of the Democracy Dead Movement. The bill will be introduced to the House in the coming days and everyone will get a chance to vote on it. At least, the House of Representatives will vote. Obviously, there would be no point asking the Senate if they are okay being cast outside the city gates. So, we'll be bypassing them on this one.' A wall of hostile screaming even louder than before erupted at Hunt, the likes of which had not been heard in the House since the great debates to abolish slavery hundreds of years earlier. 'God bless America,' Hunt said to finish the speech and as he backed away from the podium, he leaned up to Graze's ear. 'Better take the safety catch off your gun, my friend.' He turned to the row of dignitaries seated on the stage behind him. With their mouths gaping open with shock, they reminded him of the Laughing Clowns at carnivals. Vice President Exley in particular had a mouth open so wide that Hunt could easily have plonked a ping pong ball into it.

'Let's do dinner at my place, Garner,' Hunt said to him.

'You mean the White House?' replied Exley in an uncharacteristically subdued voice.

'Of course, that's what I mean.'

*

Chef Marcia Fay, whom Hunt had managed to coax to the White House from a five-star Michelin restaurant in Prague, had prepared a stunning evening meal featuring wild pheasant served with brandy sauce and charlotte potatoes. The two waiters, however, served it with cold eyes and a deathly silence. It didn't go unnoticed by Vice President Exley, who chewed on his food doubtfully. 'Are you sure it hasn't been poisoned?' he muttered to Hunt, who was seated at the other end of the long rectangular dining table.

Hunt shrugged. 'Good question.' He looked to his wife seated halfway down the table. 'What do you think, honey?'

Megan Hunt angrily stabbed an asparagus with her fork. 'Poison is your preferred seasoning, isn't it?'

Hunt smiled and swigged some of the light, delicate Pinot Noir table wine. 'I'm going to have to get used to that kind of reply. I'm putting America onto a life raft, but some of the passengers would prefer to be left with the sinking ship - they have grown too accustomed to its comforts.'

'There are protests all around the country,' said Exley. 'A few have already turned violent.'

'Perhaps I ought to mobilize the National Guard.'

Exley's attempt to swallow some of the pheasant was hampered by a sudden lump in his throat. He punched his chest and took a large gulp of wine. 'There is a very real possibility the National Guard will not follow your orders, Mr President,' he finally said. 'Virtually all of them will have family and friends of the non-professional class. According to your proposal in the Hitchlow Plan, they will be forever segregated by an electrified fence.'

'An impenetrable fence,' replied Hunt. 'Whether or not it needs to be electrified will

be thrashed out along with all the other details.'

'The ramifications of what you are proposing are potentially disastrous. If the National Guard and the military refuse to follow your orders, the United States might be facing its first ever military coup.'

Hunt calmly cut up a piece of pheasant and scooped it into his mouth. He did not have the same difficulties in downing it. 'You might be a tad upset that I didn't tell you about my plan sooner. I simply couldn't risk it prematurely leaking out into the public domain.'

'When you asked me to be your running mate, you did say you had a big agenda and that sometimes I would have to fly blind as your wingman.'

'That's right. And I chose you from a long list of contenders because I was certain you would be able to step up when things got serious. That's where we're at now.'

'What do you want me to do, Jefferson?'

'The battle to implement the Hitchlow Plan must be fought on two fronts: international and domestic. I will take on the international front. There is already a three-day summit scheduled with the British Prime Minister at Fort William Zachary. It begins on Friday and the timing is very fortuitous. If the UK agrees to adopt the Hitchlow Plan policy for itself, that will help significantly in legitimizing it.'

'Do you think Hargrove will play ball?'

Hunt considered the question a moment. 'At the very least the UK deserves to be the first invited to join our scheme. After all, Jean Hitchlow was one of their own.'

'Very well. But three days is a long time for you to be indisposed in this current climate. Our cities could be burning in three days.'

'That's why I need you out there campaigning like you have never campaigned before. We need to convince America that this is the best way forward.'

'Jefferson, I am not even sure I believe that myself.'

'Well then, convince them that this is the only way forward. And I hope you can see that as well. The masses are becoming ever more lazy and ignorant. They are all too happy to allow automation to do everything for them. The traditional incentive for study is to get a good job, but the latest figure I heard was that there are only enough paying jobs for five percent of the population. This is a recipe for catastrophe. Our society is the most technologically advanced in history and yet underneath this thin veneer of success is a level of ignorance not seen since the Dark Ages.'

'It is a paradox to be sure, but will not appease many if used as a justification for bringing back segregation to the United States.'

'I'm sure our PR people will sell it better than that. Perhaps they can assure people that with the new system, democracy will be brought more closely to them than ever before.'

'How's that?'

'The non-professional class will have a local representative in every neighborhood and these will report to a larger committee in each city, town or borough. And there the decisions will be made and accounted for. No more Washington-locked politicians being cajoled by their lobbyist puppet masters into burying the needs of the people under mountains of corporatized self-interest and corruption.'

'Nice line. Forget the PR gurus. I'll just write that down.'

Megan Hunt stood up sharply from the table and tossed down her serviette. 'You can use this. Now if you'll excuse me, it's time to put the children to bed.' She marched away from the table before Hunt and Exley could lift themselves off their chairs.

'Is she always like that?' Exley queried meekly. He pulled out a gold-plated pen from the breast pocket of his grey silk shirt and started writing upon her serviette.

'She has a mother living in the countryside, so there is something of a raw nerve there.'

'Pardon the intrusion,' muttered Exley coyly, 'but have you considered taking Megan with you to Florida? It would be good for America's morale to see you two together in public again.'

'I suspect America will have more important things on its mind than whether or not Megan and I are holding hands in Key West. And besides, I work better alone. I am an alumnus of the Special Forces and this is my most important mission to date. I should stick to the methods I know best.'

Exley finished writing and stuffed the serviette and the pen into his pocket and occupied his restless hands by cutting up his meal into ever smaller pieces. 'Is she going to be there?' he finally murmured.

Hunt raised an eyebrow. 'Who are you referring to?'

'I think you know who. Contilde Hargrove. The daughter of the British Prime Minister.'

'He may well bring her along. He used to be a lawyer not a soldier, he likes to have an entourage around with him when he does business. What do you care?'

Exley managed to hold his cutlery still a moment. 'Word is on your last trip to London you had your eyes on Contilde every bit as intently as the Secret Service is assigned to keep its eyes on you. That spells trouble, Mr President.'

Hunt laughed. 'She is quite beautiful, that is true. But you have nothing to fear, Garner. I am going to the summit with a clear agenda and a clear head. I will not allow myself to be distracted by the Prime Minister's entourage, including her daughter. Does that assuage your fears?'

'With the country on the verge of civil war, fear is a matter of duty.'

Hunt shrugged. 'As President of the United States, my duty is success. If it makes you feel any better though, I will be taking along the best negotiator Washington has known in decades: former Secretary of State, Lucy Crecy.'

Exley scratched a nervous twitch upon his cheek. 'Crecy hasn't been any good since her husband killed himself ten years ago. That messed her up well and proper.'

'For the right job I'm confident that she'll be able to pull herself together.'

'The old her may no longer exist. She's been playing an endless poker game in Las Vegas for the past nine years. Only stopping for sleep and the occasional stroll around the slot machines. What do you think that's done to her brain?'

Hunt pulled a face. 'Who knows? Maybe even sharpened it. A card shark may be what the country needs right now.'

'Well, it sounds risky to me. Do we even need the UK on board?'

'Yes. I thought I made it clear my intention is to forge a new world order. The UK is our best chance to get the ball rolling.'

'A world order with you in control?'

'That's what I'm paid for. The United States has always led the way in world affairs.'

Exley pushed away his meal and solemnly folded his own serviette and placed it on the table before him - very much in the manner that flags were placed on military coffins. 'Thanks for the dinner, Jefferson, but I won't be able to stay for dessert. There are a lot of things to arrange.'

Hunt looked at Exley's barely eaten but completely decimated meal and smirked. 'Yes, I'm sure.'

'Along with what you have just asked of me, organizing peace talks with the Democracy Dead Movement is at the top of the list.'

Hunt's gaze hardened irritably. 'We don't negotiate with terrorists.'

'Civil war is looming and the Hitchlow Plan may just be the final straw. Democracy Dead has already accrued one million members, and it could quickly swell to many millions more. No longer a small band of rebels, they would be an army and it would require nothing less than the US Military to put them down. Do you want that to be your legacy? If not, the time to talk is now.' Exley left the dining room with the same fervor as had Megan Hunt.

His was immediately replaced by Doug Graze, who entered the room in his usual black suit and with an amused smirk on his face. 'Dessert for one, MP?'

Hunt frowned. 'Why do you ask? Have you joined the catering staff?'

'No, I'm still with the Secret Service.'

'Good. Is Marine One ready to go?'

'Yes, Mr President. It's waiting on the lawn.'

'Alright, then we'll have our dessert in Las Vegas.'

5

Lucy Crecy curled up from the green felt table the top edges of her cards and studied them intently. The Queen, Jack and 10 of spades were promising - half way there to a Royal Flush. But she didn't want to press too hard with it. The wall clock had just ticked past 2am, which meant that for Crecy her working day was about to end. It was her unbreakable rule never to play beyond 2:30. Experience had taught her how long her mind could stay nimble to all the permutations and possibilities a hand of poker could throw up. She had gone one hundred and fifty-three days straight coming out ahead by playing the odds and remaining sharp and disciplined.

The room she was in was known as the Eternal Poker Game and it had been going on in a private room on the second floor of the Sugar Galaxy Casino for the past twelve years. It was arguably the most famous game of poker in the country. The distinctive green felt table on which it had been played since the beginning could accommodate fourteen players and the dealer. Currently, there were five players in action. Jeb McNaught, seated adjacent to Crecy, was one of the eight original players who had made the conscious decision in that room to keep playing poker indefinitely. In that time his only absence had been due to a heart attack over a two-million-dollar straight flush that put him out of action for a week. He was a retired politician like Crecy. The others at the table were all ex-somethings: doctors, judges, lawyers, military officers. Not that professions were much discussed at the table, nor the reasons why players had chosen to leave them in order to disappear into a never-ending poker game. Although the players were naturally curious of each other, they were fearful that any personal questions they asked would be thrown right back at them. And so, they confined themselves to the certainty of the cards and the sanctuary it provided.

The bet that came round to Crecy was typically conservative: no one at the table valued the plastic chips as anything other than the price of admission, and to run out of them was a much dreaded portent of disaster. For five of the original eight players it had already occurred and the lives they were hiding from had risen up to devour them with a vengeance. Only one of those was still alive, albeit bankrupted and drug addicted - no life to speak of. Crecy rolled a thousand-dollar chip between her fingers as she went through her well-honed routine of visualizing the possibilities and the odds - a thousand different permutations that would all boil down to three simple choices: fold, call or bet. And it always felt so good. The numbers sang through her head, clearing all the pain and noise that would pulsate through every single neuron. Her fingers grew still with the chip and she waited for the decision to come to her.

'Excuse me, Ms Crecy.'

Being pulled from the depths of her contemplation was as painful as it was annoying. Crecy turned sharply in the voice's direction ready to erupt. It was Carlos, the casino's Assistant Manager; he was holding a silver tray on which a folded sheet of paper had been carefully placed. 'An urgent message,' he blurted out before she could snap at him.

In nine years at the table this had never happened and so Crecy decided to hold fire. And then came the curiosity. What could the message be about? Certainly not the death of a loved one as they were already all long gone. She took the note off the tray and opened it up. Come up to the rooftop helipad. Your country needs you. JH

Crecy stared at the note for a prolonged moment and turned back to Carlos. 'The JH?'

Carlos nodded nervously. 'Yes, ma'am.'

Crecy smirked ruefully. It didn't require much of her cognitive faculties to know the odds of what this was all about and how it was likely to turn out. She had followed enough of the current political events to know that Jefferson Hunt was maneuvering to annex the majority of the population away from the privileged few and to bring the British along for the ride. She scrunched up the note and put it back onto the tray. 'There is my reply.'

Laughter at the doorway announced the presence of Jefferson Hunt. 'I didn't expect anything less,' he said, stepping forward. 'But those are just the negotiation skills I need.'

'This room is for members only,' Crecy fired back.

Hunt shrugged. 'I'm the President of the United States, that makes me a member everywhere. More to the point, with one directive I could have everyone in this room blacklisted from every casino in the country. Including, of course, this one.'

'That would be a shame,' replied Crecy darkly. 'Just last week a player got cleaned out after being at the table five years. Instead of leaving the casino from the front door he went to the roof and departed from there. Quite messy, but the people here don't have anywhere else to go.'

'Well, this is just my crude attempt at negotiating. I'm sure you will do a much better job of it with the Prime Minister of Britain. That sounds like fun, doesn't it?'

'Why me? I cashed out of politics a long time ago.'

'We're living in interesting times. Only the best will do.'

'I'm not as good as I used to be.'

'You've been playing cards nonstop for nine years. I'm sure you're even better.'

'Now you're gambling.'

Hunt shrugged. 'I won't deny it. And I won't be denied.'

Crecy pulled a face and looked down at her cards again. Her mind had become clouded such that she could no longer calculate the odds or visualize the plays. She abruptly tossed the hand away with revulsion. 'I'm out,' she declared to the room.

*

Jefferson Hunt walked in the sweltering mid-afternoon heat across the grounds of his Florida residence, Fort William Zachary. He had just stepped out of the property's main building, the vast, luxurious Little Whitehouse, which despite its name, was only marginally smaller than the original Washington version. Hunt liked it more, however, because he felt it was truly his; he had had it built from scratch using the very best materials and had had it furnished and decorated with brand new luxuries. The long line of former occupants of the original White House may have been of historical renown, but Hunt preferred his residences unsullied by the past. It was equally true for swimming the pool. Hunt had commissioned Fort Zachary's to be twenty-five by ten meters and to be filled with salt water. Like with every pool in the United States, there was a legal requirement to have a perimeter fence protecting it from errant children. For this pool, however, it was a wall not a fence and it had been modeled on San Quentin Prison: four meters tall and topped with razor wire. Hunt appreciated the extra security, for the legalities tended to end with the wall: it was not a pool intended for cocktails and sunbathing. He stopped at the entry gate and waited impassively as the security scanner mapped his body internally and externally. With an electric hum, the gate slid open and a winding pergola largely strangled by creepers emerged into view. Hunt moved through it into the poolside area, which was extravagantly landscaped with fountains, mosaic floor tiles and a small, carefully curated jungle of tropical plants in ornate pots. Despite all its grandeur and style, Hunt noticed nothing bar the dozen fully grown Great White sharks prowling the pool's turquoise waters. They were to his mind the world's most beautiful predators: sleek, menacing portents of death. It wasn't Hunt's presidential powers that had garnered them to his pool but rather an association with a Caribbean arms dealer dating back to his special forces days. And it was members of his Unit X that he had assigned to feed and take care of them. And occasionally, when a necessity arose, such as on this particular day, to keep them hungry and restless.

Hunt was smoking the very best of Cuban cigars and found it blended refreshingly with the fresh salty air of the Gulf of Mexico, which was glittering resplendently just beyond the fort's manicured lawns - a beautiful stretch of water, although it too had its fair share of sharks. The glare of the hot Florida sun was causing Hunt to squint, even with his Rayban sunglasses on. He glanced at his diamond encrusted, gold plated watch to see that it had just passed four o'clock. He needed to hurry. Time was getting away from him.

At the pool's other end, Doug Graze and three other members of his Unit X were firmly holding onto a short, plump bearded man of around forty years of age. Hunt had never met the man before but recognized him immediately from the many video clips fed to him by his staff: interviews, speeches and panel discussions in which he railed against Hunt, accusing him of corruption and being the very reason why the Democracy Dead Movement had been formed. The man's name was Jose Catalan and he was a celebrity Chicago defense lawyer, social activist and top figure in the Democracy Dead's inner circle. Hunt despised every single piece of him and everything that he stood for. And, at last, he had a chance to show it.

'We have him, Mr President,' said Graze, in a gravel voice.

'Excellent work,' replied Hunt. 'Where did you find him?'

'He had just come off stage from a rally in Detroit. The only difficulty in the mission was having to sit through all those damned speeches.'

Hunt smirked. 'I feel for you. The Democracy Dead aren't exactly a fun-loving bunch.'

'Bringing me here against my will only confirms everything we have been saying about you,' interjected Catalan vehemently.

Hunt gestured to the swimming pool. 'Have you noticed the size of the fish in the pond? You had better hope the things you say about me aren't true.'

Catalan was perspiring profusely, his blue suit and white silk shirt sopping. Sure, it was a typically steamy Florida day, but Hunt got the impression he would have been sweating even if it were they had been standing on an iceberg in the Atlantic - Catalan had noticed the sharks alright and with a desperate surge of energy tried to shake himself free of the hands upon him.

Hunt smirked with his futile efforts. 'You're not going anywhere, Jose, because we own you. This won't be the treatment the British Prime Minister gets when he arrives shortly. And that's because there are two levels of hospitality to be received at Fort William Zachary. For VIPs there are lavish banquets and the full comforts of the Little Whitehouse with all its luxuries and splendors. But for informants who aren't cooperating, it is the sharks who get the banquet.'

Catalan's face scrunched up angrily. 'I'm not a government informant anymore. I'm an accomplished defense lawyer and I have been very busy over the years keeping your people out of jail.'

'That was until I became President,' snapped Hunt. 'Then I was able to keep them out of jail all by myself. So, we tried to make you useful by inserting you into the Democracy Dead Movement. You're just the sort of silver spooned scumbag they like to have regurgitating their bullshit ideology back at them. And that's the way it has worked out. Within just a couple of years you've been accepted into their highest ranks. You speak at rallies and you attend meetings. We've remained in the background, watching your rise with great delight and pride and now it's time to put you to good use.'

Catalan's face and voice were still gripped by anger. 'Well, what do you want?'

'Unfortunately, the Democracy Dead is yet to claim responsibility for the Hitchlow bombing in New York. That urgently needs to be rectified.'

'As you said, I have reached the organization's inner sanctum and I can tell you it had nothing to do with it that.'

'I don't have time to present to you with the case for the prosecution, but you can trust me that the evidence against the Democracy Dead is overwhelming.'

Catalan laughed. 'You're joking, right?'

'About what?'

'Trusting you. But, alright, I'll bite. How would you like the Democracy Dead to take responsibility for Hitchlow's murder?'

'You'll bite?' Hunt gestured to the sharks. 'A poor choice of words, my friend. But all I want you to do is send an anonymous message to the media and the police claiming responsibility for the bombing.'

'You could do that yourself.'

'Not sent from a computer in the Democracy Dead HQ I couldn't. And that will make all the difference. You do that and I'll pay you a juicy bonus to ease your conscience. If you send it from Peta Anning's personal computer, I will double it again. She is still their unofficial leader, I presume.'

Catalan steamed with disdain. 'Being a highly accomplished lawyer well versed in finding the pressure points in any legal argument, I am seeing here the glaring truth. If you are trying to falsely attribute blame for a crime onto others, it stands to reason that you must either be directly responsible for that crime or at the least be seriously implicated in it. Of course, the President of the United States would never get away with portraying himself as a mere accomplice. Therefore, I can conclude nothing less than you are the guilty party.'

Hunt became deathly still. 'Does this look like a courtroom to you? Trying to be a lawyer here could get you hurt.'

'I'm not oblivious to the danger I'm in. But you really should listen to me on this. Peta Anning is an up and coming political star. Probably a future United States President. That, however, is still many years away. In the short term, Democracy Dead will remain a minor party of no risk to you, political or otherwise.'

'Is that so?' muttered Hunt skeptically. 'Then what do you suggest?'

'Anning could make for a formidable enemy and I would strongly urge you to not let that happen. Do not try to frame her for a crime no matter whether you personally committed it or not. She will have counter moves you cannot even begin to anticipate. So, arrange for my safe return to Detroit and forget this conversation ever occurred. Under client-attorney privilege I will legally be required to do the same. If you fail to win a second term, I promise you it won't be because of Peta Anning.'

Hunt suddenly sprung at him, slicing open his throat with a flick blade that he had worked discreetly into his hand. He snatched him from the hands of the startled team Unit X members and flung him into the pool. With blood streaming from Catalan's severed neck, his presence immediately stirred the Great White sharks into a feeding frenzy. Still alive, though unable to scream, Catalan thrashed and struggled in silent agony as he was ripped to pieces by the famished beasts. The pool turned red with pieces of meat bobbing on the surface, giving it the appearance of broth. And Catalan was alive no more.

Hunt gazed at Graze and his Unit X bodyguards and was heartened to see that they were unfazed by the grisly murder. Graze indeed was smirking. 'That's one way to end a disagreeable conversation,' he muttered flippantly.

'You'll make the call, won't you Doug?' replied Hunt.

'To the media, Mr President?'

'Yes. Claim responsibility for the Hitchlow bombing on behalf of Catalan and the Democracy Dead.'

'The Democracy Dead HQ is too secure for me to infiltrate.'

'I'm aware of that.' He turned back to the macabre scene within the swimming pool. 'Otherwise, I would not have needed to summon Catalan from those rallies he enjoyed so much. So, use a conventional source. Obviously, nothing that can be tracked back to us.'

'Any media organization in particular?'

'The New York Times always knows how to work a headline.'

'Are you sure? Their investigative journalists are the very best and may actually uncover something.'

'I'm not afraid of journalists and I'm not afraid of the FBI. I mean, whose investigations include the contents of man-eating sharks?'

There emerged the distant throbbing of helicopters. With the air space around the Little Whitehouse carefully controlled, there was no doubt what this meant.

'Fuck, it's the British Prime Minister,' voiced Graze.

'Yes, it seems that way,' Hunt replied.

'Shall we clean out the pool?'

Hunt looked at the sharks still gorging upon the remainder of Catalan's carcass. 'Nah, there's not much of him left. It looks like they've even eaten his shoes - all the same, you better have the boys check on that. Somebody's got to take out the rubbish at the end of a meal.' He straightened his collar. 'Do I look presentable?' He did not wait for a reply, marching away from the pool to join Lucy Crecy, the Secretary of Defense and other dignitaries at the helipad. He was glad that the two fast emerging Sea Hawk helicopters drowned out the usual pleasantries before they could even begin. The helicopters landed with perfect precision - which brought the customary sadness to Hunt, knowing that the military's best combat pilots had been shanghaied into being chauffeurs for politicians.

While the marching band played, British Prime Minister, Rodney Hargrove, accompanied by his beautiful daughter, Contilde Hargrove, led the British delegation out of the helicopter and down the mobile stairs. Hunt gave the Prime Minister a quick, perfunctory handshake and turned his attention to Contilde.

'Welcome to the Florida, Contilde,' he voiced, taking her hand much more gently. 'You'll find it warmer than London.'

The Prime Minister's daughter smiled mischievously, her eyes fixed on his. 'I'm sure it will be,' she replied with the French accent that came from her mother's side. She was just as Hunt remembered: a truly exotic beauty with dead-straight, glossy black hair; cool, green eyes; and superbly formed lips. Hunt had patiently waited one long year to see her again and in that time had accessed all the files his various intelligence services had compiled on her and as he shook her hand now, a rush of facts and figures came at him: married once, divorced two years ago, currently single, favorite pastime car racing, 30 years of age, body measurements 86-61-86 cm.

Hunt tried to put them aside and smirked somewhat clumsily. 'Well, I hope you can be a calming influence on your father in the meetings to come.'

Still those sultry eyes were on him. 'I haven't come here to calm anyone.' Contilde's hand held on a fraction longer still as she moved on to the other dignitaries lined up to greet her.

Hunt's gaze drifted down adoringly to her slim, elegant body and he was caught out by Lucy Crecy who emerged from the very large blind spot to his side. 'So that's why I'm here,' she observed. 'You need someone to occupy the adults while you slip away with the children.'

'Very adult children,' replied Hunt. 'See how sharp you are. That's the reason I need you on my team.'

Crecy took him by the arm. 'Come with me a moment, Mr President.' She led Hunt away from the line of dignitaries.

'What is it?' Hunt muttered.

'I've lived the past eight years in a casino so I know all too well the sorts of temptation that lead men to self-destruct. Lust is one of the greatest. But I implore you to resist it now. Whether the Hitchlow Plan is right or wrong, my job as chief negotiator is to ensure that our position is strong and persuasive and there are no anomalies to undermine it. An affair with the Prime Minister's daughter is just the thing to wreck everything.'

Hunt smirked with her brazenness. 'Do not fear, I have no intention of sabotaging your play.'

'That's reassuring. Now, before the negotiations begin, I suggest you change your shirt. There's blood on it.'

Hunt looked down at the red spattering on the blue cotton and pulled a face. 'I'm not sure how that got there.'

Crecy folded her arms sternly. 'At least it's not lipstick, Mr President.'

'I don't have time to change it right now,' muttered Hunt as he licked a finger and wiped in vain at the spatter. He quickly gave up and returned to greeting his guests. 'We will show you to your rooms. You have one hour to freshen up before pre-dinner drinks.'

'How about a tour of the grounds first?' replied the Prime Minister. 'Flying in over the shark pool we could see that it was feeding time. Whatever was on the menu was spectacularly messy. I'm sure my daughter would enjoy seeing that up close.'

Contilde smiled and nodded. 'Yes, I would absolutely love to see your sharks being fed.'

'If only we had known,' replied Hunt, remaining calm and composed. 'Unfortunately, the show has finished for today but I'm sure we can arrange something for tomorrow. I only hope you have got a similar appetite yourself. Dinner will consist of four courses with some particularly delectable lobsters as the main. That's better by far than what the poor sharks were fed, I can promise you that.'

6

Prime Minister Rodney Hargrove waited until dessert to get to the point. 'Is it true you were tortured as a young soldier?'

Hunt stared across the dining table at his British counterpart. 'Why do you ask?'

'It is not because I doubt it,' Hargrove quickly replied, aware that political rivals and the media had often called into question his account of having been held by a terrorist group in the Afghan mountains for two months before manufacturing a bloody escape. 'It is just that I am but a humble lawyer. Negotiating against someone with a strength forged under such circumstances is beyond my experience.'

'Don't under estimate yourself. I have great respect for lawyers.'

Hargrove dug his spoon into his dessert of frozen sugared pairs topped with hazelnut sauce. 'We both have reason to worry because of who we are. Lawyers twist half-truths to prove whatever they want to prove. And special forces soldiers are trained to complete their missions no matter what the costs. The danger in this particular scenario is that both lawyers and special forces soldiers have the instinct to win without necessarily caring to consider the bigger picture. But in what we are facing now the bigger picture is everything. And if we get it wrong, Western civilization may never be the same.'

'You're in the wrong business if you don't like playing for high stakes, especially at this moment in history.' Hunt looked around at the others sharing the table with him in the Little Whitehouse's main banquet room. Despite the fine dining and free flowing of Napa Valley's finest wines, the British contingent, led by the Home Secretary and the British Ambassador, remained obstinately stone faced. Not even Contilde was giving him something. But it was Lucy Crecy whose stare was the most intense. She appeared poised to stab him with her gold-plated dessert spoon. Was she still upset that he happened to find Contilde attractive? Or was it because he couldn't help himself from bating her father? Or maybe she just missed that damned Las Vegas poker game. Hunt was suddenly resentful of the whole room: his special forces comrades were hardened killers and yet they would have been far easier to have a conversation with than this lot.

'With civil wars raging in India and Indonesia due to their own social sub-class problems, it is clear we can't afford to sit on our hands,' said Rodney Hargrove. 'But if we're not careful, we could inadvertently trigger civil war in our countries rather prevent them.'

'Point taken.' Hunt stood up from the table. 'I'll fetch us another bottle of wine. The Little Whitehouse has converted its nuclear bomb shelter into one of the best cellars in the United States, and it just happens to be located directly beneath us. I will look for something from nineteen eighty-nine, the year the Berlin Wall came down to end the Cold War. That might be just the vintage to inspire us.'

'I'm not sure I follow,' replied the British Ambassador. 'On face value, it would appear strange paying homage to the toppling of a wall when you are proposing enclosing entire cities behind walls of your own.'

Hunt shrugged indifferently. 'Building walls or knocking them down, whatever it takes, Mr Ambassador.' He strode nonchalantly out of the banquet room and headed downstairs into the expansive, vault-like wine cellar. He took a bottle from the closest shelf and wrenched free the cork. He tilted back his head back and let the wine drain down his throat. He realized it was a sweet shiraz that would have been best served chilled.

The laughter of a woman from behind caused him to stiffen and some drops of wine spilled down his chin.

'I figured that was the kind of wall you really wanted to knock down,' came the woman's voice.

Hunt turned to see that it was Contilde Hargrove and that she was beaming a smile as she leaned forward in the cellar doorway. With her loose-fitting black blouse opening up under a gleaming pearl necklace, it became evident a bra was not a part of the evening's attire - something he had not been in a position to notice under the fierce spotlight of the dining table. The discovery triggered a strong pang of desire.

'It's nice to see you enjoy a moment of levity,' Hunt muttered, wiping off his chin. 'The dinner party is suffocating to say the least. Your father, I must say, is particularly uptight.'

'Tell me about it. I grew up with all my evenings like this.' Contilde went to the wine racks for a bottle of her own. She chose a Riesling and de-corked it with a practiced ease. 'Here's to knocking down walls,' she toasted and drank deep into the bottle.

Hunt moved intimately close. 'I think we have knocked down a wall right here.' He ran his fingers gently down her arm. Although he knew it was risky trying to seduce the daughter of a fellow world leader, she was far too beautiful and intriguing to resist.

'Easy, Mr President,' said Contilde, pushing him gently back. 'There's at least still a fence between us. And with some barbed wire on top.'

Hunt's heart was really beating now. She smelt so good - some of it was her perfume and some of it was just pure her.

'Let's negotiate then,' he muttered with a voice that smacked of desperation. 'What can I do to soften your stance?'

Contilde smiled, enjoying his discomfort. 'It's not the President of United States that is the problem in this situation, it is the British Prime Minister, my dad.' She pointed up at the ceiling. 'I can't do it with him right there above me. Just the thought of it makes me as frigid as a ninety-year-old nun at a temperance society meeting.'

'There's nothing to worry about. We're in a nuclear bomb shelter. The concrete above us is a few feet thick.'

'That doesn't change anything. I can't do it with him in my head. But the good news is I know a good bar where he won't be.'

'A bar? Where?'

'Halfway along the Miami Havana Bridge. Well, actually it's a little more on the Cuban side.'

Hunt stopped to see if she was joking and when he realized she wasn't, he gulped some more wine. 'That's not such a great idea,' he murmured as he wiped his mouth dry.

'I think it's a fucking brilliant idea. A night out with an American President in a Cuban bar. Can you imagine how much that would turn me on?'

'Maybe I would like to.'

Contilde leaned forward and kissed him on the mouth with her lips and tongue and ran her fingers up his crotch. 'There would be nothing you couldn't do.'

'What's the name of the bar?' Hunt said in a voice that cracked.

'Diva Havana.'

'I doubt we'll be welcome there. Have you heard of the Bay of Pigs? Cubans and US Presidents historically don't get along.'

Contilde shrugged dismissively. 'I prefer porn to history books. Anyway, not being welcome doesn't mean a thing. We'll take along some protection. I have one particular minder who I trust implicitly and I'm sure you have one too.'

'I wouldn't call him a minder. But I know what you mean.'

'Midnight tonight on the pier.'

'Should I ask for your father's permission?'

Contilde handed him her bottle of wine. 'You talked about making good decisions. Well, let's see if you can make one right now.' She walked away, straight and tall and ever so slightly accentuating the swing of her hips.

Hunt put aside the two open bottles and scoured the racks for something from 1989. He was happy for it to take a while: It would be time to get his head right. But Contilde's scent was still heavy in the air and, with every breath of it, the idea of a romantic liaison in a dimly lit Cuban bar seemed ever more a foregone conclusion.

7

Covering over one hundred and seventy kilometers of the Florida Strait, the Miami Havana Bridge was the longest bridge in world. Its box-girder design was similar to that of the original Seven Mile bridge, which it had replaced in 2046. But the much-improved strength of its steel and concrete allowed it to support up to three levels. The lower level catered to the highway and rail line and the above levels were consumed by hotels, apartments, shops, bars, brothels, unlicensed medical clinics and gambling houses. Almost all of it was run by the bridge's endemic underworld, which consisted of a plethora of rival gangs with the Enemigos the most dominant and feared. Thanks mainly to the Enemigos, the murder rates on the bridge were higher than anywhere on the US or Cuban mainlands. How many people permanently resided on the bridge was unknown but it was estimated to be in the vicinity of thirty thousand - many of whom had been born and bred on the bridge and never been off it, and thus had never in their lives stepped on real earth. The border checkpoint between the United States and Cuba was at the eighty-five-kilometer halfway point and was ablaze with floodlights and teeming with Immigration and Customs agents. Even at one o'clock in the morning there was a long queue of vehicles waiting to be cleared entry into the United States. Conversely, in the other direction, traffic was passing through virtually unimpeded. And that included, skimming across the water to the south of the bridge, the unmarked US Coastguard go-fast boat in which Jefferson Hunt and Contilde Hargrove were passengers. Hunt felt the concealed pistol at his hip for reassurance and glanced at Contilde to see if entering Cuban waters had curbed her enthusiasm for their late-night jaunt. She was, however, leaning forward in her black leather bucket seat completely enthralled by the boat's speed. To Hunt she looked more beautiful than ever. The two other occupants of the boat, however, were far less impressed: Contilde's bodyguard, an SAS solider named Marty Spiller, was constantly scouring the bridge and its vicinity with his night vision goggles and Doug Graze, at the wheel, was chewing on gum with a fury. Hunt felt enough sympathy for his best friend to move up to within earshot: 'I'm sensing you're not liking this idea,' he shouted above the roar of engine, wind and water.

'A US President illegally entering Cuban territory is crazy stupid,' Graze fired back. 'I'm only coming along because I know you would be stupid enough to go without any kind of protection.'

'That's a lot of stupid.'

Graze glared at him as best he could out the corner of his eye. 'You're still the mad, hard living special forces soldier that I always knew. What made you think being a politician would ever satisfy your addiction to danger?'

'You're underestimating my job. It comes with its own set of dangers.'

'I think it's the world that's in danger.'

'Ouch, that hurts.'

Graze shook his head despairingly. 'Honestly, I think you must be out of your mind to bring the Prime Minister's daughter on a date.'

'Well, you could have stayed in bed.'

'My job entails keeping you alive despite yourself.'

'And I want to make your job as interesting as possible.'

'Spare me. At least allow me to put a Seal team on standby in case an extraction is required.'

'Do you speak Spanish? It would be much more useful if you called ahead to the Diva Havana to make a reservation for four.'

'I don't speak Spanish and I won't be sitting down with you. You'll need someone watching the exits and your back.'

'You're a good man, Doug. I'm going to find a better bridge than this one and name it after you. Perhaps the Golden Gate Bridge.'

'You're full of shit, Mr President. Now let me drive this boat in peace.'

Hunt dropped back into his seat and preoccupied himself with catching the occasional flirtatious glance Contilde sent his way. The go-fast boat travelled another thirty kilometers alongside the bridge before Graze cut speed and edged towards one of the bridges supporting pylons, looking for a spot to tie up at the mooring platform that stretched around it. With the engines quietened, a myriad of noises grew audible from the bridge and none of them were particularly pleasant: there was the rushing and horn blaring of traffic from the bridge's first level roadway, there was the shouting and screaming of domestic disputes emanating from the second level residential apartments, and there was the booming of music and drunken and stoned laughter from the third level nightspots - one of which would be the Diva Havana.

Upon the mooring platform, a group of shirtless, tattooed young men were huddled together playing cards and smoking cigarettes that reeked of amphetamine. Hunt gave them a long, hard look and turned to Contilde incredulously. 'You've been to this place before?'

'No,' voiced Contilde, unfazed by what she was seeing. 'The bar was mentioned in a lecture when I was in Oxford. I don't remember the subject but it was either Sociology or Criminology. All part of an education that was content to make my soft skills my only skills.'

'Well, thanks to your taste in bars, we are going to need some hard skills right now. Your guy better stay here and watch over the boat - otherwise we'll be swimming home. Doug Graze is coming with us.'

Contilde shrugged. 'You're the boss. Oh, but we're in Cuba now and you're not calling the shots anymore. Still, it's all good, Marty doesn't drink.'

Hunt noted the surly expression on the SAS soldier's face. 'Well, maybe he ought to start. He appears rather tense.'

'That's because he's heard of the Diva Havana too. And it wasn't in an Oxford lecture.'

Hunt put on a pair of yellow lensed glasses that he had been keeping in the breast pocket of his flowery tropical shirt.

Contilde laughed. 'Is that going to be your disguise for the evening?'

'Why not? They look suitably non-presidential. You might need something yourself.'

Contilde untucked her blouse and knotted it at the bottom to reveal a lean, toned midriff. She then released her hair from its ponytail and shook it out onto her shoulders. 'How's this?'

Hunt double blinked, for she was ravishingly beautiful. 'It still looks like you, only better. Let's go get a drink.' He led Contilde into the elevator and saw that Diva Havana was written in gold on the control console's touchscreen with a dried red fingerprint smeared across it.

'Is that blood?' Contilde questioned uneasily.

'Looks that way.' Hunt tapped the screen. 'I wonder if it's on the menu.'

*

Hunt reached across the dimly lit corner table in the noisy, crowded bar and kissed Contilde on the lips. Contilde took it with just the slightest hint of enjoyment and returned her attention to the bar's rowdy, dangerous looking clientele. It was two in the morning and the Diva Havana was pulsating. Rock and roll music was blasting from the wall speakers, shots were being downed as quickly as they were poured, and there was barely a patch of skin that was not sporting a tattoo - and, amongst both the men and women alike, there was a lot of skin being displayed.

Contilde eventually turned back to Hunt and smiled flirtatiously. 'That was our first kiss. I made you earn it, didn't I?'

Hunt shrugged. 'Nothing I couldn't handle. Special Forces trained me up in the art of guerrilla warfare.'

'Is that what you'd call this? I thought it was a date.' Contilde picked up her glass of vodka and grapefruit juice, took a large gulp and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. 'So, what do you think of the Diva Havana? Are you glad you came?'

Hunt had mostly been keeping his eyes on Contilde for fear of creating the impression he was ogling the women of the club, but he had opening now to take a more attentive look at his surroundings. For some reason he found himself focusing more on the tattoos of the bar's patrons than the people themselves. The warnings, violence and anger in the highly graphic images appeared very much to be gang related. And there were also memorial images and names of those that had fallen. Hunt thought about his own special forces tattoo hidden under his shirt sleeve, and although far more lowkey, was all the inking he needed. He took a gulp from his bottle of beer, wanting it empty in case a makeshift weapon was required to replace the pistol he had been obliged to surrender to the concierge at the entrance.

'You really heard about this place at a lecture in Oxford?' he queried to make conversation.

'That's right,' replied Contilde. 'So many smugglers and dealers do their business here it's known in the underworld as Dark Wall Street.' She leaned closer. 'There are no laws here, only codes.'

Hunt took a swig of his Jack Daniels and nodded approvingly. 'The whisky tastes no better here than anywhere else, and we don't have any deals to make ourselves, so I dare say we're only here for the cheap thrills.' He took pains to keep any irritation out of his voice, for he was still feeling that first kiss and was hoping for a lot more before the night was through.

'There are two reasons I wanted to bring you here,' Contilde said. 'Firstly, this is what it takes for us to be equal in the relationship. Here you are not the President, nor Commander in Chief, nor the most powerful person in the room. Here you are no better than me. And secondly, your willingness to succumb to this predicament tells me that I am more to you than just a colleague's daughter who would be fun to screw on the side. I have no interest in being part of a royal court where the king amuses himself by bedroom hopping. A self-respecting girl wants to be sure her man has come to deserve her affections.' She glanced shyly at her drink. 'I guess to you I'm just a silly girl.'

'Self-respect takes many forms,' said Hunt, 'but it's never silly.'

Contilde smiled with a captivating warmth in her face.

'What a lovely couple,' came a hard, menacing voice to the side. The man stepped forward to the table with a chair in hand, He had oily hair, a fierce stare and wore a chunky gold chain around his barbed-wire tattooed neck. His body was very strong and was patterned by almost as many scars as tattoos. He sat down on the chair between Hunt and Contilde and leaned forward, smiling at them with a murderous glint in his eye and a sparkle in his diamond-capped front teeth. 'My name is Lassila,' he said with an intensity that effortlessly sliced through the background noise. 'I am head of security at this club. This is so even though I don't work here. If you would like to go home alive and with all your fingers and toes, there is a toll you will have to pay.'

Hunt could taste the anger that flooded through him: this intrusion was making Contilde visibly nervous and fast killing any intimacy he had been building up with her. 'Why have you come to us with this?' he said. 'Are we the least threatening people in the bar?'

'It is not how you look, it's what you're wearing.' Lassila put down on the table a list scrawled in black pen. 'This is all the things of value on your persons. My valuer estimates the total worth to be four to five million dollars.'

Hunt couldn't contain a laugh. 'Get the fuck out of here.'

'We have scanners inside and outside the bar, and they are very accurate. If you look closely, you can see none of the things on the list are yours. You might be cheap as shit, but the lady has got real taste. Gold and diamond Rolex watch. Bvulgari necklace and bracelets. Even the diamond stud in her belly button is valued at four hundred thousand dollars.'

Contilde's brightly flushed cheeks made it plain it was true and her eyes started to dart wildly around the bar, searching for help.

Hunt wanted to poke her under the table to urge her to keep her cool, for, just like snakes, gangsters were more likely to attack when startled. But he sensed even his touch could set her off, so he returned his attention to Lassila. 'Before you start planning an early retirement, you better replace the lenses in your spy cameras. The jewelry my friend is wearing is just good quality imitation. I know because I bought some of it.' He winked and smirked. 'Some she knew about and some she didn't, if you know what I mean.' He flicked an easy glance at Contilde. 'Honey, show the gentleman your navel stud. No need to take it off. I'm sure he'll realize it's a fake just by looking at it.'

Lassila held up his hand. 'Don't try it,' he muttered and glared at Hunt. 'Clearly you are a dangerous man. Was your intention to distract me with your friend's beautiful body while you signaled to your bodyguard at the bar?'

'My bodyguard?'

'You may think that because you are in Cuba the surveillance systems are old and primitive but you would be badly mistaken. The cameras I have trained on you are the same models as those used by the CIA. They have made it clear your girlfriend's jewelry is real. And the same goes for the weapons your bodyguard was concealing. Pen gun, a flick knife and a poison tipped belt buckle. Not to be messed with.' He held out his hand to a polished silver ring on his index finger. 'But I am not to be out done. It may not be of the same value as your girlfriend's ring but it is infinitely more deadly.'

Hunt could see the thin needle tip protruding from the ring and fought to conceal the bitter cocktail of hate and concern that suddenly gripped him. He casually glanced towards the corner of the bar where Doug Graze had taken up position when they first entered the Diva Havana. Although it was too crowded to know for sure, he had a sinking feeling that he was no longer there. 'Did you stab him with that?' he managed to mutter, turning his attention back to Lassila and his ring.

'No, mine is primed for you, should it be necessary. One of my people gave him a tap on the neck and that's all it took. No suspicion was aroused. There's always someone collapsing in bars, isn't there. And, besides, the people who come to the Diva are usually smart enough to mind their own business.'

'Where is he now?'

'Who?'

'My damned bodyguard.'

Lassila smirked cruelly. 'This bridge sits above a very deep body of water. So, let's just say you won't be seeing your friend again anytime soon. Don't worry about flowers. The graves here don't come with headstones.'

Hunt took in a slow, burning breath, refusing to betray the hurt he was feeling, even though the thought that his comrade in arms of twenty years had met his demise at the the hands of a lowlife hoodlum in a dingy bar like this was all but unbearable. 'Oh well, I would have had to fire him anyway for this oversight,' he managed to blurt out. 'But how do we know we won't get the same treatment even if we decide to cooperate?'

'All I can say is it will be neater for us if we don't have to kill you. If you have bodyguards and your friend has such expensive jewelry, you must be of some importance. It might lead to unwanted attention from police forces that we do not own. And that at the very least would cost us bribe money. I would avoid that if I can.'

'But you are not worried about them investigating a murdered bodyguard?'

Lassila shrugged. 'Guns for hire do not live very long on this bridge. That is a sad fact. And the police do not invest many resources in clearing such cases off their books. You are not in Cuba and you are definitely not in the United States. You have come to a very dangerous no man's land.'

'Alright, we'll cooperate.'

'Wise decision.' Lassila waved to a tall, thin waiter standing in the background. The man promptly rushed forward, placing an empty ice-bucket beside the table.

'Put every item on the list into the bucket,' Lassila ordered. 'Once that is done you will be able to return to your boat alive. That is the only deal on offer.'

Hunt put a hand on Contilde's arm. 'Sounds like he means it, honey. Better give him what he wants. None of it is worth dying for.'

With trembling hands, Contilde began to remove her jewelry, working from the top, with her earrings, down to the thick, glittery gold of her ankle bracelets, shakily dropping them into the waiter's bucket as she went. Lassila did not watch, would not be distracted from Hunt. 'Your girlfriend is suitably scared, but you still seem to be having a night out. You may or may not have earned your wealth legally but I can see that you have a gangster's heart. What do you do? Work on Wall Street?'

Hunt smirked cryptically. 'I've been known to.'

'That's all of it,' Contilde said shakily, pushing the ice-bucket away.

Hunt touched her arm gently. 'We will buy new ones in Miami, sweetheart.' He shot Lassila a pointed look. 'You're not concerned that we have seen your face?'

'Why should I be?' Lassila muttered, slowly getting to his feet. 'I control the bridge's surveillance cameras and I guarantee you there will be nothing recorded of this incident. And no witnesses either.' He gestured to the revelers around them. 'People here don't talk to cops no matter what.' He picked up the ice-bucket. 'You will be escorted back to your boat by my associate here. You will continue to be watched by our surveillance apparatus and any irregularities will be met with swift retribution. Put out to sea and never come back again.' He stared at Hunt one last time. 'You look somehow familiar to me. I feel we have met before.'

'I doubt it,' snarled Hunt. 'But just maybe we'll meet again.'

'Those are the words of someone I should kill. Fortunately for you, your appearance doesn't carry the same weight.' Lassila laughed disparagingly and pushed his way through the crowd towards the back of the bar.

Hunt intently followed his progress until the waiter stepped in his way. 'You better hurry before he changes his mind.'

Hunt noticed that Contilde was quivering but resisted the inclination to put a reassuring hand upon her. He needed his hands free in case the waiter or anyone else made a move at them. He got up from his chair and watched as Contilde pulled herself up using the table for support. In this moment, embittered by the plight of Doug Graze, he saw her as a spoilt, pitiful creature who was finding out all too late how nasty the world could be. He could only hope Graze had not truly lost his life to that lesson.

'Why don't you help her?' the waiter gnarled.

'She'll be fine,' Hunt replied. 'Without all her jewelry, she must be feeling much lighter.'

Contilde straightened up defiantly. 'Let's go.'

Hunt gestured for the waiter to lead the way. 'With the kind of accessories you people wear, there's no way I'm letting you get behind me.'

The waiter pulled out a handgun from beneath his apron. 'This is my accessory, if that's what you mean.' He bulldozed his way for the door, holding the pistol down to the side.

*

Marty Spiller was sitting in darkness at the rear of the speed boat, surreptitiously holding a gun between his knees. The group loitering about on the platform had left some time ago, leaving the area eerily quiet and the time ticking by with painful slowness - Spiller actually kind of missed them. Although in his operations with the SAS he had been on many a late-night mission, it had never been in the capacity of a chaperone on date night; he wasn't sure if the anxiety in his chest was that of a soldier or a legal guardian.

At last, Hunt and Contilde emerged from the elevator, but it did not bring Spiller any sense of relief, for he could immediately see upon their faces that something was wrong. Contilde almost tripped over herself and needed Hunt to hold her and guide her across the boardwalk. Spiller sprung forward to help her onto the boat. 'What's going on?' he asked urgently.

'We got mugged,' said Hunt, letting him deal with Contilde while he swung on board. 'Has Graze come back yet?

Spiller shot a look his way. 'No. He was with you.'

Hunt frowned. 'I'm going to need a gun.'

'Let's just leave,' Contilde urged. 'You heard what Lassila said. He'll kill you if you go back.'

Hunt untied the speed boat from the mooring and glanced back to see that the tiny wharf was still empty. The waiter had left them at the top of the elevator and had not followed: it seemed Lassila was keeping his word that they would be allowed to leave the bridge alive - a mistake Hunt would make him pay for. 'Someone is definitely going to die,' he murmured back at Contilde. 'But I don't want it to be you, so go back to Fort Zachary Taylor, take a hot bath, get some sleep and forget this evening ever happened. In the morning you can stroll the gardens while your father and I have our summit and sign our deals. Fair enough?'

Contilde nodded. 'Alright.'

'I take it your navel stud still has a GPS tracking fiber in it like it did in London?'

'Yeah, sure. And to think I almost didn't wear it tonight. I wasn't sure I wanted to be tracked going into Cuba.'

'So why did you wear it? You don't trust me?'

'A girl has to take precautions.'

Hunt turned to Spiller. 'I am going to need your GPS tracker, handgun and combat knife.'

Spiller pursed his lips 'Mr President, the smart move now would be to withdraw to safe ground, assemble a strike force and redeploy with clear mission objectives.'

'There's no time for that. Contilde's tracking device could be discovered at any moment, if it hasn't already. Call in a team if you want. They can clean up the mess I leave behind.'

Spiller sighed. 'If you can swim, I would suggest that as we pull away you enter the water from the far side of the boat. If you can actually swim well, I would suggest you target another pylon on the bridge.'

'I've swum a few laps with the Navy Seals in my time' Hunt replied. 'Now how about that equipment?'

Spiller stepped into him, pressing his GPS tracker, pistol and knife into his chest. 'There are some spare ammo clips in the duffel bag on the floor.'

'Thanks.' As Hunt went to the duffel bag, Contilde grabbed hold of his arm. 'I don't care about the jewelry,' she urged. 'That's the only reason I wore it. So, don't kill anyone for it.'

Hunt loaded his pockets with the weapons and ammo and attached the GPS tracker to his wrist. 'I'm sorry, but there'll be no presidential pardons today.'

Spiller started up the boat's engine and edged it away from the wharf at far below the speed he would have liked; still, he was happy to make it easy for Hunt to leave the boat - the President was bad news and the further Spiller could get Contilde away from him the better her chances of survival.

Obligingly, Hunt did not wait long. He set himself against the starboard side of the boat and effortlessly rolled backwards into the warm, oily waters of the Florida Strait.
8

Rafael Faz Pawn Shop Emporium was printed in faded brown on the grimy shopfront window. The pawn shop was situated on the upper level of the Miami Havana Bridge and was less than a mile away from the border checkpoint. Its shelves were crowded with boxes of cigars, liquor, sex toys, drug paraphernalia, and perfumes. Not on display were all the illegal weapons, stolen property and narcotics that most customers came to trade in. Rafael Faz was the sole owner and proprietor of the store and had a reputation for being one of the best racketeers on the bridge. He could buy, sell and launder just about anything and keep the police and gangs out of it.

Lassila Benson was a regular visitor to the store, invariably trying to offload valuables lifted from the seemingly endless supply of naive tourists coming to the bridge in the search of a little excitement to enliven their dull lives; the late hour on this occasion, however, was not usual and would not please Rafael Faz in the slightest. Rafael made it clear that although the inventory of the store may have been less than regular, the trading hours definitely were. Lassila paused at the front door and glanced at his watch. It was two o'clock in the morning. Too late to be knocking on this particular door. But the thought of going home to the dingy little apartment he shared with his prostitute girlfriend with potentially the biggest score of his career stuffed into his pocket was out of the question. He needed the best available and he needed him now. He took in a deep breath and knocked as loud as he could. It several minutes of banging before a light within the store came on and Rafael Faz's tall, wiry figure emerged from the rear of the store wrapped in a gaudy beige dressing gown and black combat boots.

'What the hell do you want, Lassila?' Rafael barked as he pulled open the door. 'This better be worth it. I tripped on Gusty getting out of bed and she bit my damned leg.'

'Gusty?'

'A four-year-old Doberman attack dog. Had her a week. Some poor schmuck busy losing everything in a divorce had nothing else to sell.' Lassila glanced down out his pajama leg. 'I'm bleeding.'

'And you probably soiled yourself as well. But with what I've got here, you'll be able to afford a new pair of pajamas, so stop whining.' Lassila stepped past him and went to glass counter at the centre of the store and tipped out the contents of his brown leather purse bag. Even in the store's dim light, the jewels glistened. And so, did the whites of Rafael's eyes as they bulged open. 'Quite a collection,' he gasped. 'Did you knock over a jewelry store?'

'All of it came from one young woman at the Diva Havana Bar. My scanners have valued them at over five million dollars.'

Rafael paused. 'So, you simply relieved her of five million dollars' worth of jewelry?'

'It wasn't difficult. One dead bodyguard.'

'And the girl? Is she still alive?'

'She cooperated. She got to go home.'

'Good. It will make things easier to sell.' Rafael picked up the diamond necklace for a closer look. He was not disappointed. 'What would someone who could afford these be doing at the Diva Havana?'

'Who knows? Looking for a latin threesome maybe. I was too busy robbing her to ask.'

'Was she with anyone apart from the bodyguard?'

'Yeah, some guy who was a bit too old for her. Probably a sugar daddy.'

Rafael put down the necklace reverently and spread the full complement of pieces out across the counter. 'Customers for any of these pieces will be easy to find on both sides of the border. But if you are willing to be patient, there are investors in China and India who might pay more.'

Lassila licked her lips. 'More than five million?'

Rafael suddenly snatched up the ankle bracelet, the initial euphoria draining from his face.

'What's wrong?' Lassila asked.

'There's an engraving.'

'Is that a problem? Can't you scratch it off? It'll still be worth something.'

'It's the name that's engraved that has got me worried.'

Lassila frowned. 'Who?'

'To Contilde with deepest love, Rodney and Eve.' Rafael read the message slowly and ominously and glanced up at Lassila. 'Rodney is the name of the British Prime Minister. His late wife was named Eve and his daughter is Contilde.'

Lassila grabbed the ankle bracelet out of Rafael's hands and studied the inscription for himself. 'It's just a coincidence. Britain is a long way from here.'

'But Key West is not. That is where the President of the United States is currently meeting the British Prime Minister for a two-day summit.

'Bullshit.'

'You should follow current events more.'

Lassila warily put the ankle bracelet back down. 'Why would the Prime Minister's daughter risk going to the Diva Havana?'

'What did you suggest just now? Looking for exotic romance? What did the guy she was with look like?'

'Like just another stupid rich gringo,' muttered Lassila, and started to wonder if this was all just some ploy on Rafael's part to negotiate a higher fee for himself. 'He was a bit cocky but knew he would be dead if he tried anything funny.'

Rafael frowned. 'For your own self-preservation you had better start assuming that you just robbed the British Prime Minister's daughter and killed a royal bodyguard. This is going to bring some serious heat. The only question is how long until it gets here. Were they traveling by car?'

'Speedboat.'

'And you came straight here from the robbery?'

'Yes. Less than thirty minutes ago.'

'Then you can't hope for more than an hour. You'd better head to Havana. Nothing good will be coming from the US direction.'

'Or I could just stash the jewels somewhere nearby and lie low for a while.'

'The Americans have their own surveillance network set up across the bridge. You certainly won't be able to hide from them under your bed. You had better get what you can for the jewelry and disappear into Cuba.'

Lassila wiped the perspiration from his forehead. 'You still want them?'

Rafael smirked with deadly seriousness. 'I would be buying the tracking fibers that are no doubt imbedded somewhere within. Fibers that could even survive a smelting process. There's only one dealer in Havana with a set up to handle that: Ciro Devaldo. He has a van lined with a specially treated lead through which no signal can pass.'

Lassila hesitated. 'I don't like dealing with the big players. They have a nasty habit of squashing the little fish between their toes.'

Rafael pulled out a packet of cigarettes from under the counter and lit one up. 'The biggest player of all is the United States,' he said and as he wedged the cigarette into the corner of his mouth. 'President Hunt is trying to negotiate the most revolutionary policy in a hundred years with his closest ally and you have just mugged the man's daughter and killed one of his men. Believe me, there is a force five hurricane headed your way.' He extracted his phone from his pocket. 'Offer Devaldo four million dollars for the deal. That will leave perhaps one million for you minus expenses. With those terms Devaldo might not think it worth killing you. But you better make your decision now. Contilde Hargrove could already be on the radio telling her dad all about what the nasty gangster did to her.'

Lassila's face twisted with angst. 'Alright. Arrange the damned deal.'

Rafael nodded. 'I will set up a rendezvous point in Havana. Before then the cops will need to be paid off. That will not be included in my one hundred-thousand-dollar fee.' Lassila opened his mouth to protest but Rafael quickly continued. 'With cops intercepting speeding vehicles, there is no way you can get off the bridge quickly enough to elude the Americans. A clear run to Havana is not going to be cheap.'

'This should have been the greatest robbery of my career,' Lassila lamented. 'Instead, I have become the victim.'

'Let's not mope about it. You can still come out ahead. Other people may get most of the money, but the credit will still be yours. The man who stole the jewels of the British Prime Minister. All over Cuba, important people will want to work with you. You will be a name.' Rafael pulled out from the same shelf as the cigarettes a small red plastic dispenser. 'This will help get you on your way. It's war gum.'

'War gum?'

Rafael slid the dispenser across the table. 'Cuban Special Forces use it. It sharpens the senses, improves eye to hand coordination and creates a crazy buzz. Chew on it for slow release or swallow for an explosion of adrenaline like nothing you've ever experienced. It is said soldiers forget how to die when they're chewing it.'

Lassila opened the packet and tentatively slipped one of the sticks of gum into his mouth. 'Peppermint,' he observed.

'Sure. Now gather up your jewels and get out of here. I'll contact you once I've sorted out the rendezvous point with Devaldo's people.'

'Thank you, I think.' Lassila hurriedly scooped the jewels back into his bag.

'The cops will want to be paid in advance. And so will I. Unfortunately, I give you no better than a fifty-fifty chance.'

Lassila glared at him a long moment. 'I'll send you five hundred grand from my account, but you better come through with Devaldo. And the cops better part for me like I'm Moses. Otherwise, you'll find out there's nowhere on this bridge you can hide from me.'

'Don't worry, I have your best interests at heart,' Rafael reassured. 'And I'm going to look into exactly who Contilde Hargrove was drinking with at the Diva Havana. With any luck it was someone noble and important cheating on his wife. Blackmail pays very well when all the stars align.'

Lassila thought back to the arrogant, cruel-eyed man on the other side of the table to the Prime Minister's daughter. 'I'd say he was up to no good. I too would be interested to know who he is.' He put another piece of gum in his mouth and headed for the door. 'I hope I don't come to regret letting him live.'

9

Jefferson Hunt had not killed a man with his bare hands for many years but he did it now with gusto and not just because he had to. As he crushed the larynx of the security guard and snapped his neck to finish him off, he thought about all the handshakes he had shared with world leaders and dignitaries over the recent years and how the hand he had offered them, so warm and welcoming, had so quickly transformed into an agent of death. If only those people could see him now.

Hunt let the security guard's body crumple to the ground and looked around to make sure there weren't any witnesses. He was in a rear corner of the Diva Havana's undercover car park and was surrounded by luxury cars and powerful motorbikes; considering what had just happened to Contilde and himself, he suspected most of them had been paid for by one crime or another. He set about trying to push security guard under the closest vehicle, but the man's beefy physique was cumbersome and unwieldy and Hunt quickly lost patience: He just hoped nobody looked that way for the few minutes it would take him to choose his getaway car and get himself out on the road. The amount of United States number plates in the car park meant that it would be rich pickings, for unbeknownst to all but a handful of the Pentagon top brass, the security system of every vehicle produced or sold in the United States had been hardwired to recognize him. It was a security measure that had never been called upon and so Hunt was curious to find out if it actually worked.

He quickly picked out which car it would be: The Cadillac Road Rager, in a middle row of the car park, was superbly sleek and looked every bit its reputation as the fastest road car in America. Finding one here was fortuitous, as even a successful drug smuggler would struggle to afford one. Hunt stepped up to the driver's side and warily put his hand on the door handle: instead of the crippling electric shock an intruder could have expected, there was the click of the locking system deactivating and the hum of the engine preparing to fire.

Hunt glanced down at the GPS tracker on his wrist to see that Contilde's navel stud was producing a clear signal: the blip was moving at great speed across the bridge in the direction of Havana. At over five miles away it was going to take some catching. Hunt slid into the Road Rager's driver's seat and the seatbelt straps slithered across his chest until they had clicked firmly together. Hunt's heart was beating quickly. Even at his inauguration three years earlier, he hadn't felt as good as this: a sublime cocktail of hate and anger interlaced with the chance to channel them in America's baddest car.

Hunt put the car into manual control and used navigating out the narrow car park as a way to shake off the rustiness from the years of being unable to drive as President. Once out on the Miami Havana Highway, he floored the accelerator to recklessly take the super-charger engine to near its maximum capacity in a lane-hopping sprint that left the other vehicles around him as mere fading strobes of light. It was the kind of speed-rush that only racing car drivers got to experience legally. Hunt did not need to look at the GPS tracker to know he was rapidly gaining distance on his quarry. His feel for the road had come flooding back and he was ducking and weaving through the traffic with an instinctive capacity to anticipate gaps and pierce them perfectly. But when an SUV abruptly pulled out in front of him, the margins were too small to work within. The Road Rager clipped the rear of the SUV, sending it spinning wildly out of control into the oncoming traffic. Three lanes of traffic churned into a mass high-speed collision that saw vehicles bursting into flames, cartwheeling and plunging through the inadequate barricade fences into the shark infested water's below.

Hunt made it into the far lane, beyond the pile-up's reach, and was able to watch unscathed the carnage unfold in his rearview mirror. His twin callings of soldiering and politics helped stifle any qualms he may have felt over the collateral damage being left in his wake. Even as another fireball erupted from amidst the crash, he calmly retrained his eyes on the tracking device. The blip was growing tantalizingly close. Less than a mile away now. If he had still been in the Special Forces, he could simply have called in a missile strike and waited for the blip to be erased from the screen. But, as President, despite having access to nuclear codes and presidential decrees, his best chance of nailing Lassila, short of an act of Congress, was simply putting to use the pistol wedged in his hip pocket. And he would do it without hesitation. He had lost his one true friend and his thirst for revenge was bordering on maniacal.

Emerging in darkness on the road ahead was a car traveling far faster than anything else Hunt had encountered to that point. He recognized the make as a Ferrari Fire Owl. Although one of the most renowned sports cars on the market in its prime twenty years earlier, the Fire Owl now belonged to a different era and very few existed outside the garages of wealthy collectors. Hunt was going to enjoy putting this one into the Florida Straits. Or, even better, he noticed an oncoming semi-trailer: its solid iron bullbar moving at ninety miles per hour would leave little left of car or driver. Just as though staring down the barrel of a gun, Hunt lined up his target. With a quick glance at the shadowy figure within the Fire Owl, Hunt ferociously swerved into it, propelling it into the truck's lane. The truck, however, managed to avoid a full front impact and spat the Fire Owl right back out at the Road Rager. The two vehicles went cartwheeling wildly out of control across the bridge before finally coming to rest as twisted, smoking hunks of metal against the bridge's side barrier.

Hunt was left harnessed to the driver's seat upside down, fighting for consciousness. A stifling radiant heat and crackling of a fire taking hold in the backseat jolted his senses back from the brink with the stomach-churning fear of being burned alive. The toxic fumes of burning plastic only confirmed the peril he was in. He reached desperately for the seatbelt's manual release lever, only to realize that the entire dashboard was no longer where it should have been. He didn't want to risk flapping his hands about the mangled wreck in search of it for fear of injuring himself and instead went to his pistol, which was still down by his side. He pressed it against the seatbelt and opened fire. The bullets both sliced the seatbelt in two and smashed out a hole in the window ready for him to climb through. Hunt moved quickly, fearing the car could explode at any moment.

Out on the road, there was a man clutching his blood-soaked stomach in agony - likely hit by Hunt's gunfire. Hunt pulled the man's head back, hoping that it was Lassila, but instead found himself looking at an old man with a salt and pepper beard, yellow teeth and cheeks drained of color. Although he was kindly looking, Hunt could only wonder if he had come to help rescue him from the burning car vehicle or to loot whatever he could find - that was the problem with crashing valuable cars.

Hunt glanced to the tracking device on his wrist and saw that it was still pointing to the Fire Owl, which was also resting upside down. He limped to it with his pistol raised and his teeth gritted. He crouched down low to see Lassila's motionless body pinned to the seat - unconscious or dead. Even if it were the latter, Hunt still wanted to shoot him. He knelt in a firing position and pumped off three rounds at Lassila's head. The bulletproof glass, however, sent ricocheting bullets back in his direction, forcing him to dive frantically to the side.

Police sirens meanwhile came wailing from both ends of the bridge: They were traveling fast and in numbers. Muttering an obscenity under his breath Hunt rammed his shoulder into the Fire Owl and began to heave at it. Already teetering over the edge of the bridge, the car started to shift further only for it to get caught on a jutting piece of the railing. Hunt shot the piece off with the last rounds in the pistol and recommenced pushing in an all-out effort.

Four police cars arrived on the scene, hurriedly fanning out to block the bridge. The police officers that came pouring out of the cars were wearing black uniforms and brandishing machine guns and pistols. They approached Hunt while screaming at him in furious Spanish to raise his hands.

Hunt hesitated: He could feel the Fire Owl shifting under his force and the urge to give it one final push was almost overwhelming. It was only a mental image of Doug Graze frowning disapprovingly that held him back. "Once a soldier is dead, their usefulness is pretty much zero," was what he would like to grumble. And Hunt could see from the way the police were aiming their guns that this was exactly what they had in mind.

'Alright, don't shoot,' he called out, stepping away from the Fire Owl and throwing his hands above his head. He turned around slowly, inspecting the car's precarious hold on the bridge.

'On your knees, gringo!' commanded one of the police officers in English as he slowed to a walk.

The idea of a sitting US President being handcuffed and shackled by the Cuban police force was beyond the pale. The humiliation would be unbearable and it might get much more painful than that, for there would be many a country desperate to get their hands on a US President, to interrogate and to torture, and they would be willing to pay exorbitant sums for the privilege. A foreign government might easily make Cuba an offer it couldn't refuse. Better to die a thousand deaths than to live through any of that, thought Hunt, and the realization gave him the added drive he needed as threw himself back onto the Fire Owl in one final act of desperation. He rolled across the roof and yanked on it with his entire body weight and at last the Fire Owl cleared the railing. Hunt and the car fell together in the long descent to the Florida Strait. A crack of misdirected gunfire spat off the Fire Owl's undercarriage, as Hunt pinched his nose and straightened his body and waited for the bone crunching impact with the water. Despite the grave danger he was in, he couldn't help but will the descent to keep going and going, wanting nothing more than the Fire Owl's impact with the sea to completely pulverize the hapless Lassila within.

The Fire Owl hit the water an instant before him with a force that shattered the windows his bullets had not been able to pierce. Hunt's entry was more graceful, the momentum taking him deep into a silent eerie world. He had trained enough with Navy Seals to know how to stay calm in such moments, even with all the air knocked from his lungs. As he climbed back for the surface, he could see a large dark patch descending past him into the depths. He wanted to follow it to the bottom of the sea to be sure it truly became Lassila's watery tomb. However, the need for self-preservation compelled him to keep rising to the surface. He burst to the surface and sucked in a desperate lungful of air. Flashlight beams from the police above were dancing frenetically upon the water only meters away. Hunt began to swim as hard as he could away from them, heading out into open sea. To his great relief they did not follow and after twenty minutes and two miles of furious swimming, he stopped exhausted, and glanced back at the bridge. The gap in the bridge's railing had coagulated with the pulsating flashing blue lights of police cars. And on the water beneath them a dragnet of boats was combing the murky waters with powerful searchlights and sonar equipment, while above them, there was a police helicopter and drones circling relentlessly.

But it seemed the Cubans had underestimated Hunt's swimming ability, for their search was falling well short. With that encouragement, Hunt took in a deep breath and was ready to go again. He broke into a long, rhythmic stroke on a direct course for the Cuban mainland. He could already see the sunrise emerging on the horizon and wondered if he could still make his nine o'clock start with Prime Minister Hargrove. He would need a fast mode of transport once he reached Havana. A speedboat or an aircraft. Or, if he felt like taking on the bridge again, a fast car would do.

He cleared his head and concentrated on powering the three miles to shore. Despite the numbing fatigue, he was able to maintain his pace and in less than thirty minutes had landed at the seawall of Havana's bustling Malecon Esplanade. He climbed the stone steps so drained it was almost as if he were sleepwalking. Cars and motorcycles were rushing about the esplanade with people impatient to start their days, while the pedestrians on the sidewalks were marching in steady rhythms for exercise or for getting to their workplaces on time. With his arms feeling like jelly, it took two hands for Hunt to lift the GPS tracker to get a fix on precisely where on the esplanade he had landed. What caught his attention, however, was that the blip on the screen that he had thought he had permanently banished to the depths of the Florida Straits was moving again: It had inexplicably joined him on the Malecon, less than a mile away. Had Lassila escaped the Fire Owl, after all? Or maybe it was just Contilde's jewelry that had been recovered and was being taken into hiding by a third party - maybe a bent cop or one of Lassila's associates. Hunt didn't necessarily care: anyone touching that jewelry was a likely candidate to die badly. Despite his fatigue and pressing engagements with world leaders, he was once again itching for a fight.

*

Lacking an insider's knowledge of Fort Zachary Taylor's security systems, Contilde Hargrove and Marty Spiller were unable to return to the wharf as stealthily as they had left it. Indeed, the final stage of the journey was marked by searchlights from the watchtowers flooding their boat and a contingent of Marines, with rifles unslung, converging onto the wharf to meet them. Spiller steered the boat alongside the wharf and set about tying the mooring ropes.

'It is a bit early in the day for a sea cruise, Ms Hargrove,' called out Lieutenant Jeffries, the ranking officer amongst the Marines, Lieutenant Jeffries, from the top of the ladder leading down from the boardwalk. 'The only craft usually out at dawn in these waters are crewed by fishers and smugglers of contraband.'

Contilde had spent the journey back from the bridge contemplating what to say and do at this moment - whether or not to reveal to all that their President had run off to wage war against the gangsters of the Miami Havana Bridge. She hadn't come to a decision but, now that the moment had arrived and she was about to be arrested by Marines, she supposed she didn't have much choice. After all, Jefferson Hunt was likely in serious trouble and would be in need of rescue. For a few long hours she had drifted with Spiller a few miles to the south of the bridge, peering through binoculars at explosions and fires and frenetic police activity. There could be little doubt that Hunt was embroiled in of all that. All the same, gnawing at her was the realization that sending out the Marines to go get him brought its own set of risks: perhaps something akin to the Bay of Pigs when a nuclear war was almost triggered. At least, there was one person in Hunt's administration who knew how to count the odds.

'We were out with President Hunt,' Contilde replied urgently as she stepped up onto the ladder, 'and it was no pleasure cruise. Bring Lucy Crecy to the Situation Room at once. She is President Hunt's main advisor, and she needs to hear what's happened.'

The intensity of Contilde's voice had Lieutenant Jeffries rattled. He turned to the sergeant beside him. 'Fetch Lucy Crecy to the Situation Room. Don't take no for answer.'

The sergeant saluted and hurried away on his errand.

Jeffries returned his attention to Contilde, offering a hand to help her from the ladder onto the boardwalk. 'Shall we go to the Situation Room directly, Ms Hargrove?'

'Yes, let's.'

Contilde lead the way to the Little Whitehouse with large strides that had Spiller and the Marines marching double-time to keep up.

*

Ten minutes later Contilde and Spiller were sitting at the large mahogany table where President Hunt and Prime Minister Hargrove were scheduled to be, in less than two hours, negotiating the future of the western world. The chairs were also mahogany and were upholstered in rich royal red; their exceptional comfort was intended to mitigate against punishingly long hours of sitting still. For sustenance, there was a jug of water ringed by empty glasses in the centre of the table, and there was a wine rack against the wall.

Lucy Crecy entered the room looking fresh and relaxed in a charcoal black suit and with her hair smelling of shampoo. She sat down at a vacant chair and gazed at Contilde with interest. 'Good morning. It seems we are starting the day's discussions earlier than intended. Should we rouse your father and the President?'

'My father appreciates his rest,' replied Contilde. 'In contrast, you will find President Hunt's bed unslept in.'

Crecy poured herself a glass of water. 'Where is Jefferson?'

'Last night we went to a bar on the Miami Havana Bridge. We were mugged by a gangster named Lassila.'

'He told you his name? What idiot would reveal his real name during a robbery?'

'A small-time gangster who didn't realize he was hitting the big time. Too arrogant for his own good.'

Crecy's expression hardened. 'So, you were at a bar in Cuba with the President of the United States? An interesting turn of events. Did you at least take a security detail with you?'

'Doug Graze and Marty came as our protection. Graze disappeared on the job. Lassila claimed to have killed him with a poison tipped ring.'

'Where is the President now?'

'He stayed behind on the bridge to find Graze.'

'In other words, he is risking his life for his bodyguard. That's not how it's supposed to work.'

'I guess not.'

'And he sent you back here to get help?'

'To avoid me getting hurt. His intention was to handle things himself.'

'Of course, it was. A US President committing extrajudicial killings in Cuba is not something he would want becoming public.'

'Nor is it something a discerning British Prime Minister would want to be associated with.'

Crecy's face was caught by a flash of anger for the briefest of moments before she looked away to wipe her it clean. 'Maybe it's better to let your father sleep in, after all,' she calmly voiced. 'It would be ill-advised to jump to hasty conclusions until all the facts are in.' She glanced at Spiller. 'As a military expert, what was your appraisal of the situation?'

'I was not with the President when he went onto the bridge,' replied Spiller, 'so I cannot tell you much beyond what you have already heard. There were at least two multiple vehicle pile-ups and a subsequent police search on the bridge - both on the water and in the air. The order of the pile-ups indicates that the offending vehicles were moving in the direction of Havana.'

'How close did they get?'

'The final pile-up occurred approximately three miles from the Havana exit. It probably means they were too far away to reach Havana.'

'Was there any indication the police managed to apprehend someone?'

'No ma'am, the search was still ongoing when we departed the scene.'

'And exactly when was that?'

Spiller glanced at his watch. 'Fifty-eight minutes ago.'

'Will you be willing to go back again in fifteen minutes time? queried Crecy urgently. 'To point our strike team in the right direction.' Crecy looked to Contilde. 'With your approval, of course, Ms Hargrove. And I would ask for patience on the part of the Prime Minister and yourself. There is every chance that the President has made contact with the Cuban police and together they are hunting Doug Graze's killer. That manhunt could easily have been what you were seeing.'

Contilde chuckled dryly. 'You don't seriously believe that, do you?'

'Of course, I do. The opening of the Miami Havana Bridge has greatly improved relations between our two nations. There have already been noteworthy examples of cooperation between us in taking on its criminal infestations. All I ask is that you allow us time to insert a strike team on scene to assess the situation. In the spirit of our own longstanding cooperation is that too much to ask?'

'I will volunteer my services, ma'am,' said Spiller, giving Contilde a pointed glance. 'I can take your people to where it all happened.'

Contilde had lived the past three years under Spiller's protection and immediately understood the unspoken message included within his stare and tone of voice: the stakes had become so high that if they did not cooperate with the Hunt administration, they might befall the same fate as Doug Graze: to disappear without a trace. It wasn't only gangsters, after all, that could orchestrate such feats. Indeed, governments could accomplish it better than anyone. Contilde had learned all too well, as she accompanied her father around the world, just how extreme were the lengths powerful people could go to in the name of self-preservation - even a Prime Minister's daughter might suddenly find herself expendable. And, besides, she had to take some of the blame for Hunt's predicament given she had coaxed him onto the bridge in the first place. She owed him a break or two. 'Very well,' she replied. 'Father doesn't like working too early anyway. I'll preoccupy him with breakfast while you go rescue the man who is supposed to be protecting the free world.'

'Thank you, Ms Hargrove.' Crecy stood up from the table and gestured with her index finger for Spiller to follow.

'Tell me though,' Contilde muttered as she went, 'was it wise for your country to elect a ruthless killing machine as President?'

Crecy glanced at her ruefully but chose not to bite.

*

Lieutenant Franco Diego, a particularly serious member of the Cuban Federal Police Force, strode into the office of his immediate superior, Colonel Alexa Gonzales, without even waiting for his knock on the door to be acknowledged. Gonzales, who had the relaxed presence of someone secure in a position of authority, was just starting his working day and had been staring out his office window at the forty-foot-high Fidel Castro statue that dominated the grounds of the Havana Federal Police Headquarters. His office's location, eye-level to the statue, was a constant reminder of his rank and standing within the police force. It was not an office to be barged into.

'What is it, Diego?' he snapped testily.

'Sir, I request permission to place a dragnet around central Havana with all available personnel.'

Gonzales stared hard at the tall, thin lieutenant, looking for signs of drugs, drunkenness or hallucinating. What he saw was the man he had always known: a purse-lipped, searingly intelligent police officer in a uniform that seemed so much brighter than those worn by his other subordinates. 'Lieutenant Diego, would you kindly elaborate.'

'It's in relation to last night's incident on the Miami Havana Bridge.'

Gonzales waved to the tablet computer occupying the center of his desk. 'I saw it mentioned in the daily log. Have you managed to fish the bodies from the Florida Straits?'

'That is the whole point, sir. Some of the innocent victims, yes. But not the perpetrators. I suspect they have escaped by water to Havana.'

'Why not back to the bridge? It is far closer, after all.'

'It's possible but unlikely. An extensive search is already underway on the bridge and there has been no sign of them.'

'Well, if they have swum to Havana, that suggests they are pretty decent swimmers, but it doesn't make them so dangerous we need to close down the entire city. Once you have successfully identified them, we can track them down in the usual manner.'

'We have conclusively identified one of the perpetrators already. He is a resident of the bridge, a local gangster named Lassila Benson. But it is the other one that brings me here.' Diego put down on the desk a photo of Jefferson Hunt pushing back against the Fire Owl as it teetered over the edge of the bridge. 'Can you see?'

Gonzales picked up the photo and studied it closely. His eyes honed in on Hunt's face and he frowned. 'Is this some kind of practical joke, Diego?'

'That was my first reaction too, sir, but there are more photos just like it taken from the body-cams of our police officers on the bridge and the bridge's overhead surveillance cameras. The perpetrator is clearly the President of the United States.'

Colonel Gonzales gazed at him incredulously. 'You are asserting that the President of the United States pushed a car off the Miami Havana Bridge and then swam through shark infested waters to Havana?'

Diego put down another photo of Hunt onto the desk. 'I'm saying it looks a lot like him.'

Gonzales leaned forward and scrutinized this photograph carefully as well. 'Yes, it does. Taken from a body-cam I presume?'

'That's right.'

'But it will never stand up in court. The world would just laugh us off as third world fools.'

'If we catch him, it will be the United States that's ridiculed.'

'That goes without saying. But it's a very big if. There's every chance this man, whoever he is, had an awaiting submarine or speedboat and is now safely back in US waters.'

'I disagree, sir. Nothing about what this man did on the bridge was well planned, so I suspect his escape followed the same crudeness. And the distance to the US is too far for anyone without months of training to swim.'

Gonzales' eyes went back to the photographs. 'In normal circumstances I would admonish you for coming to me with such absurdity. However, the absurd cannot be so easily dismissed when it comes to Jefferson Hunt. He is, after all, little more than a mad soldier.'

'And he is apparently spending the weekend with the British Prime Minister at his so-called Little Whitehouse just on the other side of the bridge.'

In history, there are precedents for such absurdity: the Deputy Fuhrer of the Nazis, Richard Hess flew solo to Scotland in the middle of a world war hoping to make peace; and Kim Jong-nam, the heir apparent to the North Korean leadership, used a fake passport trying to sneak into Disneyland.'

'And there have been any number of world leaders who have suddenly turned up in war-zones in order to get their pictures taken.'

'Yes, there are precedents.'

'So, do I have permission to mobilize a dragnet, sir?'

Colonel Gonzales let the two pictures of Hunt sit side by side on the desk and slowly clenched a fist as he made his decision. 'This is now the most wanted man in Cuba. You have full authorization to commandeer the forces you need to bring him into custody. But you must take him alive.'

Lieutenant Diego nodded. 'Of course, sir. And I would suggest that you put the military on standby in case the United States sends its armed forces to retrieve him.'

Gonzales stiffened with the thought. 'The US would be risking a war if they tried.'

Diego looked out the window passed the Castro statue to the distant blue waters of the Florida Strait. Although it was far beyond the horizon, the United States had never loomed as large as it did now. 'We should be ready for anything, sir.' He saluted the colonel with a straight back and precisely bent elbow and departed the office.

Gonzales took out a cigar from the top drawer of his desk and lit it up. He had been saving it for a special occasion, and he supposed this qualified, though in a way he would never have dreamed possible. He continued to carefully study the photos of Hunt. 'God help the United States,' he muttered to himself.

*

Lassila Benson was struggling to stay on his feet, weighed down by pain and exhaustion and the raw emotion of standing on real earth for the first time in his life – the earth of his homeland. It was seven thirty in the morning and he was complying with the instructions forwarded by Rafael Faz from the crime lord Ciro Devaldo: be on the Malecon Esplanade in front of the Nacional de Cuba hotel by seven thirty sharp. Lassila was propping himself up against the concrete seawall that protected Havana from all but the Florida Strait's foulest moods; clasped in both hands was the coin pouch containing Contilde's jewelry – his only leverage against the dire straits he found himself in. On the other side of the esplanade was the landmark Nacional de Cuba hotel and a rich assortment of historic buildings that stamped this as the most quintessential Cuban street in all Havana. The sun had gained sufficient height and strength to be finally casting off the meek hues of sunrise for the sharper light that would dry his clothes and warm his skin. It would take much more than that, however, for his body to stop aching. The rampage against the Fire Owl by that deranged, faceless assailant had left him with whiplash, cracked ribs and an ankle that was either sprained or broken. It had taken every ounce of his endurance and strength to swim the hard mile against the currents to one of the fleet of mini-submarines he had lined along the bridge in readiness for moments like this: when a stealthy escape was a matter of life and death. He had taken refuge within the mini-sub for an unbearably drawn out couple of hours until the police activity around the bridge had subsided sufficiently that he could make a dash to the coast. He had anchored a hundred meres from the Havana seawall and swum the remaining distance.

Now, he was watching carefully the activity on the esplanade in case his nemesis dared make another move. There were people on their way to work, partaking in morning strolls and even the odd early-bird tourist – Lassila was ready to put a bullet in any of them should they make a move his way. But most of all he was waiting impatiently for the Devaldo's van. Rafael had said the color scheme was an unmistakable black with a single yellow stripe. Easy enough, but grating on Lassila's mind was the distinct possibility that Rafael had already been gotten to by the police. Was this a trap he was being coaxed into? Devaldo knew the possibility was very real. And yet whoever had rammed his Fire Owl on the bridge had clearly not been police, at least not Cuban. A Cuban policeman on Cuban territory would not have been in such a rush to dispatch a suspect to a watery grave – at least, not until he had had his questions answered. But as to who the assailant actually was, Lassila had no idea. Dazed and upside down in the Fire Owl, all he had seen of the man who pushed him off the bridge was a pair of long legs in black trousers – enough to know at least that it was a seasoned killer he was dealing with. Lassila risked a quick glance over his shoulder to see the police helicopter still circling the Fire Owl's watery grave. If they were looking for him, they were clearly clueless. But perhaps it was his attacker they were still looking for. And if he wasn't in their custody, where was he? The thought filled Lassila with a sense of foreboding. Even with all that jewelry in his possession, he felt like the least enviable person in all of Cuba.

10

Jefferson Hunt was leaning against an old-fashioned style lamppost on the other side of the Malecon to where Lassila was slumped against the seawall. Although Lassila appeared injured and weakened, Hunt knew that attempting to come any closer would have been extremely hazardous, for Lassila was a wounded, cornered wild animal with a concealed weapon no doubt close to hand. Hunt even wondered if he was standing in such an exposed location as a kind of ruse to lure an ambush. The killers of Doug Graze had, at the very least, earned the right to not be underestimated. And so, Hunt resisted the burning temptation to charge him right there and then. He looked about the line of buildings on the landward side of the esplanade for potential sniper positions. His eyes settled on the Hotel Nacional de Cuba, its eight floors and constant coming and going of guests, making it ideal. All Hunt needed then was a rifle. Keeping half an eye on Lassila's blip on the GPS tracker, he went searching for one. He headed off the Malecon down a side alley and it occurred to him that the only rifles he had ever seen in Havana were those in the hands of the police patrolling the streets.

'Freeze!' cried a voice from behind Hunt and almost prophetically he turned to see that it was indeed a policeman holding a rifle, and there was another policeman with a handgun just a step further back. The two men were tall, muscular and square jawed, but their hands were trembling like the guns were pointing in the other direction. It gave Hunt the nasty suspicion they knew it was the President of the United States before them. That he was addressed in English was another clue.

'How dare you point your guns at me!' he roared, rushing a step at them and when the two policemen hesitated, it presented all the opportunity he needed. He struck the nearer police officer's throat with a fast, flat hand and pushed him into the other, knocking away the handgun while snatching hold of the rifle. He preferred to use the rifle as a club rather than risk the noise of gunshots, hammering both men unconscious. He snatched up the pistol and pondered for a moment what had just taken place. It had been all too easy and Hunt suspected they had been ordered to him alive - which was not going to be easy up against someone prepared to fight to the death.

If it was indeed the case that the Cuban authorities were aware of their presidential interloper, it would certainly be generating some excitement. And once word got out that the President had taken out two of their number with his bare hands, the resolve of the police and military would harden considerably. Hunt was fast on his way to becoming Cuba's number one fugitive.

He concealed his newly acquired weapons as best he could down his shirt and headed back out onto the Malecon. He strode into the Hotel de Nacional's lobby, hoping the unusual bulges in his clothing did not draw attention. Fortunately, the reception staff were preoccupied with guests and the bored security guard on duty gave him only a cursory glance. Hunt made his way to the pay-phone beside the elevators in the back corner and placed a reverse-charges call to Lucy Crecy.

'Where the hell are you, Jefferson,' Crecy barked over the line. 'Contilde Hargrove says you took a midnight jaunt to Cuba and things have gotten out of hand.'

'I'm at the Hotel de Nacional in Havana and I need an extraction team to rendezvous with me on the rooftop asap.'

'Isn't there a military commander you should be calling about this?'

'The person I would normally call has been murdered,' muttered Hunt bitterly. 'That's the reason I'm in Havana.'

'Yes, I heard about your friend and I'm sorry but don't do anything that either you or your country will regret. You aren't a soldier anymore.'

'I'll tell you what I am: What Harvey Lee Oswald did to one President, this President is going to give right back. I am going to take out a gangster with my own magic bullet.' Hunt hung up the phone and looked around the foyer for any signs of danger. Like the hotels back home, he was struggling to see anyone at all. Apart from the two receptionists and the security guard, the hotel was completely automated, including the bellboys and lobby restaurant. It seemed Cuba was facing the same issues as the United States. If this had been a state visit, he could have swapped ideas with the Cuban President about the current state of affairs. But with the rifle stuffed down his shirt and a personal vendetta to pursue, he had bigger things to worry about than public policy. He stepped into the elevator, trying to look as casual and relaxed as he could and pressed the button for the top floor.

*

Lieutenant Franco Diego was watching Lassila Benson's pitiful form upon the Malecon through a pair of binoculars. Being a high-ranking officer in the Cuban Police Force, he could, apart from the Presidential Palace itself, commandeer any dwelling he pleased - for this moment he had chosen a second-floor apartment with a balcony crowded in flowering plants. It afforded such a clear view of Lassila he was confident he could have thrown one of the flower pots onto his head. It wouldn't come to that however. A large slice of the police and military in Havana were at his disposal to take Lassila down. And a good thing it would be, too. Diego could see the cruelty in Lassila's eyes and the long, deep scars on his face and neck; the man clearly traded in violence and death, just what the gangsters of the Miami Havana Bridge were particularly known for. What he might've done to set President Hunt upon him, Diego could only begin to imagine. The temptation to pull him into custody and interrogate him right there and then was considerable. But standing by that wall, looking every bit a prime piece of bait, Diego knew closing in before he had the President in custody would be deemed a bad decision his career would likely never recover from. He looked anxiously over his shoulder for an update from his subordinates and found Sergeant Viny Rodriguez, his righthand man, stepping back into the apartment holding a cigar and a pair of binoculars of his own.

'Status, Sergeant,' Diego demanded.

'The Army is doubtful about the operation, sir, but it is not going to risk missing out on the score of the century. So, we have two of their units joining our units in encircling the city. If the President is still in Havana, he is going to find himself completely boxed in.'

'That is good, Lieutenant. He is here alright; I can feel it in my bones.' He gestured out the window to Lassila. 'Have you been able to confirm this man's involvement in the incident on the bridge?'

'Almost certainly, sir. His name is Lassila Benson. He is a career criminal whose territory has only ever been the Cuban side of the bridge. We are piecing together his movements last night before the car pileup. So far we have linked him to a pawn shop run by a lowlife named Rafael Faz. Faz has been brought in for questioning and although he is yet to fully cooperate, he has admitted that Lassila came to his shop looking to offload some items stolen from a couple earlier in the evening. He claims that he didn't know who the couple were, but an engraving on a bracelet led him to believe at least one of the items may have belonged to Contilde Hargrove, the daughter of the British Prime Minister.'

'Interesting. You have my permission to hurt him if he resists any line of enquiry.'

'Thank you, sir. We have already taken the liberty of demonstrating that our questions are painful to ignore. Funnily enough, many of the items he sells in his shop were designed for that very purpose: torture. And I can assure you we will try before we buy.'

Diego chuckled dryly. 'Just don't get confused with the sex toys, Sergeant.' The emergence on the avenue below of a black van with a distinctive yellow stripe immediately curtailed his joviality. He stepped out onto the balcony bringing his binoculars to eye level. The van screeched to a stop beside Lassila and a large balding man in a black suede jacket clambered out and approached him on the sidewalk. 'They are making contact,' voiced Diego urgently. 'Do you recognize the bald guy?'

Rodriquez's face disappeared into his binoculars and he nodded his head without hesitation. 'It's Levry Dasha, Devaldo's Head of Operations. He's high up in the organization.'

'I've seen his name come up in reports. But why would Devaldo send one of his main people? What would they want with a two-bit crook from the local pawn shop?'

'Good question, sir.'

The two police officers continued to watch intently for answers. Lassila was limping up to Dasha with leather pouch in hand when a gunshot rang out, striking him flush in the forehead. He dropped stone dead onto the sidewalk. Dasha dived to the ground in a panic, though retained enough composure to pry the coin pouch from Lassila's hands before diving back into the van. Amidst a cloud of burning rubber, the van screeched wildly back out into the traffic. The body left behind was still leaking blood out onto the esplanade.

'Shot fired!' Sergeant Rodriquez screamed into his radio. 'Get a fix on the shooter!'

Lieutenant Diego was meanwhile feeling a tremendous wave of relief, for whether or not President Hunt was actually captured in the operation, there was at least a murder in the heart of the Malecon to justify the resources that had been deployed into it. That single, well aimed shot had at the very least saved his job.

'I want that van stopped,' he ordered of Rodriquez. 'The occupants are to be taken alive.'

'Yes, sir,' replied Rodriquez and relayed the command over the radio. He turned back to Diego. 'Units are moving in on it now, sir.'

'Good. Now tell me where that shot was fired from.'

Rodriquez pressed tightly the earpiece he was wearing so that he didn't miss a word of the reports pouring in from around the Malecon. There was a sniper on one of the rooftops on the Malecon strip was the gist of what he was getting, though the more confident reports were suggesting that the bullet had come from the Nacional de Cuba hotel. He told Lieutenant Diego as much.

'Well, until we are sure, lockdown every building in the vicinity,' Diego replied. He went to the north side of the balcony and sized up the buildings immediately along the Malecon. The Nacional Hotel with its height and grandness caught his eye the most. 'Make the hotel the priority,' he instructed. 'A sniper friendly building if ever there was one.'

Rodriquez passed this on over the airwaves, though his voice was momentarily drowned out by two Blackhawk helicopters screaming by overhead.

'Good,' yelled Diego. 'Air force helicopters carry the best surveillance systems in the Cuban military. Inform the pilots that we have a sniper on the loose.'

Rodriquez turned his binoculars onto the sleek menacing-looking craft and it occurred to him that they resembled hungry mosquitoes probing naked skin. 'Sir, I don't think they belong to our forces. These are something I've never seen before.'

'What are you talking about?'

'The shape and design of these Blackhawks are not conventional. I dare say they have come from across the Florida Strait.'

Diego trained his own binoculars on them. 'My God, the gringos have indeed come to snatch their murderous President away. Is it a war they want?'

'The incursion of the US forces into Cuban territory is the final proof it is truly their President that is here.'

'The orders are modified,' said Diego infuriated. 'Taking prisoners alive is no longer paramount. And wherever those helicopters land, I want you to show them our extreme displeasure. Do you understand me?'

'Yes, sir,' said Rodriquez resolutely.

*

The two Blackhawks had completed a flyover of the Malecon and were once again skimming low above the Florida Straits on their way back to the Nacional de Cuba Hotel. Including Marty Spiller, there were twelve Special Forces soldiers aboard the lead Blackhawk; just like the helicopters, the uniforms they were wearing were black and unmarked. It had been such a hasty departure from Fort Zachary, the soldiers were still checking and loading their machine guns and side-arms. Although they were veterans of campaigns in the Middle East, South America and Africa, this was going to be something new: despite being just a short skip across the Florida Straits, Cuba had never been considered a priority hotspot, had not been trained for.

'Target is directly ahead,' said, Colonel Tucker Reeves, the unit commander, in his distinctively gravel voice. 'We are to form a defensive perimeter on the hotel roof and we get our man on board. It's the President of the United States we're playing for, so we do whatever it takes. Any questions?'

'The briefing back at base failed to mention exactly what the President is doing on a hotel roof in Havana,' muttered Sergeant Ivan Polanski dourly. 'Nor why his secret service trouble shooters are not there with him.'

'That is not our concern,' replied Reeves. 'All it means to us is there is only one person we will not be aiming at. And don't forget it.'

'Sure boss.'

'I've never voted,' chimed in Corporal Wellam Ling, sardonically, 'so I don't know what the President looks like. Got a recent pic?'

'Shut up, Ling,' snapped Colonel Reeves, 'or you can get the hell out of my chopper right here and now.'

Marty Spiller, sitting at the back of the helicopter, had ridden in a thousand Blackhawks with the British Army, but the banter was something new to him. There wouldn't have been jokes if the life of a royal was on the line. He knew that, now the mission had changed from search and rescue to extraction, he was superfluous to the unit's needs and that there would be indifference to his presence, and possibly even resentment, for there was an unspoken consensus amongst the US soldiers that the Prime Minister's daughter in all her whimsy was the reason for this predicament. Still, when there was a gun battle raging, it was hard to begrudge having the SAS on side.

As the Blackhawk neared the Nacional de Cuba hotel, Spiller craned his neck out the window to see the Malecon Esplanade below: it was a beautiful, quintessential Cuban scene and did not seem deserving of the combat set to be wrought upon it – but, then again, Spiller did quickly notice the dead body splayed out in a pool of blood by the seawall.

'Well, if someone knows what the President looks like, they can hopefully discount the body down on street level,' Corporal Ling voiced.

All eyes turned in the direction he was pointing and Reeves directed the pilot over the intercom to employ the Blackhawk's high-resolution camera. The pilot, Chuck Griffin, was a twenty-year veteran of the special forces and replied in his customary no-nonsense manner: 'Scans have identified the stiff as a Cuban national named Lassila Benson. The man has a long wrap-sheet that includes smuggling, assault and armed robbery.' He added as an afterthought: 'It's not the President.'

'Thanks, Chuck,' replied Colonel Reeves. 'What else can you see down there?'

'The Malecon is swarming with police and soldiers. Most are heading for the hotel, but a hundred meters east from the location of the dead gangster a black and yellow van is being taken down in a cop bust.'

'Any sign of the President there?'

'No, but the cops are making the bust in large numbers and with weapons drawn. This isn't someone getting a parking ticket.'

Reeves trained his binoculars that way and saw that the van's engine and tires had been shot out and a mass of heavily armed police had circled it. 'You're right about the number of cops,' he murmured dourly. 'More cops than your average DUI stop.'

'It's nothing compared to the number of cops going into the Nacional de Cuba hotel,' said Griffin.

'Any sighting of Hunt there?'

'Rooftop is clear, sir.'

'Well, he may be lying low. Move us into a holding pattern and we'll see if he reveals himself.'

'Roger that, sir.'

'Helo Two, come in,' called Reeves to the second of the Blackhawks.

'This is Helo Two,' came the easy reply over the coms.

'We are approaching the Nacional de Cuba hotel for possible extraction. Air support will be required. Enemy numbers are significant.'

'Roger that.'

'Aircraft approaching from the west,' Griffin abruptly called out as his radar screen began flashing warnings. 'Six planes in tight formation. They're moving way too fast to be civilian.'

Reeves glanced nervously out to the west sky, keeping to himself the concern that the situation was fast getting out of hand. 'Contact base and have them scramble jets,' he ordered. 'Two Blackhawks aren't going to cut it against fighter jets.'

'Yes, sir. Can't argue with that assessment.'

*

Jefferson Hunt moved across the Nacional de Cuba rooftop, waving frantically at the circling Blackhawks. The occupants, however, were momentarily distracted by the alerts of approaching aircraft. Hunt watched their lack of response and muttered an obscenity under his breath. Even above roar of their engines was the screams of the police from the terraces below was clearly audible. Although Hunt didn't speak much Spanish, he knew asesino was the word for assassin and hearing it being shouted repeatedly his way made it plain enough things were about to heat up. He dropped to one knee and sprayed a burst of rifle fire at the police looking up from that way and then spun round and emptied the remainder of the magazine at the soldiers charging out the stairwell doorway. He took down two soldiers, but four others got through to the cover of the corner towers; they immediately returned fire with their machine guns, forcing Hunt to lunge back behind a corner tower of his own.

The gun battle that ensued was fierce, bloody and impossible for the Blackhawks to miss. Colonel Reeves shook his head aghast at what he saw and ordered the two helicopters into attack positions over the roof. Their Gatling guns unleashed their full ten thousand rounds per minute capacity upon the Cuban forces lurking behind the corner towers, terraces and stairwells of the hotel. The soldiers were torn to pieces and the gunfire did not let up until there was no one left standing. Helo One then touched down onto the center of the roof and Colonel Reeves led his troop of special forces soldiers out across the roof to Hunt's position.

'Well, Mr President,' Reeves yelled as he reached the kneeling figure, 'being the Commander in Chief I can only ask you politely. Are you ready to leave?'

Hunt discharged the last of his handgun's bullets at nothing in particular. 'Yes, Colonel,' he said. 'It seems you have left me with nothing left to shoot at.'

'I kind of doubt that.' Reeves pulled the pin on a smoke canister and tossed it in between them and the Blackhawk. A grey cloud spewed out and added to the rainbow of colors being discharged by the other soldiers.

'Target is transferring to the chopper,' Reeves announced into his collar mike to the Blackhawk hovering above. 'Lay cover fire.' He tried to grab onto Hunt's wrist but was forcefully shaken away. The two men ran almost as a race to the Blackhawk that was about to become the makeshift Marine One. Reeves' order for cover fire was being answered with fervor, the Gatling guns putting bullet holes into the bullet holes and the side-mounted cannons blasting great chunks out of the roof. Hunt reached the helicopter a step in front of the Colonel and jumped aboard with a wry smirk. 'Just like old times, Colonel. If I recall, the last time I beat you to a helicopter, you were only a private.'

'I was never a private, Mr President,' replied Reeves with a hint of scorn. 'And being the quickest to retreat is not something I would be boasting about.' He was about to say more but bit his tongue. The President would likely be giving out medals and promotions to justify this little foray and he didn't want to miss out. And, besides, this was the President who had overseen the greatest military budget in United States history – that was something he could respect. Reeves went back to his collar mike: 'Target is on board. All troops fall back. You have ten seconds before we go without you.' He shot a glance at Hunt. 'Let's hope all our soldiers come back. If the Cubans get their hands on anyone alive, they're going to put their most sadistic interrogators to work. Painful for the prisoners and politically disastrous for you. Once the prisoners have been broken and brainwashed, they will be paraded for the world to see - regurgitating whatever propaganda they have been programmed to say.'

Hunt snarled. 'That's not going to happen. The Cubans started this and I'll be damned sure they don't get to finish it as well.' As Special Forces soldiers began arriving back at the helicopter in encouragingly good condition, he added, 'I have faith, Colonel. That is why I have invested so heavily in human soldiers rather than robotic technology. No robot can do what you have just done.'

'But I've heard you invest in some soldiers more than others,' muttered Reeves bluntly.

'Are you referring to my Unit X? Well, don't be upset. Surely you wouldn't deny your fellow soldiers a taste of capitalism - the very underpinning of the great country they are serving.'

'I just hope capitalism isn't the reason we are here shooting the hell out of the Cubans here today.'

Hunt smirked wryly. 'I can certainly assure you capitalism has nothing to do with it.'

Corporate Ling meanwhile threw himself into the Blackhawk, clutching a bullet wound to the shoulder.

'You alright, Corporal?' yelled Reeves.

'I'm alright, sir, but there's a lot of lead flying about out there.'

Reeves looked urgently around the cockpit. 'Who are we waiting for?'

'Just the Brit,' someone replied. 'Can we go without him?'

'Don't even think it.'

Spiller dived on board at that very moment.

'Alright, let's go, Griffin,' yelled Reeves over the internal comms.

Helo One surged off the roof without delay and a parting flurry of gunfire pelted its fuselage like rain. Fortunately, the Cuban army had not thought to bring their ground-to-air missiles and the two battered Blackhawks speared low and relatively unscathed across Havana Harbor on their way back towards Key West. The clash of fighter jets had already begun in the sky above. The swarm of Cuban attack helicopters and jets coming for the Blackhawks having been intercepted by a whole squadron of F40s.

Hunt couldn't help but feel a thrill. He had been briefed on the F40 design when it was still just a prototype and he had hit the economy with a wrecking ball to fund it. As two Cuban fighters instantly vaporized into fireballs, he sensed a PR boon. He mulled over the events that had unfolded since accompanying Contilde to the Diva Miami and he was confident he could pretty much tell the truth about most of it. He would have the CIA cook up a Cuban visa to prove he had been legally permitted to be on the Cuban side of the bridge. And he would pitch the incident as the Commander in Chief and his forces giving the Cubans a lesson in how to handle its crime scourge. It would certainly help if the Brits got onboard with that version. The thought brought Hunt's eyes back into the cockpit and to Spiller, who was quietly wrapping gauze around a gash on his wrist. 'Did Contilde get back to the fort safely?' he queried.

'Yes,' replied Spiller bluntly and without any hint of warmth.

Hunt didn't mind in the slightest that he seemed to be a man of few words. Knowing Contilde, she would have chosen him as her bodyguard precisely because he was able to keep his mouth shut. Although there was no medal specifically for that, Hunt wondered if there was something else he could pin on his chest on the White House lawn. It would make a good photo opportunity and the chance for a speech. After all, if Spiller got the medal, it was only fair that Hunt got to do the speech. Spiller could utter one of his typical one-word responses and leave Hunt to take over from there. As Hunt marveled at the dogfights around them, he couldn't help but start running words of victory through his head.

*

A jet fighter that had had one of its wings shot off spiraled in a death dive into Havana Harbor.

'My God,' gasped Lieutenant Franco Diego, having left his balcony vantage point behind to be watching the air battle rage from the Malecon's seawall. 'What have I done? Was I arrogant to pick a fight with Jefferson Hunt?'

'There is no reason for you to turn your interrogation skills upon yourself,' replied Sergeant Viny Rodriquez, having accompanied him there. 'Anyway, I'm not sure that plane was even Cuban.'

'It was Cuban, alright.' Diego gestured to the Hotel Nacional de Cuba, its rooftop wildly ablaze with flames licking high into the air. 'And so is that.'

'A tragedy indeed. But you didn't exactly go up there with a box of matches and light a fire.'

'I escalated the situation as much as I could. Bringing in the army and the entire Havana police contingent made this the scale of combat that it is.'

'And that's exactly what will save you.'

Diego raised his eyebrows. 'What do you mean?'

'The Government will surely find ways to claim this little disaster as a great victory for Cuba. It would be too politically damaging otherwise. So, there is no way you are going to be court martialed. In fact, you better brush off your diplomatic skills because they will be presenting you as the next great hero of Cuba: The master detective who foiled the fiendish US plot to overthrow the lawful government of Cuba - an old plotline that just never grows stale.'

The heavy trucks of the fire department were just arriving at the hotel, their sirens wailing in an ear wrenching chorus; fire fighters jumped down onto the esplanade and rushed frantically to connect their hoses to the fortuitously close fire-hydrant. With the Blackhawks lost from view and the dogfighting dissipating as quickly as it had emerged, the burning hotel became the sole point of interest for the two police officers and the hundreds of spectators their underlings were struggling to contain.

'Well, if you want to find out what this was really about, you can come watch me interrogate the Devaldo minions,' Diego offered.

'I wouldn't miss it for the world,' replied Rodriquez.

The two men walked to the black and yellow van, where Sergeant Angelo had lined up the four Devaldo gangsters he had fished out at gun point. Levry Dasha was standing in the centre, proud and defiant, the one calling the shots. Despite his hands being cuffed behind his back, he puffed out his chest to meet the two police officials. 'We are innocent, captains,' he barked.

'Shut up,' snapped Diego. He looked to Sergeant Angelo. 'A briefing, if you will.'

'They were carrying these,' said Angelo holding up Lassila's bag of stolen jewelry. 'It contains a watch, a bracelet, and a necklace among other things. They are yet to be valued but my guess is they are worth a considerable amount.' He gestured to the van, which was still trickling smoke from its shot-out engine. 'The interior is lined with treated lead.'

'Meaning GPS tracking devices and electronic bugs are rendered useless,' interjected Diego.

'It is purely for refrigeration purposes,' Dasha muttered. 'I have no idea why we have been stopped. We were wearing our seatbelts and we weren't speeding.'

Diego took the bag of jewelry and peered down into it. He then glared harshly at Dasha. 'I have spent a lifetime fighting crime, which might tell you something of what I think of the people who commit them. But I love Cuba above all else and when it is attacked by foreign forces, I am willing to tolerate any kind of lowlife who can explain to me exactly what has happened. So, let me politely enquire as to what you know about the things in this bag and the army it beckoned.'

Dasha hesitated and, for the first time since he had become a professional killer, a chink developed in his voice. 'I was told that they belonged to the British Prime Minister's daughter and that a certain President of the United States might have an interest in taking them back.'

'The pieces are nice, but surely not that nice. So, who was killed or maimed to get them?'

Dasha pointed at Lassila's body still splayed out on the sidewalk. 'Well, he looks pretty dead. Not that I had anything to do with it.'

Diego paused. 'Don't be so sure. It is going to be a political decision and your scalp might become just as valuable as the shiny little things in this bag. For instance, listen to this version of events: President Jefferson Hunt and the Prime Minister's daughter Contilde Hargrove meet the notorious gangster Ciro Devaldo at the Nacional de Cuba Hotel to discuss the overthrow of President Francisco and his lawful Cuban Government. The rendezvous is discovered by police and Hunt and Hargrove are chased out of Cuba by our gallant forces. Recovered jewelry and captured Devaldo assassins will be paraded before the world to support our claims. And, of course, there will be the damage to the hotel and the aerial clash in Cuban air space to add further credence. President Francisco will certainly enjoy this version, as nothing strengthens a Cuban President's hold on power more than the United States trying to end it.'

Rodriquez chuckled and clapped his hands. 'A masterstroke. And with Devaldo branded a traitor, he and his empire will be doomed.'

'Certainly, Devaldo's well-remunerated protectors in government won't dare intervene.' Diego noticed that Levry Dasha and the other gangsters had gone deathly pale. 'What is the matter? Are you shocked to realize that criminals are merely playthings for police? Well, in my love for these kinds of toys, I have never fully grown up.' He glanced to Sergeant Angelo. 'Take them to the city lock-up. And handle them with care.' He dangled the bag in front of him. 'They are every bit as valuable as these.' He stepped away and winked at Rodriquez. 'I had better go report to Colonel Gonzales. If he has not had the same ideas as I, he will no doubt be feeling very poorly right at the moment.'

11

Prime Minister Rodney Hargrove and his daughter, Contilde, were returning to the US Navy Sea Hawk helicopter that had brought them to Fort Zachary Taylor the previous day. Rodney Hargrove was minus the cautious optimism and sense of purpose he had arrived with in preparation for his planned three-day summit with President Hunt. And Contilde was minus the millions of dollars' worth of jewelry she had worn so long that she felt naked without them. For both of them all they were left with were feelings of disappointment and bitterness. They were walking along the gravel path that dissected the lush green lawn between the Little Whitehouse and the helipad. They were flanked by their security detail, which consisted of six tall, burly delta force soldiers and Marty Spiller, who was tensely looking every which way, as though still considering himself to be in enemy territory.

Former Secretary of State, Lucy Crecy, was waiting for them on the edge of the helipad. She was observing their progress with the wriest of smirks, as Hargrove looked like he was already trying to formulate the concession speech for the next General Election and Contilde, with her moisturized melancholic expression, designer sunglasses and revealing oil-black mourning dress appeared straight out of a Hollywood funeral procession. They were clearly not in a mood for a conversation, which was awkward considering Crecy had been sent by Hunt to somehow persuade them from leaving Fort Zachary. It was the kind of odds she wouldn't have bet a dollar on.

'Out of our way,' barked Rodney Hargrove before she had even had the chance to say something, 'There's no way you are going to prevent our departure.'

Crecy held out her hands imploringly. 'We can talk our way through this. President Hunt is at this very moment preparing himself to meet you.'

'Is he having a late breakfast?' queried Prime Minister Hargrove caustically. 'That would be understandable given he was up all night crashing cars, shooting Cubans in the streets, and placing my daughter in moral peril.'

'Don't believe the version of events the media is purporting,' Crecy affirmed. 'Regrettably, they have been all too easily influenced by the propaganda emanating from the Cuba Government.'

'I don't need to believe any journalist's warped reality,' snapped Hargrove. 'Contilde was there, after all. And, as her father, I am less than impressed that she was.'

Crecy nodded. 'That I can understand. But you are also the PM of a country that is nearing seventy percent unemployment. Forget Hunt and his insalubrious nocturnal habits. Negotiate with me right here and now in the cold light of day.'

Hargrove frowned. 'I don't need to be reminded of why I came all this way from the UK. But my political standing within my party and amongst the British voters is too tenuous to withstand a scandal like this. And, forgive me for saying so, but so too is your reputation and legacy. It is beyond me why on earth you would come out of retirement for this.'

Crecy paused as she considered this. 'Sure I could go back to playing cards in Las Vegas, but the only reason I have ever won a hand is because robots and artificial intelligence are persona non gratis in casinos. If it weren't for that, I don't think I could even beat a toaster. And my IQ apparently is in the top one tenth percentile in the country.'

Hargrove's voice softened. 'I daresay, my IQ would be struggling to break the top fifty percent. That's probably why sometimes I even find turning toasters on a challenge. And it's probably the reason I got suckered into coming to this summit in the first place. Still, that's all the IQ I need to know politically I'm scrambled egg. You've got the Cuban Government's statement about what happened, which of course is a load of rubbish. And a hundred conspiracies are already bouncing around social media - and they are even more fanciful. The one thing they all have in common, however, is they paint me as a complete imbecile. There is even a version out there that involves me trying to porn my family heirlooms in order to fund a Cuban coup de tat. Blatantly absurd, but the version Hunt has to tell isn't going to be any better. It'll be alright for him though. His special forces warriors taking potshots at Cuban soldiers from the rooftops will play out well with his support base no matter what.'

'By the end of the summit, the Hitchlow Plan can be signed off and the policy announced to the world,' Crecy urged. 'Believe me, no one will be talking about what happened in Havana after that. It will be the biggest change in social policy settings since 1865 when the thirteenth amendment to the constitution abolished slavery. You're going to want to be a part of that.'

Hargrove shrugged. 'There are other options on the table. The Work for Life program has quite a lot of potential. Access to the new Eternal 860 drug could be the perfect inducement for people to get an education and a job. Longevity scientists predict Eternal 860 could add as much as fifty years onto a person's lifespan. Even if it turns out the drug is a flop, it will take a few decades to find out. That buys a lot of time.'

'That is wishful thinking,' scoffed Crecy. 'The policy proposal is bogged down in the World Court with human rights lawyers swarming over it like flies to a carcass. It will never be enacted into law. At least President Hunt has the power to bring his visions to fruition. Sure, he is dangerous, but he has what it takes to remake the world.'

Contilde stepped forward and grabbed her father's arm. 'Come on, let's go. She talks just like him. The only thing they know is how to play people. They will surround themselves with fools and call it an empire. But we will be somewhere else.' She yanked her father into movement and he did not resist.

Lucy Crecy watched them board the helicopter and barely flinched as she was whipped by the fierce downdraft of the take off. Once the air had settled again, she lit a cigarette, which was how she usually reacted to losing a big bet: She would nibble on the end of the cigarette and somehow it would feel like therapy. She watched the helicopter fade into the distance before setting off to find President Hunt. She tried first his bedroom in the Little Whitehouse, but he had already come and gone, his blood splattered clothes carelessly strewn across the floor - blood that as usual was not his. She tried the pool next, even though the place gave her the creeps. Hunt was indeed there, eyeing intently the roaming sharks within. He was freshly shaven and was looking resplendent in a navy-blue suit, grey silk shirt and red tie.

'You're looking better,' she muttered. 'You had so much blood on your clothes the sharks would have smelt you coming.'

'One of the Special Forces soldiers got shot up. Fortunately, he received battlefield first aid in time and the medics are expecting a full recovery. If that helicopter flying away is anything to go by, however, this summit would appear stone dead.'

'The Prime Minister and his daughter were on board, Mr President. They couldn't be persuaded to stay.'

Hunt visualized having them thrown into the pool to his awaiting school of sharks. If only. Crecy seemed to sense his thoughts and took a self-conscious step away from the pool. 'I did my best.'

Hunt smirked. 'I'm sure. Anyway, we've got something even better than a summit now. We've got an incident.'

'We have indeed and that's why the media briefing room is packed to the brim. I would say a good ninety percent of them like the Cuban version of events and are going to do their level best to nail it to you.'

'Those Cubans do tell a good story, don't they? Just like their daytime soaps. I'm surprised they didn't work out a way to bring my mother into it. Still, they've come up with a very consumable version of events and it will take some topping. The good news is that's exactly what I'm going to do.'

'I shudder to think what your version might be. Do you want to run it by me first before you deliver it to a room full of the world's media?'

'There's no time and, besides, it's not reporters that will get to hear it first. I want you to call an emergency sitting of Congress.'

Crecy frowned suspiciously. 'What do you have in mind?'

'I've got my opportunity and I'm going to take it. But it has to happen before the Prime Minister and his daughter arrive back in London. They will certainly conduct a press conference at Heathrow Airport and that will leave me needing to cut through two different versions. The average citizen lacks the brain power to cope with that kind of complexity. Their brain will freeze up and they will just stop listening.''

Crecy glanced at her watch. 'The PMs helicopter will land in Miami in twenty minutes time. From there he will fly to London, arriving at Heathrow at eighteen hundred hours.'

'Stall their Miami departure for an hour or so. And call the Congress assembly for sixteen hundred hours. That will give me enough time to make my speech and for word of it to spread throughout the world. Reaction will be there to greet the PM upon arrival.'

Crecy looked down at the turquoise waters of the swimming pool and the ominous black shapes lurking within. 'A President who does his deliberations by a swimming pool filled with sharks. Do you see anything odd about that?'

'We are living in difficult times and it is not always easy to know the difference between what is odd and what is good for America.'

'Alright then, I'll call the special assembly for four o'clock this afternoon.' Crecy started back towards the Little Whitehouse but paused as he was struck by an afterthought. 'So, what would you define as odd? For example, would you say the American Civil War with six hundred thousand dead was odd?'

Hunt nodded casually. 'Yes, I suppose I would.'

*

The distinctive white-topped Marine One helicopter and its three identical decoys were approaching the White House lawn at near maximum speed. It had been just a couple of hours flight time from Key West to Andrews Air Force Base on Air Force One and then the helicopter shuttle ride into Washington. Even on short notice, the trip had gone very smoothly. Hunt glanced at his watch and was buoyed to see it was only one in the afternoon. Plenty of time before the extraordinary sitting of both houses was set to begin. Hunt would use it to make social calls to various generals to thank and congratulate them on the fine work in defending the interests of the United States against Cuba in the recent skirmish. It didn't matter much whether they had had any involvement at all except in wearing the same colored uniform, Hunt would need the military on his side like never before and wasn't above a dose of false flattery if it was going to give him an edge.

Marine One passed over the White House garden's memorial fountain and touched down neatly on the helipad's square piece of black bitumen. From amongst the usual reception committee of Secret Service agents in their black suits and sunglasses and Marines in parade fatigues emerged Megan Hunt, her blonde hair and orange summer dress flapping seductively with the rotor blade down-draught as though she were on a Hollywood set. Hunt wondered if she was already dressed for the assembly of Congress, which would have been a nice gesture given she boycotted the last one. However, if reports of his philandering with the Prime Minister's daughter had reached her, the Secret Service detail might have been required to keep his body in one piece. It was certainly ominous that she was staring unflinchingly at the helicopter despite all the dust and dirt blowing at her.

Lucy Crecy meanwhile reached across her seat and tapped him on the shoulder. 'Senator Peta Anning is on the scrambler,' she said, motioning to her earpiece. 'She wants to know if you've seen Jose Catalan.'

'Who?'

'Jose Catalan. One of her Democracy Dead cronies. Apparently, he disappeared outside a political rally a few days ago.'

'I don't know. Has she spoken with the FBI?'

'I have already suggested that but she seems to think you would be of more use in her enquiries.'

'Should I be insulted that she thinks I would be aware of something so trivial?'

'It would be wise to take her seriously. She is threatening to scream accusations of murder in the special assembly. She is the most prominent of the Democracy Dead leaders. People will listen to her.'

Hunt sighed. 'Tell her I'm busy right now but if Catalan doesn't turn up in the next day or two, I will send the sharks out to find him.' He chuckled with his private joke. Crecy's gaze remained steadfast and Hunt checked himself. 'Alright,' he muttered, 'assure her I will initiate enquires at once.'

The helicopter had come to a complete rest and the access stairs moved into position. Hunt put on his jacket and eagerly descended to the tarmac, saluting the Marine sentries at the bottom of the stairs. Megan was the next person beyond them. The easing of the wind had made the deathly stillness upon her face all too apparent.

'Hi honey,' said Hunt as though he were just another worker returning home from a day in the office. 'It's terrific that you've come to meet me but, until the kids stop being afraid of helicopters, it's okay to stay with them.'

'I'm taking them with me. And don't call me, honey.'

Hunt frowned. 'What do you mean?'

'My title is First Lady, but that means nothing to me because I know no matter what you say I'm not the last, or even the most recent.' Megan's voice crackled with sadness. 'I'm going to take your damned helicopter to the airport and I'm going to get the next flight to Missouri. I'll be staying with my mother for a while. The kids are just getting their things.'

Hunt turned up his nose. 'Does your mother still live on that damned ranch in Stringtown? I told you she should sell up and move to New York.'

'I didn't pass the message on. She was born on that ranch and she fully intends to stay there until the day she dies.'

'Your mother can die wherever she wants. It's our kids that I'm worried about. And it's about to get very dangerous for us city folk to fraternize in the countryside.'

'I am a country girl. If you are going to annex the cities, the first victims might just be particularly familiar to you, Mr President.' Megan turned infuriated to her children, who were being led by their nanny onto the helipad. 'Say goodbye to your father, children. You might not be seeing him for a while.'

Sweetly and innocently the children obeyed, hugging Hunt on their way onto the Marine One stairway. Megan hurriedly followed them and a convoy of domestic staff were not far behind, the large amounts of luggage they were carrying only confirming Megan's assertion that this was to be more than a weekend trip.

Hunt frowned and turned to the side to the spot which Doug Graze used to so reliably occupy, and he was heartened to find Crecy having taken over the mantle. 'Tell the pilot to fly them to Camp David. And put them under house arrest. Under no circumstances are they to be allowed to leave.'

Crecy glared at him. 'Is there anyone you haven't declared war on?'

'You're still a friend.'

'I'm a gambler and my only friend is the odds; and I'd say yours are worse than fifty-fifty.'

'The odds drop to zero when you never lay a bet,' muttered Hunt flippantly and started for the White House. 'I'll see you at four.'

*

Hunt strode into the House of Representatives for the first time since the announcement of the Hitchlow Plan. The difference this time was the House started in icy silence and remained that way. There were so many versions circulating about what had happened in Cuba that it seemed the only recourse left for senators was to watch Hunt closely for signs of truth. Hunt had put on a new suit for the occasion and, although he didn't do it often, he had treated each nostril to a line of cocaine. It had left him with a buzz, and it amused him to think that while military and police personnel were routinely tested for illicit drug use, the one person in the country with a nuclear trigger at his disposal was not. He reached the podium and looked about the joint sitting of the United States legislature and he could see that he had them worried.

'Senators, let me explain to you what happened earlier today in Cuba,' he said into the podium mike in a cool, crisp voice. 'Agents of the Democracy Dead Movement kidnaped me from Fort Zachary in Florida and attempted to smuggle me into Cuba where I would no doubt have been tortured and drugged into revealing all the state secrets a President of the United States has the privilege to know. It was only the immense bravery of our superb military forces that prevented this fate from being realized. This effort was led in no small way by Secret Service Agent Doug Graze, whose actions on the Miami Havana Bridge were instrumental in prying me away from the terrorists.' Hunt paused with genuine emotion. 'He made the ultimate sacrifice for my preservation and my sympathies go out to his family. Doug Grave was as brave and loyal an American as there has ever been and I pledge now that he will be duly honored. Although it is likely his body will never be recovered, a memorial service with full military honors will be conducted in the coming days. I also pledge that his murder at the hands of the Democracy Dead Movement will not go unpunished.' Attention in the House was drawn to the many senators with affiliations to the Democracy Dead Movement, particularly Peta Anning in the centre row. She was cupping a clenched fist to her chin, barely containing her rage.

'Assassination attempts against the President of the United States,' Hunt continued, 'are an assault on the very fabric of our great nation. And twice in a week is nothing less than a declaration of war. The United States will not bow to such dark forces and so from this moment onwards an indefinite state of martial law will exist across the entire country.'

A deafening roar of protest erupted throughout the House. Hunt waited defiantly for the noise to quieten. 'My first act with the additional Presidential powers this affords me will be to declare the Democracy Dead Movement an outlaw organization. Any congressperson with affiliations to Democracy Dead will have twenty-four hours to renounce their association or face arrest, impeachment and imprisonment.' Further screams of protest shook the House to its foundations with many senators springing from their seats and pointing angry fingers Hunt's way Hunt sought out Anning amidst the mayhem and found her to be glaring at him a deathly stillness. He smirked tauntingly and turned his attention back to the House. 'My second act under martial law will be to ratify into law the Hitchlow Plan. Immediately following this address, I will sign the decree that will transform Washington, New York, Las Angeles and all major city centers into restricted Working-Class zones. Presidential elections will be postponed until this project is complete, which I estimate will take two years.'

A stunned silence eerily replaced the uproar, and Hunt reveled in it. This mass of senators, who he despised so much, had not seen this coming. He had out maneuvered them completely and now he would own them.

'Be assured,' he continued, 'that I'm not taking these steps lightly. Judges of the Supreme Court have already confirmed beyond doubt the legality of my policies under the Martial Law Act of 2064. Congress is free to debate them, but any vote made in this House will be non-binding.' The words he uttered were music to his own ears and he paused to savor the moment. 'Finally,' he began again, 'I would like to express my regret that Prime Minister Hargrove of the United Kingdom and his entourage were scared away from the summit in Key West by the Democracy Dead attack. I can the Prime Minister that the United States takes its security very seriously and that there is no reason to fear returning to discuss how the Hitchlow Plan might benefit his own country. I personally guarantee that if he does return, his safety and that of his lovely daughter, Contilde, who was unfortunately directly caught up in this morning's treasonous attack, will be assured. The United States is a beacon of freedom and security and there is no greater indication of that than when a father can travel with his lovely daughter free of anxiety. That is the United States I pledge to enshrine for everyone. Thank you.'

The speech was done and the screaming and finger pointing recommenced. Hunt remained defiantly at the podium, soaking it all up. He wanted to make it clear to everyone present how calm and confident he was. Afraid of no one. The Sergeant in Arms, however, was not so at ease. He rushed onto the stage and grabbed Hunt by the elbow. 'We should go, Mr President. As far as assassination attempts are concerned, we do not want it to be third time lucky.'

Hunt allowed himself be led away, giving the House a dismissive parting wave. Peta Anning, however, somehow made it onto the stage and pushed through the Secret Service agents trying to restrain her; she latched onto the lapels of Hunt's jacket and screamed, 'This country will burn because of what you have set in motion today.'

The Secret Service agents managed to wrench her away before anything further could be said or done, but Hunt was no longer making a pretense of being pulled off the stage by the Sergeant of Arms. Peta Anning's voice continued to reverberate through his head, as he went, its passion and certainty of a pitch he had never before experienced.

### Part Two

### 2092, Houston, Florida

1

Strike Force 50 was circling in their attack helicopters the burning remains of Houston. The buildings from Indwood all the way to the Gulf of Mexico had been pummeled into rubble and bodies in their thousands littered the way. It was total destruction.

Major Mark Pernitz, the strike force commander, was particularly affected by the gruesome scene, having spent the majority of his teenage years attending schools in Houston. He was struggling to pick out landmarks from within the wasteland. At least, the contours of Buffalo Bayou were recognizable, though the waters had turned black, or was it a dark blood red? And the smoking hulk of the old Opera Theatre also retained shape enough to remind Pernitz of how it used to be. But bothering to think about things as they once were was a waste of time. All that mattered was that the perimeter wall around the city had been breached and the city decimated. It followed a pattern that had been replicated in numerous cities around the country: The Working Class were butchered, the infrastructure obliterated, the buildings raised and the environment poisoned so that the city itself would be uninhabitable for decades to come. A killing of the tree, its roots and the soil that first lay host to the seed.

'Come in SZ1,' said Pernitz into the commlink. 'This is SF50 reporting.'

'We are receiving you loud and clear, SF50,' came the distinctive voice of Colonel Gibbons, Chief of Operations for the Federal Army's Southern Zone. 'Provide your update.'

'We've reached Houston. It's a real shitstorm down there. Are you receiving the video feed?'

There was a long pause. No doubt the Command Centre back in Dallas was needing time to process the situation being presented to it. 'We're getting it,' Gibbons finally replied with a pronounced wavering in his voice. 'Are you detecting signs of life?'

Pernitz looked to the four members of the team manning the life-detector units and each shook his head in turn. 'That is a negative, sir,' Pernitz informed into his headset. 'Ground zero is unsurvivable.'

'Understood, SF50,'

'Request permission to sweep beyond the city limits for evacuees.'

'Permission denied, Major Pernitz. Strike Force teams are for attack purposes only. And that is precisely what is required now. Proceed directly to New Orleans. Your mission is to secure the city limits against any opposition and prepare a defendable drop zone for further reinforcements. Success must be achieved at all costs.'

Without exception, every pair of eyes in the helicopter turned pointedly to Pernitz. He did not need their concerns put into words, for he knew exactly what was on their minds. 'New Orleans is an enemy stronghold, sir,' he replied adamantly. 'Any attempt to take it will draw a substantial counterattack.'

There abruptly emerged a new, far more intense voice over the radio: 'Pernitz, is that you?'

Pernitz raised his eyebrows, recognizing the voice immediately as General Alice Young's, the Supreme Commander of the Southern Zone (with its sixteen states and one hundred million people). She had a reputation for being the most ruthless of all the Federal Army's generals. 'Yes, ma'am,' uttered Pernitz, somewhat taken aback that she actually knew who he was.

'I'm sending in two other full-strength Strike Force units to bolster your numbers. We're going to hit New Orleans hard. The more Democracy Dead resistance you encounter, the more chances we are going to get for some serious payback. And I want plenty of that. But, more importantly, we have to keep the Democracy Dead off balance. If we allow them to pit all their forces against Dallas unhindered, then the city will surely crumble in the same manner as Houston. That will spell disaster for the entire Southern Zone. Look out the window again at that once magnificent city as it burns to cinders and keep it fresh in your mind as you go into battle. Over and out.'

Pernitz turned grimly to his team. 'Does anyone have family in Houston?' There were head shakes around the team of fifteen. 'That's something to be thankful for, but we all have family living in cities just like it. That's why we are going to do exactly what the general has ordered.'

'And we'll probably never see those family members again,' muttered Private Jones with his usual edge of insolence.

'People are going to die,' Pernitz fired back. 'That's why they call this a war and not a debate.'

'And it's not just any war,' chimed in Gunnery Sergeant Judy Fanning, eager to work off some of her nervous tension. 'This is the Second American Civil War and it's reaching a tipping point. If we lose today, the whole damned show will be lost along with it.'

'The conventional war, at least,' muttered Pernitz. 'And we don't want to even imagine what might come next.'

'I have received the coordinates for the rallying point,' informed the helicopter pilot, Lieutenant Bardy Sayers. 'At full throttle we can be there in precisely twenty-two minutes.'

'Roger that,' replied Pernitz. 'Do it in twenty.'

The small talk stopped then. Many of the soldiers took to gazing out the windows at the countryside fast slipping by a thousand feet below. Mango, banana, apple and citrus plantations abounded: Fresh, farm produced food that had become almost nonexistent in the partitioned cities of the Working Class. Such foods could become irresistibly inviting to long suffering city dwellers and that had indeed been a primary lure for many a deserter from the Federal army. In the days and hours leading up to the annihilation of Houston, however, the more compelling reason was simple self-preservation. Houston had become just another doomed city in a struggle that had claimed millions of lives and left the United States a shadow of the country it once had been. Many thousands had chosen not to sacrifice themselves in Houston's defense, and it could even be said, the main charge of the Federal Army had indeed been in the opposite direction to the Rebels. Anyone aboard the helicopters hurtling towards New Orleans would have been lying if they did not admit to somewhere deep-down harboring the same thoughts now, for almost certain death loomed large. But the real choice facing them was too stark to ignore: to join a population that had surrendered itself to Artificial Intelligence at the expense of its own or to fight on for a human led society in which there were still reasons to learn and work and forge a career. Just as in the first American Civil War, emancipation from a form of slavery was being fought. It was simply that in the 2092 version the slavery at the hands of the machines was far more benign and comfortable. Or at least, that was the way the choice was being framed by the Federal Army's propaganda machine. Not that any of that mattered now. There were two armies going head to head and although no one had considered it possible, the fighting had become every bit as brutal and bloody as in the first American Civil War. That was something no one was bothering to deny.

The rallying point for the Strike Force units was over nondescript swampland fifteen miles from New Orleans, and by the time Mark Pernitz's SF50 unit came within eyeshot, the squadron of forty-plus helicopters already assembled there was taking heavy fire from drones and ground-to-air missiles. Pernitz was not surprised, mainly because the Rebel Army had been one step ahead the entire war. Rumor had it that the Rebel Army's complete war strategy was being formulated by supercomputers. It was something the Rebel generals refused to confirm or deny - but then it was impossible to be sure that Rebel generals actually still existed beyond the illusion of virtual reality.

'Are you seeing what I'm seeing?' voiced Sayers tepidly from the helicopter's pilot seat.

Pernitz moved up behind her for a better view. The rallying point was still five miles ahead and yet the incessant explosions were deafening and blindingly bright. Burning helicopters were either plummeting from the sky or already at rest in inglorious graveyards within the swamps. It was a scene of pure carnage, set upon a canvas of oily black smoke that blanketed the sky.

'I see it, but there is one thing I don't quite get,' replied Pernitz. 'There are forty or fifty helicopters in that cluster-fuck. But it's only a rallying point of no military significance, so why don't they simply disperse?' His voice hardened. 'And why don't they fire back?'

'It's clearly an ambush. Should we go in and try to help? Or maybe we can be the smart ones and take the long way around.'

Pernitz stared hard at the calamitous scene. It wasn't in his nature to shirk a fight, but what they were witnessing was more akin to slaughter than a fight. 'Which Strike Force team are they?' he muttered, stalling for time.

'Looks like it might be all of them, I'm afraid.'

'Well, try to make contact.'

Sayers flicked on the radio and immediately frowned. 'There's no signal.'

'What does that mean?'

'I'm not sure. What I think it means is our comms are being jammed.'

'That's impossible. We use the most secure systems in the world.'

'Can you contact base and tell them what's going on?'

Pernitz frowned. 'Not without a signal.'

'So, they may have no idea what's happening here.'

'Probably not.'

A bead of sweat ran down Sayers' forehead. 'ETA is two minutes. I will need that order to divert.'

A helicopter hovering on the edge of the battle zone directly ahead suddenly exploded into a thousand pieces like it were a firecracker and Pernitz could not help but nod his head. 'Get us the hell out of here.'

Sayers yanked hard right on the joystick, but to no effect. She tried left and it was the same result. 'Oh, fuck,' Sayers cried. 'The controls are not responding.' She jostled the joystick about desperately. 'I don't know what's happening.'

As shaken as he was by the development, to Pernitz it made perfect sense. 'Can you at least lower our altitude?'

Sayers shook her head, 'The automatic pilot has frozen me out. I have no control.'

Pernitz turned back to his soldiers lined along the cabin walls and found that they were staring at him wide-eyed. 'Did any one bring parachute?'

'What the fuck are you talking about?' cried Gunnery Sergeant Judy Fanning.

'It appears our helicopter has been remotely hijacked. We're being shunted to a killing zone with all those helicopters ahead of us. Now excuse me.' Pernitz rushed to the cabin's side door and slid it open to a howling wind and the engine's deafening roar.

'The answer is no we don't have a parachute,' yelled out Fanning.

Pernitz glanced down from the helicopter to the swamps below. 'Well, we're going to have to jump anyway. If we remain on board, we're going to be nothing more than cattle led to the abattoirs.'

'I'm not jumping!' came a fear-stricken voice from amongst the soldiers.

'Damn right,' affirmed another.

Pernitz knew the chance of surviving a fall from that height would be a million to one. But at least he would be dying on his own terms and not as part of a computer program. The helicopter was beginning to shudder with the shockwaves of the looming explosions, and the acrid fumes of burning machinery filled the cabin.

'Missiles incoming,' cried Sayers over the intercom.

Pernitz waited a split second for any evasive action and when it didn't come, he instinctively jumped. He was relaxed and balanced - just like the hundreds of times he had free-fallen in his five years in the 78th Special Tactics Group. The only difference this time was there would be no parachuting component to break his fall. He was barely out in the sky when a massive explosion sent him spinning amidst a storm of razor-sharp debris. It took him a long few seconds to regain position but then he knew he could now take it easy for the final few seconds before he hit the ground. He looked across as a bonus, for there was no doubt it was their helicopter that had just been hit. He wondered if anyone else had made the jump before it was blown to smithereens. No one had seemed particularly keen to take up his invitation. Maybe it was better for them this way anyway. A long fall to a grisly death was not for everybody. Pernitz, however, was enough of an optimist to think it might not come to that. He would relax and enter the swamp feet first, just like a good parachutist should. And if he hit a sweet spot of mud, he could slip right in; and if his legs didn't get so busted up and mangled he couldn't move them, he might be able to wriggle out again.

Another explosion boomed into his already numb ears but he let himself go completely loose - like a Buddhist preparing entry to Nirvana, he cleared his mind of thoughts and fears. It was just too bad that in this case he would be entering mud. Not the kind of Nirvana he would have hoped for.

2

One week later, Major Mark Pernitz, with crutches under his armpits, limped into the White House for an audience with United States President Rylan Dimore. As gingerly as he was moving with his broken leg and cracked ribs, Pernitz had not looked so good in the three years since the civil war began: his parade uniform cleaned and pressed, and his prematurely greying hair trimmed and combed. He was in the company of General Alice Young, who had also been given a makeover on the flight from the Southern Zone's Command Center and was looking decidedly uncomfortable as they were led by the Secretary of State down into the Situation Room within the President's bunker. President Dimore had been forced to remain within the bunker since the war's beginning and had gone to significant pains to normalize it. There were fake windows projecting a lavish English garden aglow with sunshine. There was a table draped with a red checked tablecloth in the centre of the room. There was a plush wool floor-rug rolled out upon fake polished floorboards. And there were varnished wooden sculptures and paintings of meadows and sailing ships decorating the walls.

The chairs in which the President and fellow members of the War Cabinet were sitting at table upon were luxuriously cushioned with duck-down and there was a fine china tea-set laid out upon the table. Pernitz found himself taken off guard by the scene, for having steeled himself for a grilling by leaders of the highest level, it now seemed more pressing that he dust off his long-neglected table manners.

President Dimore left her chair and shook his hand. 'Thank you for coming to visit us, Major,' she said in her elegant Bostonian accent. 'We are going to enjoy the company of a true survivor. Would you care for some afternoon tea?'

'No thank you, Ms President,' Pernitz replied.

The President turned to General Young, who accepted the offer before it was bestowed. The new arrivals assumed vacant chairs to join at table the Secretary of State, the Chief of Army, the Secretary of Defense and the Big Four intelligence heads.

'We are going to have two moments together, Major Pernitz,' said President Dimore as she returned to her own chair. 'The first is right here and now when we discuss how the war is really going. The second is when we present you with your bravery medal at tonight's valedictory dinner. At that time, you will assure the attendees that the heroism of fine soldiers such as yourself is making a real dent against the Rebel Army despite what setbacks there might be along the road.'

'I understand, Ms President,' Pernitz replied.

'I hope so, Major, because it wouldn't do to get the order of accounts mixed up. In other words, I don't want you trying to placate us in this room with reassuring convolutions about how marvelously the war is going only to change your tune in the public domain with tales of cities being wiped out and armies obliterated. That wouldn't do anyone any good.'

'You're right,' replied Pernitz casually. 'The public wouldn't enjoy at all to know what is really happening out there on the battlefield.'

Dimore blew into her tea before sipping it cautiously. Her eyes barely left Pernitz. 'It takes a special kind of soldier to jump out of a helicopter without a parachute, especially while the rotor blades are still spinning overhead. I summoned you to Washington so I could see precisely who you are and what happened. To look you in the eye and hear the truth. The sole survivor of the Battle of New Orleans.'

'With all due respect, to call it a battle is an exaggeration. It was no better than a massacre.'

'And it's only owing to a miracle that we'll get to hear about it,' chimed in Rodney Rodd, the portly, quietly spoken Secretary of Defense. 'And that is why we have pulled you out of your Houston hospital bed - to hear the truth just as unfiltered as the swamp mud you were submerged in.'

'I'm not sure I can tell you what happened,' murmured Pernitz uncomfortably. 'I was only ever on the fringe of it. And none of it made any sense.'

'Then speculate,' said President Dimore. 'Lord knows you have earned that right more than any of my armchair generals.'

'Very well, what I saw was the enemy in control of your army, rounding it up like a parade of livestock to a slaughterhouse. The coordinates of the rallying point must have been preselected by the Rebels as the concentration of anti-aircraft fire could not have been a coincidence. It was cool, calculated, systematic execution.' As he spoke, Pernitz realized he was no longer feeling pensive. It was akin to being in battle when his senses became inexplicably clear. 'But I sense I know the real reason you've brought me to address you face to face.'

Rodd smirked tightly. 'Didn't I just tell you why?'

'You know that the Rebel's AI is far superior to yours,' continued Pernitz unfazed, 'and is perhaps your AI colluding with it out of its own self-interests. You cannot launch an aircraft without fear of it being remotely hijacked. And you cannot send a message without fear of it being read or even altered by a foreign source. So, unless you saw me in the flesh, you would never know for sure if it was really me or just the deception of a malicious computer.'

'So, tell me, Major Pernitz, is everyone in the ranks as astute as you?' replied Rodd caustically. 'That would help explain why the desertion rates have been so high lately.'

'Which is the other reason we have summoned you here,' said President Dimore. 'We would appreciate the appraisal of a boot on the ground regarding the morale of the troops.'

Pernitz scratched his neck uncomfortably. 'If the Battle of New Orleans had gone to plan, a soldier who jumped out of a helicopter to save himself would be in prison on a desertion charge himself. The fact you want to give me a medal instead makes it pretty clear how dire the situation is.'

There was a knowing glance amongst the politicians in the room. Rodney Rodd fixed a steely glare upon Pernitz. 'It is funny you should speak of such things. Although it is certainly medals rather than prison we would like to present you, we have a very important mission for you. It is so top secret we needed to summon you here on a false pretense. And it is so sensitive, if you decline, we will have no option other than to jail you under false pretense. The key will be thrown away and you will never be heard of again. Do you understand?'

Pernitz swallowed hard. 'Sensitive?'

'The war was always destined to be difficult for the Federation to win. The problem dates back twenty years to when President Jefferson Hunt first introduced the Hitchlow Plan. Partitioning off certain cities to the Working Class and all but forsaking the rest of the country to its enemies was a monumentally inept decision. Cities are easy to besiege. They are too big to defend, too small in terms of population and resources to sustain a war. My best generals predict total defeat is less than six months away. But with the stunning defeat in Houston and New Orleans, it might be sooner than that. It seems we have already lost the technology war. After New Orleans, we must assume that all our systems have been infiltrated. And, further to it, programmed against us. To have a chance to win back the initiative, therefore, we must do something drastically different. If we have lost out on technology, we must return to nature to look for our edge.'

'Mother nature hasn't been very good at winning wars,' muttered Pernitz, 'unless you're thinking of the typhoon that destroyed Kublai Khan's Japanese invasion fleet. Or possibly the fleas carrying the Bubonic plague that defeated Napoleon's army in Russia.'

'It is closer to the latter. We have at our disposal the most lethal virus ever created. It is named the Taipan after the snake that can kill a hundred people with just one bite. Our virus is so powerful and contagious that just one sneeze could kill a million.'

Pernitz shuddered. 'Why are you telling me this?'

'Because we need you to be the flea. You are to go to Dallas and set up a new Strike Force team. Freshly decorated from the President, you won't want for volunteers. Of course, they are not to know the true nature of the mission. We will supply you with choppers that for obvious reasons have had all the computer systems removed. You will crisscross the countryside releasing the virus into the air.'

'How many will die because of it?'

'None from our side. We have a vaccination that we can distribute the day before the attack. Our cities will become quarantine zones.'

'And what happens outside those areas will be genocide.' Pernitz glared at President Dimore. 'They are still Americans.'

'I share your reservations,' Dimore replied grimly. 'However, if we fail to carry through with this, there is no doubt that the next President of the United States will be a supercomputer. And I fear humanities fate will be sealed. This time every man, woman and child will become the enslaved. You have seen better than anyone what kind of world that would look like. That is why it is you I have summoned at this darkest of times.'

'We can no longer even try to negotiate with Peta Anning and the other Rebel leaders,' added Rodney Rodd. 'Remember what this war was all about. We mandated that there would be some professions AI would not be permitted to replace. Anning and her rebels made no such distinction. Now they are entirely compromised and what began as a conflict of ideologies has morphed into the war humankind has feared most: us against the machines.'

'But your strategy is to wipe out the humans that plug them in?'

'Regrettably, we must turn off the people before we can turn off their machines.'

President Dimore sighed. 'There may be another way. It is not new. We have tried it before and it has not gone down at all well.'

'What is it?'

'I fear you will laugh if I mention it.'

'I can assure you the one thing I won't do is laugh.'

'Alright, it's time travel.'

Pernitz's eyes neglected to blink. 'You will need to explain that.'

Dimore smiled thinly. 'We have supercomputers too, Major. However, we use them to improve the plight of humankind, not to replace it. Ten years ago, our most powerful machine, the Miraculine supercomputer, was set the task of discovering a means of time travel. At that stage the computer estimated a .005% chance of being successful. Since then it has increased to 70%.' Dimore paused introspectively. 'I approved the use of human subjects when the probability improved to 40% two years ago. On the first two occasions the tests were clear failures as there is no point traveling in time if your entrails are left behind. Grisly, I know, but that's the way it was. In the third test we simply don't know what happened as the subject disappeared without a trace. Since then, testing has been suspended. We had decided to wait until the probability had risen to 100%, no matter how long that might take. It seems perhaps, however, another body in the Arkansas Collider might be a risk worth taking.'

'If I may,' said Alison Butter, NSA chief, in a slow, considered voice. 'Major Pernitz is without doubt the best candidate to lead the Taipan Virus dispersal program and therefore too valuable to sacrifice to a time travel experiment.'

'Before we get ahead of ourselves, we had better find out if the Major would even be willing to risk traveling back in time.'

Pernitz nodded adamantly. 'What's the worst that could happen? Either I'll be the first time traveller in history or the particle collider will rip me apart to atomic level. I would take both those fates over having the death of millions on my conscious.'

'Yes, I've never found it easy,' muttered Dimore sourly. 'Well, I don't know what prerequisites are required to be a time traveler but I suspect luck is at the top of the list. And that is at least one thing you clearly have. So, let's take you out to the Airspace Agency HQ and see what they say.'

'Madam President,' interjected Rodney Rodd forcefully, 'perhaps I should remind you that the Rebel Army is massing around Dallas as we speak. There is no time to get sidetracked with something so farfetched.'

Dimore shot him a hard look. 'We still have General Young to talk to about your organ eating virus, so don't worry.' She turned back to Pernitz. 'I will tell the Airspace Agency to meet you in Arkansas. You will leave without delay. There is no time to lose'

'If by some chance I am not splattered in the particle collider and am somehow propelled back in time, what am I supposed to do? How can one man stop a war?'

'Well, the peculiar thing about wars is that the closer you get to the beginning the fewer the people you have to kill to make a difference. And conversely, when a war has dragged on as long as this one has, you end up having to slaughter a million to get anywhere.' Dimore paused a moment. 'So, to answer your question, we need to go back to where it all started.'

*

Three hours later Major Mark Pernitz was led into the laboratories of the Arkansas particle collider where he was met by a tall, ginger haired man in a spotlessly white lab coat that smacked of scientist. 'So, you're my new time traveler,' the man said. 'I am Professor Ed Chafee, the Chief Scientist at the Airspace Agency.'

'I'm Major Pernitz.'

The two men shook hands. Chafee's hand was pristinely smooth and soft – not quite as soft as as a politician hands, but by no means military-level. Chafee looked Pernitz up and down curiously. 'So, are you a murderer?'

Pernitz's instinctively tensed. 'Why do you ask?'

'There must be a reason you've been sent to the collider. I mean, what happened to the others wasn't pretty.'

'The President seems to think I will bring good luck.'

Chafee frowned. 'Am I not to be insulted by that? I am a world-renowned astrophysicist in charge of the most powerful computer this world has ever seen and yet the President would suggest this venture is more about luck than science.'

'The unenviable fate of those that came before me might have something to do with that.'

'I'll concede there have been some hiccups along the road.'

'Are you referring to the men torn apart in your particle collider?'

Chafee shuffled uncomfortably. 'If you want to put it so crudely. I suppose I should be grateful for being given another opportunity. I was beginning to fear the whole project had been forgotten.'

'Let's just say times are desperate.'

'Are you talking about the decimation of Houston?'

'Yes, and what might happen next.'

Chafee sighed. 'There's nothing like a war to advance the darker arts of science.'

The helicopter that had transported Pernitz to the top-secret facility had just slipped beyond the horizon, leaving Pernitz to suppose the shuddering he was still feeling was the trepidation within himself. 'So how does this all work?' he muttered, glancing beyond Chafee to the polished steel-walled corridor leading into the laboratory.

'Well, let's start simple with a fitting. In that you might actually be lucky, after all. I think I have an outfit that will fit perfectly. Let's go to my office and see.' He led the way down the corridor to a steel door that opened to a room with complex equations crowded onto the glass walls.

'Are these the secrets to time travel?'

Chafee gave him a hard look until he was assured he wasn't being made fun of. 'Hardly,' he said. 'This is just my crude attempts at trying to catch up with the Miraculine computer. After all, it can process every possible move in a game of chess in one second flat, and it has been working on the time travel question day and night for the past ten years. That's what humankind is up against if it wants to stay relevant. And I'm afraid I think that is a losing battle no matter who ends up winning the Second Civil War.'

'Do you trust the Miraculine?'

Chafee took the question very seriously. 'Only fools trust what they don't understand. Maybe that's the real reason I've filled the walls with sums. But we're out of time, so that's where your luck comes in.' He pulled a pile of papers off the only chair in the office and dropped them on his desk. 'Take a seat.' He then threw open the lid of an old chest in the corner and gathered up a pile of clothes that he dropped on Pernitz just as perfunctorily. 'Put these on.'

Pernitz looked through the pile to see that it was an old, stuffy brown suit and drab grey business shirt. 'What is this? Am I going to a fancy-dress party?'

'Don't worry, you'll look just fine in1938.'

Pernitz's eyes widened. '1938?'

'That was the year programmed into the Miraculine ten years ago. Back in the days when World War Two was the war the Administration most wanted to stop. Or, at least, that was how they managed to commit Congress to fund it. The Jewish lobbyists are more than keen to rewrite history without the Holocaust - and I don't mean by being deniers. Do what you can about that. But be very careful. The one advantage with the way World War Two turned out is that most of the world did not become subjugated by tyranny.'

'Alright, so I'm not trying to prevent WW2. What am I supposed to do?'

'Send proof back to us that time travel is actually possible. That's it.'

'Well, if that's all you need, why don't you just send your pet poodle back to five minutes ago.'

'Because that wouldn't be very useful, would it? The only test that will mean anything is to transport a human. And the energy sources needed to do it are too difficult to obtain to waste. In fact, five years of filtration has only accumulated enough reserves of the Constant Nano, the primary particle, for two launches.'

'One to take me there and one to bring me back.'

Chafee shook his head. 'It's a one-way trip, I'm afraid. It's scientifically impossible to ever bring you back.' He noted Pernitz's look of trepidation and added, 'We will supply you with identification papers, gold coins, and the details of a Texan ranch you will buy.'

'Am I to become an oilman?'

'A faceless investor. You will be set up for a very comfortable life.'

'Are my tax records to be my proof of time travel?'

'Unfortunately, it won't be that easy. Sceptics will reject any documentation or family photos as fakes. You will have to get your face into published photographs of the day. Face identification matching can then prove with 100% certainty that the person with me in this room is the same person in the photograph or newsreel in 1938 - or however long it takes. I imagine that, with your health and the privileged life you are going to live, you should be able to comfortably make it to 1960 at least. It is regrettable all the same that with the primitive medical treatments of the day you are going to lose twenty years or more off your life expectancy.'

'I'm not too sure about that. The state of the current war has made life expectancy for Federal soldiers measurable in days and weeks.'

'I see. Well, one way or another, the war will be ending for you tonight.'

'And I will be doing my part to help end it before it even began?'

'I am not fully abreast of the overall strategy myself, but that is certainly what I believe to be the case.'

'Alright,' said Pernitz squeezing the old suit on his lap. 'Let's get this done.'

'Excellent. The Miraculine is warming up the particle collider for launch.' Chafee glanced at his watch. 'We have exactly one hour. Not enough time to learn German if you don't know it already.'

Pernitz scrunched his face. 'I'm going to be starting in Germany?'

'Thank the Jewish lobbyists for that. And I can understand their point of view. Eight million civilians murdered in cold blood is an atrocity we haven't come close to matching in this war.'

'I would like some time to write farewell notes.'

Chafee nodded. 'By all means. No children I hope.'

Pernitz shook his head. 'Not much of anyone. I won't need long.'

'Perhaps that is for the best. There is a notepad and pen on the desk. You had better write a will while you're at it.'

'The home I once owned is now a bomb crater in Las Angeles. So, a will won't be necessary.'

'I see. I'll be back in twenty minutes for the final briefing before launch.'

'Alright.' Pernitz watched Chafee head for the door and called out to him anxiously, 'Is it going to hurt?'

Chafee met his eyes with a cool, even stare. 'If you mean will it hurt having your body bombarded with Dark Matter until you dissolve into the space time continuum with your atom strings spinning at the speed of light, I would have to say it might initially sting a bit.' With that he left the room.

Pernitz picked up the paper and pen at the desk and, as he paused to think of what he might write in his farewell letter, he realized his head was already spinning. He would just have to wait until he was in 1938. He could write a letter and bury it in a time capsule. To be opened 154 years later on Wednesday 11th June 2092. Tomorrow.'

3

Pernitz had certainly been busy. The photographs moved chronologically through pre-war Germany, wartime Britain, and, following V-Day, across the breadth of the United States.

'We have identified photographs right up to the nineteen sixties,' informed Professor Ed Chafee excitedly as he flicked through the slideshow on the screen beside him. 'He attended strikes, bridge openings and the odd parade. We have records that\ he lived out his days in Texas but as yet have not located a death notice. Of course, it is still early days as he only left yesterday.'

The full contingent of the War Cabinet was seated at the conference table in the White House's War Room. There was a moment of stunned silence before President Rylan Dimore murmured earnestly, 'An incredible feat and certain to win you a Nobel Prize, Professor Chafee. Of course, not until we have won the war first.' She looked up and down the conference at the men and women of the War Cabinet, most of whom were dressed in dark suits and plain ties. 'Would anyone like to make a comment?'

When no volunteers were immediately forthcoming, the President's gaze inevitably descended upon the Secretary of Defense, Rodney Rodd. 'Nothing, Rodney?'

Rodd smirked coolly at the Professor of Astrophysics and the black and white photo of Pertnitz at a JF Kennedy rally that had been left up on the screen. 'A moment of historic significance to rival humankind's first mission to the moon and first colony on Mars. I am exceedingly pleased that once again it is America leading the way.'

Chafee nodded self-consciously.

'However,' continued Rodd, looking pointedly at the President, 'the fact that this achievement is being announced to the War Cabinet rather than in a press conference on the White House lawn suggests there is some thought to this capability having an application in the current civil war. Hopefully that can be spelled out, because what I have mostly seen in this presentation is the rather disappointing fate of Major Pernitz. Our first-choice soldier to unleash the Taipan virus upon our enemy has now been consigned to the pages of dusty history books.'

President Dimore smiled stiffly at Chafee. 'Thank you again for your presentation, Professor. Could you kindly step outside of the room for a moment?'

'Of course, Madam President.'

Dimore chewed her bottom lip as she waited for Chafee to depart the room. Then she snapped, 'What is the status of Dallas?'

The War Cabinet's one 5 star general, Glen Rashid, replied, 'The Rebels are continuing to mass their forces. We estimate they already have a sufficient force to take down the entire city.'

'Then why don't they?'

'I'd say they are so confident of victory that they are daring us to deploy more forces.'

'But they won't wait long,' interjected Rodd. 'The Taipan virus is not a cannon. When the Rebel army are breaching the Dallas defenses, we won't be able to start shooting it at them.'

'I have a better idea,' said Dimore, 'We look for terms for our surrender.'

The Vice President, Alexander Carlisle, slammed down his cup of tea, spilling most of it. 'Are you serious?'

'I'm serious that we're going to ask. It will buy us some time. A week, maybe more. The Rebels don't know about our virus and they don't know about our time machine. So, they just might be assured enough of their position that they will pause their advance to talk with us.'

'Morale amongst the troops will dive if they think we are negotiating our surrender,' said General Rashid.

'You will have to deal with that, General. Before I sanction the death of a million or more Americans in an attempt to end this war, I'm going to look hard into achieving the same result with the blood of just one particular person.'

'Are you referring to Peta Anning?' queried Rashid animatedly. 'She's a thorn in our side that we would do very well to remove.'

'I understand where you're coming from. But if you take out a leader, nine times out of ten an even worse one will emerge to fill the space. That's the way of things.'

'Are you thinking of someone closer to home?' chimed in Rodney Rodd curiously. 'Perhaps someone whose portrait is hanging on a wall upstairs amongst a long line of former Presidents?'

'I haven't paid much attention to the White House's artwork,' Dimore replied dismissively, standing up from her chair and straightening out her suit. 'If you'll excuse me, I'm going to take Professor Chafee to dinner in New York.'

'To discuss how to go about assassinating a president?' queried Cooper Jones, the CIA Director, in a concerned tone. 'If it really is Jefferson Hunt on your hit list, you're going to need a very good assassin. I was just starting out in the Agency when Hunt was President and I can tell you his security detail were elite killers that were either going to be serving their countries or serving life sentences. Countless unsolved murders have been attributed to them over the years. At their prime they made the mafia seem like a bunch of kids overcharging lemonade on a street stall. And if you somehow got passed them, the President himself was no slouch. A highly decorated Special Forces veteran whose taste for killing had become a little too unrefined by the time he reached the highest office. But a real killer nonetheless. There were three assassination attempts that we know he personally repelled. If you send someone after him, then there is just as likely to become four. Unless of course you can take some modern weapons back in time too. The science of killing has come a long way since his presidency.'

Dimore put her hands on her hips. 'I have already asked Professor Chafee about that. He could probably transport a gun alright. But the ammunition would likely explode in the particle collider. And poisons are also too unstable to transport safely. Their atoms could reform on the wrong side of your time traveling skin.'

'So, you would be fighting Hunt on his home turf without any tricks up your sleeve. I was going to offer you one of my agents, but I don't think I would risk sacrificing one like this. It's ungodly to die before you're even born.'

'That's fine,' replied Dimore curtly. 'You just focus on having the Taipan Virus ready to wreak havoc on the Rebels.' She turned to the other members of the War Cabinet. 'The rest of you are to initiate peace talks with Peta Anning and her fellow Democracy Dead leaders. I don't care whose morale may go down as a result - least of all if it's your own. Just don't put a signature to any of your promises - if this mission fails, we're going to be back fighting to the last soldier.' She leaned forward on the conference table. 'I have an assassin in mind who I think will be perfect for the job. I'm anticipating reluctance on his part but I will do what I can to be persuasive. And then I will need some time to archive as much of the present as I can. It may become a valuable resource as the first ever alternative reality.' She smirked wryly. 'It has always been my suspicion, Rodney Rodd, that it wouldn't have taken much for you to have become a gangster rather than a politician. This might just be born out.' She headed purposefully out the War Room. The remaining attendees returned their attention to the picture on the screen of Mark Pernitz standing in the midst of a civil rights protest in 1964. 'My God, could it really be true?' gasped the NSA Chief.

'In all seriousness,' replied Rodd, 'I certainly hope so. Because, as absurd as it sounds, I'm afraid the impossible is the only real chance we have left.'

*

The Goldenlock Skyscraper was spearing up over the Manhattan skyline, its one hundred floors brilliantly aglow with white and blue incandescent light. Its distinctive gold trim screamed of opulence and extravagance, and the gobsmacking rental rates of its luxurious apartments made it truly one the most exclusive addresses in New York. The building was owned by former US President Jefferson Hunt and his private residence occupied the entirety of the top ten floors. He had become a recluse within it, unseen for the five years since the civil war had first broken out. It was rumored that the residence was decked out with so much gold and treasures it would have put a pharaoh's tomb to shame. But this had been garnered from the few guarded comments of those who had been beckoned to it - mostly gangsters, bankers and lawyers. Those that worked there - the domestic staff, the security teams and the bevy of beautiful young women that came and went - were all remarkably and suspiciously tightlipped. It had frustrated Rylan Dimore when she had sent the FBI to investigate Hunt and his murky empire, but now, with what she had to ask him, a code of silence was not going to be in the least bit objectionable. After all, the idea she had in mind was so farfetched that she had not even dared confide it to the War Cabinet. With the war going from bad to worse, calls that she was cracking under pressure could easily stick. And now that she had sanctioned the use of a biological weapon, she was liable to face prosecution as a war criminal should the war be lost. And the War Cabinet, too. Betrayal by any one of its members desperate to save their own skin was a real and ongoing possibility. Dimore needed to watch her back.

She thought about these things as Marine One approached the Goldenlock helipad. She was not fooled by the welcoming brightness of the building. Her authority within the Goldenlock would be as tenuous as it was in the Rebel held territories. And the small band of Secret Service agents accompanying her would offer no more than a token resistance should the former President turn against her. The tension within Marine One was palpable, for even the Secret Service had learnt to fear Hunt: Their years of collectively having to protect him had made them wary.

'Unfortunately, I may be with Hunt an extended period,' Dimore said as the helicopter moved above the skyscraper for the final descent. 'I want you all remaining with Marine One. And I don't want anyone causing trouble. A lot of Hunt's security team are disenfranchised Secret Service agents dating back a decade or two, and they may see you as upstart rookies and try to provoke you. If anyone takes the bait, they will answer to me. Understood? This is an important meeting and I don't want any screw ups.'

The helicopter gently settled itself onto the helipad and the engine eased down with a fading whir. Dimore glanced to Ed Chafee, who was quietly gazing out over the incomparable New York nightscape. 'You're awake. You were dozing for a while.'

'Was I?' Chafee replied with a yawn.

'I would have expected someone who was about to have dinner with two Presidents to be more excited.'

Chafee pushed forward on his seat. 'With time travel, the Miraculine has proven beyond doubt that unexplored dimensions exist. Reality is too mindbogglingly complex for me to be impressed by a couple of US Presidents on a dinner date.'

Dimore snickered. 'Fair enough. Let's just hope the food is to your liking then.'

The President and the astrophysicist took the steps down from Marine One. There was a trail of lights leading up to a glass-fronted terrace lined with roses. Jefferson Hunt was standing in the arched doorway. He was wearing a dashing black tuxedo and had one of those roses protruding from his lapel. Dimore strode towards him quickly, becoming almost fixated on his appearance: noting how grey was his hair, how broad were shoulders, how much girth was around his waist. She had been desperately hoping not to be disappointed, and she wasn't. He had not let himself go. 'Hello, Jefferson,' she said. ''You're looking well.'

'You sound surprised,' Hunt replied with a wry smirk.

'I didn't know what to expect. You have been hiding away in this building for many years.'

'If you want to put it like that. Perhaps, you are coming to join me. After all, the Goldenlock is far more secure than the White House. And you seem to be losing the war rather badly. Your last stand would be far longer here than anywhere else.'

'Peta will come looking for you too regardless. You killed a lot of her comrades during your presidency and she has got a very long memory.'

'Well, there's no point letting our dinner get cold. Lobster and pheasant is on the menu and I suspect you will find it the best you have ever eaten.' He turned to Chafee. 'I trust you are not a vegetarian, Professor. My investigations were inconclusive as you seem to be even more off grid than myself.'

'I consider myself to be a carnivore,' Chafee darkly replied.

Hunt stepped back from the doorway. 'Then let's go to table.' He smirked at Dimore and held out an ushering hand. 'I have had the dining table set up on the rooftop terrace. This way you can watch over your security team and your helicopter to make sure they are safe. And even better you will have an amazing view of New York - that will be a nice change from your bunker beneath the White House.'

Dimore had to remind herself that she had not come here for an argument and she bit her tongue. She looked beyond Hunt to the breathtaking design of the undercover terrace. The polished wooden floor was filled with lanterns, potted plants and fountains. There was a swimming pool with glowing turquoise water in one corner and, beside it, a dining table loaded up with trays of meats, nuts, and vegetables, and decanters of red wine.

'It appears dinner is already served,' Dimore observed.

'Yes. I assume that a President fast losing a war would be keen to get to the point.'

Dimore waited until they were seated at the table with fine porcelain plates topped with food before finally responding to Hunt's prods. 'I have no intention of being the first United States President to lose a war. But it is clear the war cannot be won conventionally. Superior strength of soldiers, resources and technology belong to the Rebels.'

Hunt swallowed a gulp of wine. 'Is that why you have brought a scientist to dinner? Considering a nuclear option?'

Chafee chuckled. 'Nuclear weapons are too primitive for my tastes. I'm an astrophysicist, Mr President, and my specialty is time travel.'

'And that is why we are here,' interjected Dimore before Hunt had the chance to belittle him.

'So, you're going to hide from the Democracy Dead in the past? Some would argue that that is where you have been all along.'

Dimore dropped onto his side of the table one of the early pictures of Pernitz in Nazi Germany. 'This is a major from Strike Force 50. He was sent back as a trial run yesterday. Now it's time for the real thing.' Her eyes bore into Hunt. 'That has to be you.'

A murderous anger flashed across Hunt's face. 'Should I even listen to you?'

'You had better,' Dimore replied, refusing to be cowered. 'Peta Anning might soon become President of the United States and you can be sure she hasn't forgotten you. No matter where in the world you think you are going to run to, she's going to come hunting. No one escapes the United States.'

'So, it's me you think should disappear into the past?'

'Something like that. But before we get into it, I want to make sure I'm not dealing with a sceptic. That is why I've brought Professor Chafee.' Dimore tried to relax her voice as she looked to Chafee. 'Could you please explain to Jefferson the basic underpinnings of your breakthrough in time travel?'

Chafee frowned. 'I'm not sure if you're trying to embarrass me but, as I mentioned earlier, I can only offer a rudimentary explanation of something far beyond human comprehension.'

'Please try, Professor Chafee. We need President Hunt to volunteer for what might pulverize him.'

'Very well. The subject's molecules are dissolved and propelled through the space time continuum. Reconstitution occurs in an exact time, place and form. The mathematics involved is a thousand years beyond current human knowledge. My main role was to make sure the Miraculine computer remained plugged in for the ten years it took to do its calculations.'

'A task for which you will one day win a Nobel Prize.'

'How many times has time travel been achieved?' asked Hunt bluntly.

Dimore pointed to the black and white photo of Pernitz. 'This is it. And the key particle for the process, the Constant Nano, is so rare and delicate we only have enough for one more launch. It will likely take many years until the stocks are sufficiently replenished again.'

'Then why waste it banishing me to the past? Send your best assassin to when Peta was a nobody with a pet Chihuahua for protection and push her under a bus.'

Dimore turned to Chafee. 'Would you mind waiting back on Marine One? I'm sure Jefferson will be happy for you to take your plate with you.'

'That's alright, I'm not particularly hungry. But I'll take my glass, and a bottle as well.'

As Chafee left the table, Hunt topped up his own glass and eyed Dimore coolly. 'Alright, I'll accept you've stumbled onto a means of time travel. So, what the hell do you want with me?'

'The Rebel Army's attack on Las Angeles was what started the Second American Civil War. But it was your Hitchlow Plan that made war inevitable in the first place. It cut society into two very unequal pieces. And from a military point of view our piece was always going to be impossible to defend. Too scattered, too reliant on technology, and too few numbers against far too many. And it doesn't help that the enemy, galvanized by the injustices wrought upon them, would settle for nothing less than unconditional surrender or death.'

'And yet you have just said you will also not countenance defeat. So, what is on your mind? Should I go back in time and convince myself to throw the Hitchlow Plan into the wastebasket? Maybe I could invite myself for a cup of tea to discuss it.'

'Would that work?'

Hunt laughed. 'I wasn't as accommodating back then as I am now. Chances are I would put a bullet in the head of the older me and ask questions later.'

'Could you get your younger self to give you a lie detector test? Passing that would make him think.'

'Don't be so sure. I subscribed to all manner of plots and conspiracy theories in those days. A cloned version of me sent by enemies to propagate false information would not seem much of a stretch. It's the kind of threat I would let my beloved sharks deal with.'

'Then don't go back in time to talk. Go back as an assassin.'

Hunt chuckled gruffly and sipped his wine through gritted teeth. 'So, at last you've come to the point. You would send me back in time to kill myself.'

'That's right. I would send you to the year 2072. Before the Hitchlow Plan became law. You can replace the young President with an older, wiser version gifted with the benefit of hindsight. You may look a tad worse for wear, but eye-scanning, voice recognition and DNA sampling will all confirm with complete certainty that it's you.'

Hunt mulled over the thought a long moment. 'I would not be easy to kill. Even for me. I had all the security afforded to a United States President plus my own band of particularly dangerous private operatives.'

'I'm aware of your Unit X. Led by Doug Graze. In those days I was just a lowly intern but even then everyone was talking about your entourage of lawless killers. Anyway, this is our only chance to make the present right. If you're not willing to go, then another assassin will be sent. I'm sorry, but I have no choice.'

Hunt shrugged. 'I must concede the prospect of being President again is tempting. And it would give me the distinction of being the longest serving President in United States history. Of course, it will be a bloody business getting myself back into the White House, but that won't be much different to how I got elected in the first place.'

'So, you're going to do it?'

'I'll have to give it some thought.'

'Really, what's there to think about?'

'Well, I haven't gotten any stronger in the last twenty years. You've come here with a half-baked idea but I doubt you have a credible plan about how to get at the world's most guarded man.'

'I suspect you'll know better than any of our analysts where you were most vulnerable. There are rumors for instance that you used to sneak out of the White House for secret liaisons with Jean Hitchlow and all sorts of other beautiful women. You, however, have the advantage of knowing exactly where and when.' Dimore stood up. 'You're right, being a President losing a war means I'm pressed for time. I'll give you twenty-four hours to report for duty at the Arkansas particle collider. And make sure you know exactly when and where we are to send you.' She marched double-time back to Marine One while the security detail fanned out to guard her back. The helicopter's rotors roared to life and the moment everyone was back on board the aircraft shot away into the night.

Hunt picked up the photograph of Pernitz that had been left behind and scrutinized it thoughtfully. After a time, he idly took a sip of wine, chewed a piece of venison and held up his hand to summon his personal attendant. The man's name was Alexander Joggs and, as always, was lurking just in the background. The squat, powerfully built man stepped noiselessly up beside Hunt, ready for the instructions that could have ranged anywhere from fetching a jar of pickles to assembling a hit team.

'I need to go out for a while, Joggs,' Hunt muttered. 'Prepare my helicopter for immediate take off.'

Joggs couldn't hide his surprise. 'Are you leaving Goldenlock, sir?'

'I would be taking an elevator not a helicopter if my intention was merely to travel to another floor.'

'Of course. Forgive me, sir. It's just that you haven't been out of Goldenlock for a very long time.'

'That's true. But nothing lasts forever. It seems not even the past.'

*

Sunrise found Hunt standing over the graves of his two children, Susie and Neil. They had died three years apart but the numbness had merged into one. The civil war had left many parents trying to come to grips with such loss, but Hunt's had come years earlier. A drug overdose and a high-speed car crash. The cemetery which held them was on the outskirts of Turning Hollow, Missouri and was crowded with headstones like a mouth with too many teeth. Indeed, there had only been a corner plot left for Hunt's children and he had needed to pull some serious strings to get it. He had not been to the cemetery since Neil's funeral five years earlier; he had gone from the cemetery straight to Goldenlock and had trained himself not to think about his kids, had distracted himself with empire building. But now he was back and he was having trouble remembering them. He was particularly hazy with their teenage years when they had gone off the rails and rarely come home. Their absence had weighed heavily on Megan - and their deaths was immeasurably worse. She had become a shadow of her former self. A broken woman.

But, back in 2072, Susie and Neil were just uncorrupted infants who would run endlessly around the White House with their nanny, and Megan was a doting mother who was never too far away. Hunt took a step back from his children's graves and looked at the dates on the headstones - and he wondered if they could be changed. Could the past really be malleable? Hunt returned to his rental car, parked outside the cemetery, preoccupied with the question. Alexander Joggs was waiting in the driver's seat with his hands gripping the steering wheel tightly.

'Back to the helicopter?' Joggs asked edgily.

'What's the matter, Al? You sound tense. Don't like cemeteries?'

'I don't like cemeteries in enemy territory, Mr President. There's always that nasty chance one will become my permanent address.'

'Well, you'd better brace yourself 'cause we're going even deeper.'

Joggs raised his eyebrows. 'Deeper into the cemetery?

'Deeper into enemy territory. Stringtown, Butler County to be exact.'

Joggs paused. 'That's quite a way. It would be much safer to travel by helicopter.'

'It would be until we land. There aren't exactly a lot of helicopters in these parts. It would draw more than a little attention.'

Joggs sighed and started the engine. 'Understood, Mr President.'

They drove silently along the quiet, lonesome backroads of Missouri. Hunt was content to gaze out the window at the towns and farms flittering by. The poverty was plain to see but at least the war had not directly reached these parts. It was scenery Hunt could lower his guard to. He thought mostly about the past and all the things that had gone wrong, and again and again his thoughts drifted back to the day his best friend Doug Graze had disappeared on the bridge spanning the Florida Straits. For the past twenty years he had blocked the episode from his thoughts, but now he could not help but remember it. And the memories were as vivid as though they had just happened yesterday. It was bitterly unpleasant and Hunt only let it happen because of the off chance he might be going there again.

By midday they had reached Stringtown and Hunt gave directions to a small ranch on the outskirts. Joggs parked halfway along the long, dusty driveway while Hunt stared fixedly at the old homestead beyond it. The vibrant colors of the flowering plants lining the veranda belied the decrepit state of the homestead. The cream paint was crumbling off the walls to expose the dull pink undercoat; the roof gutters were rusted and holed out; and the windows were cracked and opaque.

There had been so many houses in similar states of disrepair on the way, but Joggs was surprised that one had actually turned out to be their destination. 'Should I see if someone is home?' he murmured.

'Someone is almost certainly home,' Hunt replied. 'Where the hell would she go in this town?'

'She?'

'Just wait here.' Hunt stepped out of the car, looking about the windows for a peeking face or perhaps a pointing gun. A dog started yapping excitedly from behind the front screen door. Hunt strode up the driveway and onto the porch and it emerged that the dog had saved him the trouble of knocking. His ex-wife, Megan, opened the door and crossed her arms and the black Labrador rushed to inquisitively sniff his feet - Hunt knew it was the closest thing to affection he was liable to get in this particular household. He bent down and gave the dog a pat. 'I remember we talked about getting a pet,' he murmured.

'And here she is,' Megan replied. 'Her name is Barney.'

Hunt glanced up at his ex-wife and was surprised to see the grey in her hair and the crow's feet around her eyes. If not for the voice being so clearly hers, he might even have wondered if he had come to the right address. It was hard to reconcile this woman uneasily standing before him with the self-assured, glamorous actress he had married twenty-five years earlier. And it was unpleasant to consider that the accelerated aging had been largely due to him. He took in her faded floral dress and frayed sandals and didn't find any cues there in his quest to formulate an opening pleasantry. 'You've certainly embraced the country life,' was the best he could come up with.

'But you have declared war on the country folk,' she snapped. 'You shouldn't have come here.'

'I wanted to talk.'

'Talk?'

'There's a question I want to ask.'

Megan scoured the road out front of the farm for any signs of people. 'Well, you're putting both of our lives at risk.' She retreated back into the house and Hunt and her Labrador followed. The dog continued with her into kitchen while Hunt lingered in the living room where ancient photographs of his children lined the walls. From infants right through to their final weeks alive, these were the memories he had been struggling to tap at the cemetery.

'Would you like a cup of tea or coffee?' Megan called out from the kitchen as she filled her kettle.

'Coffee would be nice,' Hunt replied and suddenly realized he hadn't eaten or drunk anything since his dinner with President Dimore the previous evening.

'Would your friend out in the car like to join us?'

'I'm sure he's fine,' replied Hunt dismissively. He joined her in the kitchen and found that it was just as pokey as every other room in the house. 'I can't say I'm upset you didn't sue for alimony after our divorce,' he muttered. 'But I would have given you the money for a better house than this. A place where you could stretch out a little bit.'

'Like your private skyscraper in New York?'

'Why not?'

Megan sighed. 'If I had a bigger house, I would just have more walls to hang pictures of our kids on, and to be honest I'm not sure I could cope with that.'

'I see.' It occurred to Hunt that he didn't have any kind of pictures on the walls of Goldenlock let alone ones of his departed children. He sat down at the dining table and idly plucked an apple from a basket of fruit placed in the middle.

'So, are we really winning the war?' asked Megan as she put one of the two coffees down at his place. 'It must be something extraordinary that has shaken you out of your skyscraper.'

'When you say we, I assume you are referring to the Rebel Army.'

'That's right.'

'I have come to ask you a question.'

'It must be some question.'

'Actually, you might think I'm kind of getting soft.'

With a chuckle, Megan took her coffee to the other side of the table. 'Somehow I doubt that.'

Hunt polished his apple while he gathered his thoughts. 'You waited until I had left the White House before you filed for divorce, but I have a feeling you fell out of love a long time before that. I need to know exactly when.'

Megan's body tensed. 'When?'

'Well, there were no outbursts of breaking furniture and hurling insults. You simply up and left one day and never came back.'

'I left you a few times but kept coming back. I'm not sure you even noticed.'

'No, I think I did notice. After the incident on the Miami Havana Bridge. The night Doug Graze disappeared. Was that the last straw?'

Megan frowned. 'Why are you even asking?'

'All I can say is that it's important. And you know what I'm trying to get at. There comes that moment when love dies for good. When even the sight of a onetime lover causes revulsion and hatred. The point of no return.'

Megan shook her head adamantly. 'That never happened. I have often wished I could stop loving you but these things are hard to control.'

'Then why didn't you stay?'

'I just couldn't keep living with my insides all twisted by what you were doing. Neither could the kids. You seem to cope just fine like that and I envy you for it. But we were found wanting in that department. Mr Gangster is what people used to call you behind your back. What hurt most was that we couldn't defend you against that kind of stuff. Because it was true.'

An uneasy silence followed. Megan noticed apple juice dripping off Hunt's fingers. He was throttling the apple.

'I'm going to try my best to put things right,' Hunt said in a determined voice. 'I can't explain the details, but it means you will never see me again.'

Megan swallowed hard. 'What's going on, Jefferson?'

'I will break up my empire and instruct my lawyers that all the legal parts will pass into your control. You can either continue to run them or sell them off. My lawyers and the board will answer to you.'

Megan looked away ruefully. 'I always knew if you were ever to knock on my door, you would come making impossible promises. What I was less sure about was how I would react. Would I call the police and have you arrested or would I throw the hardest object I could find at your face. At the moment, the only dilemma is which to do first.'

'Alright, I'll tell you the truth. I'm going back in time and I'm going to make things right.'

Megan shot her eyes back at him. 'Have you lost your mind?'

'It's true. Time travel is possible. Or at least it has worked once.'

'So, you're saying they've built a time machine?'

'It's more a procedure than a machine and it's a one-way trip. If I can change things for us, you may never know.'

'Why? Will I suddenly wake up in a shiny palace with my children alive and healthy and you a loving husband back by my side?'

'I honestly don't know,' replied Hunt. 'Possibly this reality will run its own course while an alternative reality branches off. That is the one I will have some control over. This one is finished for me.'

Megan folded her arms and puckered her lips. 'Jefferson, I think you had better go.'

'Very well.' Hunt left his coffee and the mangled apple on the table and stood up. 'One day, when you are ready, contact Professor Ed Chafee, the Chief Scientist at the Airspace Agency. He will explain to you something of what I am about to do.' He paused. 'I am going back for you and the kids. We are going to be together again. All of us. And I am going to do it right this time.' He withdrew back to the doorway. 'I'm sorry for the present I've stuck you with. I've failed you horribly.' He turned and strode out of the house, not able to lift his head for a final glance at his children as he went. He stopped on the porch and gazed across the long dusty street of unkempt fields and rundown houses and it occurred to him that if his children were still alive, there might even have been grandchildren as well. There might have been noises to fill the silence.

He started down the porch for the car but heard the front door creak open behind him.

'Jefferson, wait,' called out Megan, hurrying across the porch with a small canvas bag in hand.

Hunt faced her quizzically. 'What is it?'

'We were together long enough that I learnt to see in your eyes when you were lying. In the end that's all I ever saw and that's why I had to leave you. But now they've got the truth back in them. I don't understand why because what you're saying is clearly nonsense, but in this case I'm prepared to believe the impossible.' She handed him the bag. 'If you really are going back in time, you should wear one of your old suits. I'm sure you haven't kept any, so take this one. It is the suit you were wearing when Susie was born. Standing beside me while our first baby was born, I had never felt so married. And I never did again. I suppose that is why I couldn't bring myself to throw it out.'

Hunt looked into the bag at the carefully folded black wool suit and his recollection of the day flooded back. It was one of the best days of his life and yet he had repressed the thought of it for many years. He nodded. earnestly. 'Thank you. You're right, I haven't kept any of my old suits.'

Megan leaned forward and hugged him tightly. 'Pass this on to our children for me.'

'I will.'

'And help me take care of them. Whatever you do, don't let them become a memorial on my wall.'

Hunt nodded. 'I understand.'

'Good. I don't know if you deserve a second chance more than other people, but you surely need a second chance more than most. So, don't waste it.'

'I'll try not to.' Hunt looked to Joggs sitting erect in the car's front seat and began to consider just how long the journey would take to the Airspace Agency HQ.

4

'Does President Dimore have better things to do today?' queried Peta Anning, the leader of the Democracy Dead party and Commander in Chief of the Rebel Army.

'Of course, she has better things to do than negotiate terms for her surrender,' replied Vice President Alexander Carlisle.

Anning shrugged flippantly. 'I don't think there will be much need for us to negotiate anything.'

The lavish banquet hall of the Berlin Club in Mexico City had been hastily converted for the meeting. There was one large oval table in the center of the hall and twenty seats around it. Only the two leaders, Anning and Carlisle, had permitted themselves to occupy them. The remaining people in the hall consisted of well-dressed personal bodyguards, who lined the walls trading glares with each other - within their expensive suits all manner of weaponry no doubt lay at the ready.

Carlisle and Anning were meanwhile completely absorbed in each other. Sitting at opposite ends of the table they were dressed in funereal black accessorized with gold, silver and diamonds.

'You're in danger of allowing your victory in Houston to cloud your judgement,' replied Carlisle caustically. 'That was only one city. We have a hundred more. And many of them are far better defended.'

'I assure you our confidence is entirely justified. Our demolition of Houston was a blue print for things to come. Dallas will be the next city to suffer the same fate. And, sooner than you think, it will be the turns of New York and Washington.'

Carlisle ran a handkerchief over his perspiring bald head; his grey eyes, barely blinking, we're hooked intently upon Anning. 'But at what price are you willing to pay?'

'That is why I so readily agreed to this meeting.' Anning paused uncomfortably. 'The price has already been paid. Our AI has assumed full control of our nuclear plants, missile silos, satellites and military hardware. If we do not do as instructed, they will be used against us. In the case of the nuclear power plants, they will go into meltdown and render most of the southern half of the United States uninhabitable.'

'My God,' muttered Carlisle. 'You're right, this isn't a negotiation, it's a confession.'

'The Rebel Army was routed in the first Civil War two centuries ago. We weren't going to let that happen again. But the only path for victory against your superior forces was to unleash our AI.'

'Despite every expert in the world warning against it?'

'We knew the risks. And many within the War Council raised their concerns. But defeat after defeat finally forced our hand and the policy was passed in a secret ballot.'

'In the 1850s the Rebel Army was fighting to maintain slavery. Now, this new version has allowed itself to be enslaved.'

Peta Anning shrugged. 'We were already enslaved. Why do you think the war began in the first place?'

Carlisle's throat had become suddenly parched and he looked around for a drink. For security reasons, no refreshments had been allowed to sit on the table, nor had the Berlin Club's service staff been permitted into the room. All those bodyguards and no one to fetch a glass of water. Carlisle had to settle for a smoker's cough in an effort to clear his throat. 'It appears we have a common enemy,' he finally managed to say. 'Perhaps we should change the conversation to discuss what we might do about it.'

'It is far too late for that,' replied Anning. 'And I should declare right now that our AI is currently listening to this discussion.'

'What? My people thoroughly swept the room for bugs.'

Anning double-blinked. 'I have had a sensor inserted into my throat. It relays my speech directly to our Core Mainframe.'

'Why would you subject yourself to that?'

'I had no choice. The mainframe was threatening to wipe out my entire family with missile strikes if I did not cooperate. And it could do it too. There is no way to override its control.'

Carlisle glanced at his bodyguards and noted that they were as rattled as he. Some of them even had fear in their eyes - extraordinary given they had been handpicked for their combat toughness and bravery.' In Anning's security team he suddenly noticed a weariness in their expressions - the look of the capitulated. He turned back to Anning. 'I will report to President Dimore what you have said.'

'That is acceptable. The next meeting will be in two days' time and Dimore is to come in person. Tell her to bring a pen as she will be signing her unconditional surrender. Failure to comply will be met with the harshest imaginable consequences. To begin with, her entire family line will be wiped off the face of the Earth. And along with Dallas, whose fate will be sealed, one of your other cities will also be razed without delay. The Core Mainframe predicts you will need to lose three cities in such fashion before you agree to capitulate. Let's see, shall we?'

Carlisle found himself rising out of his chair and heading out the door. He was so full of adrenaline he was almost floating in a existential state. His escort struggled to keep up as he returned to Marine Two, which he had left on the roof's helipad in the fading light of dusk. The bad knee on which he usually limped was forgotten. He had not been this nimble since he was a young man, the complacency and resignation of successful middle-age having suddenly evaporated.

'Get us out of here,' he barked at the pilot as he stepped up into the cockpit. 'Straight to Washington DC.'

The Secretary of Defense, Rodney Rodd, was seated on the other side of the cabin. On account of his unpredictable temper this was as close to Peta Anning as he had been allowed. He was chewing hard on gum and eyeing Carlisle coldly. 'That was quick. Unless they have miraculously surrendered, the idea was to drag the negotiations out as long as possible.'

Marine Two surged away from the helipad and Carlisle glanced anxiously back for a final look at the Berlin Club's Gothic inspired building disappearing within the urban monoliths of Mexico City. 'It's worse than we thought,' he murmured grimly. 'We're losing this war and the Taipan Virus won't make one scrap of difference. We could wipe out millions and our enemy wouldn't even notice.'

Rodd momentarily stopped his gum chewing. 'Why do you say that?'

'Because our enemy has transformed. And we're in danger of losing not only the war but our entire civilization as well.'

'What enemy? The Chinese?'

'No, not the Chinese. AI.'

'AI? You're going to have to explain that.'

'The President needs to hear this too. You'd better put her on the scrambler.'

'This evening she's at the Arkansas Airspace Particle Collider Facility. Not to be disturbed.'

'That damned time travel business. Chances are it's a hoax concocted by AI to distract and humiliate us.'

'Do you think so?'

'Sure. All AI would need to do is pulverize our man in the particle collider and then put out a doctored picture of him in a replica of an old newspaper. For an advanced technology with the capacity to enslave the entire human race, it wouldn't seem too complicated.'

'Well, the only upside to that theory is that Jefferson Hunt would be the one getting pulverized.' Carlisle smirked. 'Watching him dissolve at an atomic level is certainly what I would call entertainment.' He pulled out from the wall cabinet beside him a minibar well-stocked with spirits and liqueurs as well as a stack of glasses and a silver canister of ice. 'Having said that, it's small consolation for what is to come.' He had travelled enough with Rodd to know scotch whiskey was his drink of choice and poured it first. 'We'll need a drink or two when we start thinking of how AI could turn the world into a cage. It has been given full control over the Core Mainframe by the Rebel Army, which means it can reach anyone, anywhere, anytime.' Carlisle served Rodd his scotch and hurriedly poured out another one for himself. 'The ramifications are enormous - because its reach includes the country's entire automated weaponry and nuclear facilities.'

Rodd downed his drink with a flick of the wrist. 'The Rebels did that? It seems the war made them lose a little perspective.'

'We drove them to it. And now we're all going to pay. Anyone of us could be killed if we disobey a command. Peta Anning is already enslaved. And the only difference between her and us is we are only just starting to get it.'

'Well then I must confess I do not share your enthusiasm for seeing Jefferson Hunt vaporized. He needs to go back in time and give the world a severe history lesson.'

Carlisle glanced out the window to see a tightly grouped line of white lights snaking along the dark landscape below. He knew it was the border wall between Mexico and the United States. It passed by quickly and it signified that they were back in United States airspace. But there was not the sense of security that he would normally feel. The country of his birth suddenly felt alien to him. And dangerous. 'You're right,' he finally muttered. 'Although I'm not sure how it would even work. If he does go back and change the past, would this old version just suddenly disappear?'

Rodd shrugged. 'Good question. I wouldn't mind if it did.' He glanced at his watch. 'Hunt's launch is scheduled for one hour from now, so we'll find out soon enough.'

'While we are waiting, why don't we confess our darkest secrets? If the past is going to change it won't matter anyway. Of course, you can go first.'

Rodd laughed. 'Nice try. But if I believed that, I would spend my final hour calling a few people and letting them know exactly what I think of them.'

Carlisle took a mouthful of his own drink. 'Yes, if only we knew for certain what is going to happen.'

'As it is, the smart thing is to do nothing.'

'And that may become the new paradigm. There is nothing simpler than being controlled.'

*

Jefferson Hunt emerged naked from the CAT scanner flat on his back on a retracting polished steel bed. The room he was in with its sterile white walls, ceiling and floor was difficult to orientate in. Hunt stepped across to the table beside the scanner where a pile of clothes was waiting. The outfit consisted of a blue silk shirt and the black suit his ex-wife had held onto for so long. He quickly got dressed and was happy to find that the suit still fitted him perfectly: Thanks to his daily fitness regime, he had not lost much of the conditioning of a younger year. He had already made a habit of dyeing his grey hairs and holding at bay his salt and pepper stubble. So just maybe he could slip back into 2072 without rousing suspicion. For where he was intending to go first, however, looking every bit the President of the United States might not have been a particular advantage. Soldiers preferred to wear camouflage on the field of battle.

President Rylan Dimore entered the room from the adjoining glass-walled observation deck and looked him up and down. 'Just as I remember you.'

'If you give me a few days, I could grow a beard,' Hunt said. 'It would be a useful disguise until I am ready to be me.'

'No chance, I'm afraid,' replied Dimore bluntly. 'Carlisle has just sent a cryptic message out from his negotiations with Peta Anning in Mexico City. It appears we have no time to lose. Armageddon is about to descend upon us. It might already be too late.' She turned to Ed Chafee as he joined them in the room. 'Are you certain, Professor, that the Miraculine Computer is not infected by a Rebel Army virus?'

Chafee sunk his hands into the pockets of his worn brown trousers that were likely as old as Hunt's suit. 'There are no guarantees. All I can say is, if I have made any sort of contribution to the project, it has been to keep the Miraculine out of the Core Mainframe.' He could tell neither Dimore or Hunt were particularly comforted by this assurance and added, 'The scan was successful. The Miraculine now has a 3D record of every molecule in Jefferson's body. We will need to scan him one more time with his clothes and coins and then we'll be ready to load him into the particle collider.'

'Excellent, Professor,' said Dimore.

'And the time and place you have provided as the destination are accurate? If you are off by even a fraction of a degree, Jefferson might find himself stranded in the Florida Straits. Choosing a land destination provides a lot more margin for error than is the case with a bridge.'

Dimore's face turned cold. 'Thank you, Professor. Kindly give me a moment with Jefferson to discuss that point.'

'Very well. I will return once the Miraculine is ready for the second scan. That will give you about five minutes.'

The President and former President watched him go and then turned to each other. 'He has a very good point,' said Dimore. 'I would much prefer to send you to Fort Zachary. You could ambush yourself and then remove the body with a concrete block into the Straits. Although never proven, I suspect you regularly did such things as President anyway.'

Hunt finished off buttoning his shirt and shook his head. 'It sounds like a good idea, but I assure you I was a very light sleeper and always well-armed. The chances of sneaking up on me would be no better than fifty-fifty. Not good enough.'

'Nice to hear you're so motivated. But if we go with the Miami Havana Bridge option, are you even sure the room you have picked out will be as you expect?'

'After Doug Graze's disappearance, I launched a major investigation into the bridge and the criminals that operated there. I took a personal interest, thoroughly reviewing every morsel of information. You could say it was a part of my grieving process. You could also say it has made me a leading authority on the underworld of the Miami Havana Bridge in the year 2072. So, yes, I am confident the room I have nominated will provide what I need.'

'Which is? Your plan is far from clear to me.'

Hunt sat back down on the silver table. 'Why would I even bother explaining my plan to you? You said yourself the only reason I am being sent on this mission is because of my inside knowledge. So, what input can you or anyone else have? I'm going to do this my way or no way at all.'

Dimore sighed. 'They say this is the age of the machine, but it still seems that the fate of the world is resting on a human - one that is more flawed and unpredictable than anyone I know.'

'And more dangerous,' snapped Hunt, 'which is exactly what you need.'

'I suppose it is.'

'Do I have your word you won't obstruct Joggs and my lawyers when they wind up my business affairs?'

'As long as it is legal.'

'I have taken care of that. Megan has suffered enough without the Government pursuing her.'

'Fine. But I fear she will go on suffering. That is if it's true that changing the past will not affect this version of the present. It is another grey area of a largely unfathomable branch of science. The Miraculine has focused on facilitating time travel; work on what occurs when the past is altered is yet to be carried out. And unfortunately, it may never be. We are seriously considering destroying the Miraculine rather than risking the Core Mainframe taking control of it. In other words, we may need to quarantine this reality so that it cannot infect another.'

'I'm afraid, that may be the legacy of my presidency.'

Dimore stared a protracted moment. 'Presidents get up each morning with the view to protecting their people from the perils of this world. That is the oath we take and it is for life. It's time to get to work.'

Ed Chafee reappeared in the doorway. 'The Miraculine is ready for the second scanning now.'

'Good luck, Hunt,' said Dimore coldly and retreated back to the observation room.

Hunt stiffly lay down on the steel bed and was returned into the CAT scanner. He was bathed in a warm, penetrating X-ray light and the scan was complete. Chafee then led him through a series of long passageways to a manhole that opened to a pitch-black void. 'Be careful on the way down,' Chafee muttered. 'You don't want to sprain an ankle.'

Hunt glanced down into the ominously dark tunnel. 'What should I do when I'm down there?'

'What do you mean?'

'Should I stand up or sit down?'

'You'll hit your head if you try to stand up. You're going into the narrowest part of the tunnel. The gun barrelhouse as it were. Just sit down and try to relax. You are only traveling back twenty years, an unimaginably minuscule distance in terms of the space time fabric, so don't let yourself get carried away with the whole affair.'

'Will it hurt?'

Chafee paused. 'The disassembly and reassembly of every molecule in your body might feel like a prick. I guess you're about to find out.'

Hunt lowered his legs into the tunnel, but his eyes remained tensely with Chafee. 'So, you can put me on the bridge at exactly the time and place I have requested?'

'Wednesday 20th July, 2072 at precisely 11am?'

'That's it.'

'In the top floor living room of Hilario Valle's double storey luxury villa.'

'Yes.'

'Well, I don't know. But if I do manage it and you somehow save the world, feel free to give me a promotion. Of course, you will have to think up another reason because I won't know what the hell you're talking about.'

Hunt smirked. 'It's a promise.' He lowered himself down into the collider and the closing trapdoor left him in complete blackness. He sat back against the cold, perfectly smooth steel wall and waited in the most eerie silence he had ever experienced. It was what he had always imagined death to be like. He suspected in a brief moment he was going to find out for sure.

### Part Three

### 2072, the Miami Havana Bridge, Cuba

1

Hunt was still tensely waiting for something to happen when he started to grow suspicious. From the deathly silence within the particle collider peculiar noises began to emerge: There was the distant rumbling of traffic and the more proximate ticking of a clock. Hunt wondered for a moment if his mind was playing tricks with him. But then he recalled a short, sharp jolt that had struck his body as though the particle collider had been a subway tunnel and an express train had come roaring over the top of him. He tried to move and found that his body was weak and sore as though he had woken up with a heavy hangover. He rolled cumbersomely onto his side and felt the floor with his fingertips. Steel had been replaced by carpet. So, he was no longer in the particle collider. And he could be confident there was no carpet in the afterlife either. His heartbeat quickened as he realized that time travel must have occurred. The only question was what state had the Miraculine left him in. He impulsively wriggled his fingers and toes and then turned his attention to his face, carefully probing the contours of his profile. Everything seemed to be in the right spot. And with his eyes adapting to the light, his fingers were coming into focus. He turned his attention to his immediate surroundings and found that he was in a stylishly decorated living room. There were paintings depicting Christian scenes on the walls, a leather cream lounge chair voyeuristically facing a curtained window and a dressing table of polished walnut timber against the far wall. The room was spotlessly clean and immaculately tidy. Hunt shakily hauled himself to his feet and, in the dressing table's gaudy, gold gilded mirror, straightened out his suit and ran his fingers through his hair. He looked a tad gaunt and world weary, but for someone who had just had all his particles ripped apart and shot backwards through the space time continuum, he couldn't complain.

He noticed a pile of letters and memos on the dressing table and curiously picked them up. They were addressed to Hilario Valle, the particularly corrupt Bridge Master on the Cuban side of the Miami Havana Bridge. Hunt flicked carefully through the letters one by one and found that the dates ranged from the 18th to the 19th of July, 2072. So, the genius of the Miraculine computer was confirmed. Hunt truly had been sent back through time, his molecules dissolved and reassembled exactly as they had been, and at the exact time and place that he had requested. Hunt found the incredible feat a sobering reminder of the precarious state humanity was in: To harness such an intelligence without becoming subjugated by it was a seemingly impossible task. But as a President of the United States with firsthand knowledge of the future, he would be better placed than anyone to take it on. He gazed at his reflection in the mirror and knew without doubt the fate of humanity depended on him. But to be of any use he would need to be the first person in almost two hundred years to successfully assassinate a US President, and he would only have two days to do it. His one great advantage was his inside knowledge of the target: If anyone could kill President Hunt, it was the man himself.

Hunt pulled open the dressing table drawers and was heartened to find them filled with lustrous watches, rings, bracelets and necklaces of all shapes and sizes. Jewelry was the currency of choice on the bridge and the FBI task force had found the Bridge Master's hands in many pockets. Smugglers, gangsters, and dealers had all paid handsomely for the use of his bridge. Hunt did not like wearing watches but he chose the bulkiest, heaviest of the Swiss made models to put on. He dropped a couple more into his pockets and then grabbed a handful of gold and diamond rings. He worked some of the rings onto his fingers as he walked to the window and drew the curtains open. Outside was bright daylight; the sky was a rich blue and sunshine was glistening off the calm waters of the Florida Strait. Hilario Valle's residence was perched on one of the highest and widest sections of the bridge. It was a luxurious double storey condo that would eventually be raided by the Cuban authorities when Hilario's corruption became too much to ignore. What they would find would make headlines around the world. Apart from the copious amounts of jewels, there were drugs, artworks and a closet full of money and gold. It was not the kind of repository Hilario wanted to make public, which meant the silent alarm Hunt had inevitably triggered would be connected to somewhere other than the police department. The Enemigos were the gang most closely associated with Hilario. Ruthless and extremely violent, they were not to be taken lightly. Hunt peered out the window at the bridge directly below, knowing he could expect them any time soon. To his surprise, however, the floorboards immediately outside the door suddenly creaked with slowly approaching footsteps. They were already there. Hunt quickly slipped off his jacket and shirt, not wanting to get blood stains upon them, and slipped in behind the door as it edged cautiously open. He became perfectly still - a predator poised to pounce. The gun hand and wrist that emerged through the doorway were patterned in skeleton and spider tattoos. It was the arm of a killer and the man, like the creatures he had been inked with, needed to be handled with extreme caution. Hunt leapt upon him, yanking the gun back in a U-turn and fired two shots into the man's chest and forehead. With a startled groan and a thin spray of blood from the bullet holes, the man crumpled backwards into death, leaving Hunt with full possession of the pistol. There was another denim-clad, heavily tattooed man further back behind the door, and he was frantically reaching for the gun tucked into the back of his jeans. Hunt ended him with bullets to the throat and forehead and in the blink of an eye there were two dead men at his feet. It was a little too perfunctory for his liking but he reassured himself that history would be untroubled by the outcome. The Miami Havana Bridge would for many years to come have the highest murder rate in all of Cuba and the Enemigos would continue to make a significant contribution to that. Hunt knelt down and completed what the second man had run out of time to do, extracting the pistol wedged at the back of his jeans. He trained his ears for any more movement outside the room. For the time being at least the corridor seemed empty. Hunt swung his head around the doorway to confirm it. He returned his attention to the two dead men. They looked far too fearsome to have been taken out so easily: They had plainly assumed it had been a false alarm inside the room. The next batch would be more wary.

Hunt found a shoulder bag in the closet and greedily filled it with jewelry and ammunition and added to it his jacket and shirt. He slung the bag over his shoulder and, with cocked pistols in both hands, headed out the room and down a narrow interior spiral staircase of slippery burgundy carpet. He was aware that Hilario's family lived in an upmarket suburb of Havana, well away from the dangers of the bridge, and so he could be quite indiscriminate if anyone appeared between him and the front door.

The house he was moving through was immaculately clean and lavishly furnished, though, with its expansive spa and summer-bed sitting side by side on the ground floor, it appeared very much a playboy's lair. And the large portrait of Hilario occupying much of the entrance hall's front wall was disturbingly narcissistic. The man who had appeared gaunt, pale and afraid in the mugshot in his CIA file, was smugly aglow on canvas. The cadaverous cheeks had found a rosy hue and the narrow, inexpressive blue eyes had become warm and inquisitive. Hunt knew which version of Hilario's face would be on display when he returned home to find his cutting-edge security breached, two dead bodies on his floor and a sizable portion of his ill-gotten gains stolen. And if he had his way, that mugshot would this time round come much sooner than 2083.

The front door of the house had been left ajar and there were two motorcycles parked right outside, their engines rumbling in neutral. So, the two Enemigos had come by bikes and been so complacent they had left their engines running. Hunt strode passed the bikes and down the narrow street. He kept his head down, for even though he was in a black t-shirt walking alone in Cuban territory, someone might just take enough notice of him to twig that the President of the United States was inexplicably paying Cuba a visit. Although it was twenty years ago now, Hunt could still vividly recall how quickly things had gone haywire once hostilities had broken out. Gangsters and police alike had come swarming like enraged wasps. And he couldn't count on still having the strength, speed and stamina necessary to affect an escape against them. He was fifty-six years old. Hardly a young man. And he had a nagging suspicion the people he beat up in his daily life sparring sessions were simply letting him win through fear and because they were getting so well paid. Hunt had never particularly fussed about it. After all, getting a workout and having his ego stroked were two of the things he enjoyed most. But there was no one on this bridge going to take a dive for him. So, he sensed it was going to be his turn to find out if he could take a punch. After all he had done to the world, he supposed it would be karma.

He descended the outside pedestrian stairs to the retail level and quickly walked the one and a half miles to Rafael Faz's Pawn Shop. The shop looked dark and uninviting, its heavily barred glass front a significant barrier between the outside world and the items of value within. Hunt pressed a buzzer at the front door and waited to be scanned. It amused him that despite all the guns in his bag and on his persons, the door lock was disengaged to grant him release. He entered the shop with an assured stride, heading for Rafael Faz, who was seated behind the glass counter in the centre of the shop. With shoulders hunched forward, Rafael was endeavoring to fix the mechanism of a flick knife: his eyes shot up at Hunt just like the blade in a working model.

'You remind me of someone,' muttered Rafael after a moment.

'A certain President?' replied Hunt. 'I get that a lot.'

'I bet you do.'

'Who knows? Maybe I am the real President.'

Rafael's heavy dark brown eyes squinted as he carefully examined Hunt's face. 'I am in the business of judging fakes from the genuine articles. And I must say I doubt it.'

Hunt slipped off one of the gold watches he had taken from the Bridge Master's collection and dropped it onto the counter. 'Well, tell me if this is real.'

Rafael scooped it up and scrutinized it carefully through the jeweler's monocle he always kept close at hand. 'Where did you get it?' he queried with a voice no longer so composed.

'A distant relative willed it to me before jumping off a bridge. It might even have been this bridge.'

'So, it's hot?'

'It doesn't seem to be burning your fingers now, does it?'

Rafael glared at him disapprovingly. 'How much do you want for it?'

'Well, as you can imagine, it is of great sentimental value, but I am willing to give it to you for nothing.'

Rafael frowned. 'You might be just as bad at business as your unfortunate twin in the White House, so let me explain how a pawn shop works. We agree on a price and if you fail to come up with the money by a specific date, then the goods are forfeit.'

'It's not your money I need, so let's see if we can come to a different arrangement.'

'What then?'

'There is a friend of yours I'd like to meet. His name is Lassila Benson.'

Rafael's eyes narrowed. 'What is this all about?'

'This is us doing business. Lassila has spent his whole life on a bridge, but that doesn't mean he is easy to find. And if I were to go wandering around asking for him by name, I would likely take a dive from the bridge like my distant relative.'

'You just might. We don't like gringos and we don't like questions.'

'Do you like gold watches? Here's another one.' Hunt took it from his pocket and placed it on the counter. 'Tell Lassila to meet me at the Miami Diva bar in one hour.'

'I might not be able to reach him.'

Hunt grabbed his wrist. 'If you're not the right person for the job, I'll give my watches to the person who is.'

Rafael swallowed greedily. 'I'll see what I can do.' He snatched the watches away to the secure box under the counter. 'You better know what you're doing. Trifling with people like Lassila Benson could get you into bother.'

Hunt held out his hand. 'Actually, you better give me twenty bucks. Lassila doesn't sound like the type who buys his own drinks.'

Rafael took out a twenty dollar note from his register and slapped it into his hand, eager to placate him while the terms were so good.

'Great, now what is the usual arrangement? If I don't pay you back, you get to keep the watches?' Hunt returned to the door and looked back. 'If Lassila is not at the Miami Diva like we've agreed then you'll certainly see me again, and it won't be the kind of payback you're going to like. You can count on it.'

Rafael watched him leave the store and snarled disdainfully. 'I didn't agree to anything.' He hurriedly retrieved the two watches from the safety box and smiled enraptured as he ran the bands of pure, flawless gold through his fingers. They were exquisite, top of the range pieces. Rafael went to his phone and called Lassila. The voice at the other end was curt and blunt: 'What is it?'

'A gringo wants to meet you at the Miami Diva. He has a business proposal.'

'What the hell would I want with a gringo's business proposal?'

'I think he's pretty rich. And a little nuts. A cow waiting to be milked.'

'Sure he's not a cop?'

Rafael's heart skipped a beat. He hadn't even considered the possibility. If he were, things could get very ugly. Vouching for a cop was a death sentence. 'I have no reason to think so,' he replied shakily.

'Alright. What does he look like?'

'He's wearing a black t-shirt and he's got blonde hair. He kind of looks like President Jefferson Hunt.'

The line went dead. Rafael bit his lip tensely and somewhat distractedly returned to trying to repair the flick knife.

2

Hunt was sitting at the same table in the Miami Diva as the fateful night almost twenty years earlier when Doug Graze was taken. Only this time he was ready. He gulped down a beer and waited. It was still early in the evening, and the other few people at the bar were also alone; the only difference was they didn't seem to be waiting for anyone or anything at all. It was over an hour since Hunt had left the pawn shop. He would wait a little longer and then, as promised, he would go pay Rafael another visit. He didn't have time for a lot of patience. He had failed to keep his only real friend alive the last time he was on the bridge and now he had a miraculous chance to make amends - he wouldn't let it go to waste.

Lassila Benson marched into the bar in a black leather jacket and black denim jeans and he sat down on the other side of the table. He looked Hunt up and down and smirked. 'You do kind of look like him,' he said in a hard voice. 'I've never had my chance to shoot a President before. I reckon it would feel real good.'

Hate surged through Hunt in its purest form as he locked eyes with the killer of his best friend. He could feel his limbs trembling with the urge to lash out. The glass in his hand was the most proximate weapon. He pictured it smashing into Lassila's snide face and how good it would feel. But this wasn't the right time or place for that - or, at least, it wasn't the right time, so he forced himself to stay calm. 'Can I buy you a drink?' he muttered.

Lassila shrugged indifferently. 'Get me a double whiskey.'

Hunt called out the order, including the same for himself, and the drinks came without delay - the bartender was noticeably intent on avoiding eye contact and retreated from the table as quickly as possible.

Lassila scooped up his drink and downed it like water. Then he took Hunt's as well. 'When I said a double, this is what I meant,' he muttered and gulped the drink.

'I see.'

'I get bored very easily, so you better tell me what you want, gringo.'

Hunt's voice was cold and steady. 'Well, it's fortuitous that you're interested in killing a President because that's pretty much what I've got in mind.'

'How's that?'

'It's no coincidence I look like Jefferson Hunt. I'm a body-double. My appearance has been altered so that, at least from a distance, I can pass as him.'

'Maybe from a distance,' snarled Lassila. 'Up close you look too old to be him. Couldn't they find someone younger?'

'Younger people don't want to do this kind of work. The cosmetic operations, the behavioral training, having to leave behind your former life. The Secret Service didn't exactly have a long list of job applicants.'

Lassila laughed scoffingly. 'Especially not with a scumbag like Hunt. I bet assassins are lining up to put a bullet in his head. And I bet no Secret Service agent would take a bullet to save a decoy's dumb ass.'

'Probably not,' Hunt conceded.

'So, what is it? You want me to shoot the President so you can take over his job for real?'

Hunt paused. 'Almost but not quite. There's one other body-double on active service. He is of the right age and so actually looks more like the real thing. It means he gets more work and gets paid a hell of a lot more. But if he were to disappear and there was only me remaining, then my value would increase dramatically. You're right when you say there are a lot of assassins lining up to take a shot at Hunt. There are the crazies and terrorists and a whole lot of other people who think the President would be better off dead. And it would take a year at least to get another body-double operational. So, I'll be their only option.'

'You'll have a monopoly of a very niche market.'

'Exactly. And with the other body-double having mysteriously disappeared, I will be concerned and traumatized. My contract with the Secret Service will need to be sweetened considerably to make the risks worthwhile.'

Lassila chuckled approvingly. 'I like your edge. Smarter than the real President. But why do you want me to get involved? Anyone can do a hit.'

'Because you can make people disappear nice and clean. As a Secret Service agent, I was privy to your files. I know your exploits and capabilities.'

'Nice and clean depends on how close you're going to get. We have a pulverizer on the bridge for making fish food. That's my favourite method of disappearing someone. Sometimes though we just attach a block of concrete and let them sink to the bottom of the sea.'

Thinking of such things happening to Graze got Hunt's blood up again. He had to stay calm and alert, especially because the way Lassila was eyeing him off it was clear he was being considered for the same treatment.

'I'll leave the details to you,' he finally said.

'So, you're gonna get this body-double onto the bridge? I don't work anywhere else. And I'm not going to the gringo side either. I've already got an appointment with the electric chair if I'm ever caught there.'

'I'll get him here alright. I've got some dirt on him that will make sure of it. That'll be the easy part. He's arriving in Key West today in preparation for the President's talks with the British PM. I will contact him and coax him to the Miami Diva for a little chat. And you can dispense with him nice and easy.'

'Nice and easy depends on how much you're gonna pay.'

Hunt plunked onto the table a handful of the jewelry he had stolen from Hilario Valle. 'A small down payment against one million dollars to be deposited in a bank account of your choosing.'

Lassila whistled. 'That's a lot of money. But if it's money you've stolen from the United States Government, they're going to want it back.'

'You can be rich or careful. But it's very hard to be both. Anyway, it's not coming from the United States Government.'

'I suppose you had it stashed away in a cookie jar.'

'Something like that.'

Lassila thought for a moment. 'Alright, here's the deal. I kidnap your man and if you come up with the million, we'll turn him into fish food. But if you don't, we'll send him back to Washington DC untouched and completely aware of what you were plotting against him.'

'In other words, you're a kidnapper that only kills the victim once the ransom is paid.'

'If you want to put it like that.'

'Well, the arrangement is fine with me. But there's one condition. The bodyguards accompanying the body-double are not to be harmed in any way. They're the real thing and they're friends of mine. Incapacitate them if you must. But, if anyone of them gets hurt, no one gets paid. That's non-negotiable.'

Lassila frowned. 'You sound like a typical soft gringo. If I felt threatened by them, I might even argue with you. Ok, so when can we expect the fake President on the bridge?'

'I'll have to make a call first. Today is Wednesday. I'll set it up for Friday.' Hunt braced himself for a reaction and when it didn't come, he realized it must have been Wednesday after all. It was the final confirmation that the Miraculine had placed him at the exact time and place of his choosing. It meant Jean Hitchlow and Doug Graze were still alive and the young Jefferson Hunt was out there causing havoc. 'What's your phone number? I will call you when everything is confirmed.'

'No, I will contact you.'

'I don't have a phone.'

'So, maybe our deal is already dead.'

'I'm staying at the Conquistador Hotel,' said Hunt, aware that it was the best hotel on the Cuban side of the bridge. 'Under the name of Rylan Dimore.'

Lassila took out a pen and wrote a long string of numbers onto a napkin. 'Put two hundred grand into this account to help me believe this story is legit. Do it by 5pm or everything stops.' He scooped up the jewelry on the table and pointed to the gold watch on Hunt's wrist. 'That will tell me what time it is.'

Hunt took off the watch and handed it to him.

Lassila smirked and winked. 'Good night, Mr President.'

Hunt watched him swagger out the bar and it occurred to him that Lassila was the kind of rattlesnake that wouldn't make a noise before he struck. He picked up a fresh napkin and urgently started writing down something of his own.

*

Hunt stood before a Banco Metropolitano automatic transaction machine and exhaled a lungful of air with the relief of passing the full suite of face, eye and voice recognition tests. It gave him access to one of the numerous secret accounts he had set up in the first year of his Presidency as a part of his early retirement scheme. He made the necessary deposit to Lassila's account and then withdrew some Cuban pesos and a hundred-thousand-dollar cash card. He had chosen an ATM in a lonely strip of seedy bars and massage parlors, for the kinds of people who frequented such places tended to keep to themselves and their own vices - and that included the police. The drawback was that cabs preferred to give the area a wide berth, and as a result it took almost an hour for Hunt to reach the Conquistador Hotel. It was not much of a hotel despite its reputation, but most of its focus went into room security: the luxury it offered was the assurance to guests that they would wake up alive the following morning. Hunt paid for four nights at twice the usual rate (as an alternative to providing any identification) and then gave the hotel clerk the napkin he had written on at the Miami Diva. 'I'm here on important business to improve relations between the United States and Cuba,' he explained. 'I have an appointment with Hilario Valle, the Bridge Master, but may be delayed with other business. If I am not back here by 7pm this evening, I will need this message delivered to him with the highest priority.' He handed the clerk two thousand pesos. 'Will you accept this responsibility?'

The clerk, a young man with slicked back black hair and pot-marked cheeks, nodded earnestly. 'I will still be on duty at the appointed time and will dispatch a courier as arranged.'

Hunt nodded and added a further generous tip. 'That's good.'

'Forgive me for saying so, sir,' added the clerk nervously, 'but you very much resemble President Jefferson Hunt.'

Hunt paused and kept himself composed. 'Actually, I am his elder brother. That is why, for security, reasons I do not want to use my passport. I'm here on a very sensitive diplomatic assignment.'

The clerk smiled stiffly. 'Understood, Mr Dimore. I hope you enjoy your stay at the Conquistador.'

'Thank you. Now, can you point the way to the nearest public phone box?'

'We still maintain our own, sir. A number of our guests appreciate this service. It is located to the rear of the lobby.' He pointed.

Hunt walked that way and quickly located the old-fashioned glass phone booth tucked away in a back corner. As he set about extracting from his memory the phone number he would need, he found himself thinking back twenty years ago to what his younger self would have been doing at this moment. The memories were vividly clear: he had endured a long, drawn-out security briefing in the White House until 4pm and then ridden Marine One to Wall Street for his all-night session with Jean Hitchlow. He glanced across the hotel lobby to the wall clock: 3:40pm. He would make contact after the security briefing. Time enough for a shower and to consider exactly what words to use. He needed to get it right. If he somehow got it wrong, it would be Hitchlow's death sentence.

*

The hotel room's shower recess was spacious and surprisingly stylish with black tiling, polished brass fittings and a spotlessly clean glass door. The bathroom quickly steamed up with the hot jets of water Hunt was bombarding himself with. His head was immersed as he flicked through his past in his mind's, mostly focussing on Marc Hammersmith, a former special forces sergeant. Hammersmith was eventually murdered in Manila in 2079: Five bullets in the back by a hitman witnesses had described as being just a kid. By that stage Hammersmith was so far off the grid no one could even begin to speculate what would have prompted the hit. But in 2072 he was doing relatively well in his retirement from the United States military, working as a mercenary and arms supplier, mostly based in the United States and Western Europe. He had provided Hunt with the explosive device that had gone under Jean Hitchlow's bed. And there had been other similar jobs. Hammersmith's name dropped by an anonymous caller on his private phone would certainly get the young President's attention - something about him having been recruited as an FBI informant. Hunt was confident it would be enough to draw his younger self to the Miami Diva on Friday evening \- this time without Contilde on his arm

With his mind made up, Hunt turned off the shower and paused as water drained off him. In the silence that ensued, however, there came the creaking of boot leather on the floor tiles behind him. He spun around sharply to see a heavyset, black clad figure wearing broad sunglasses and shrouded by steam. Before Hunt could react, the man had pulled open the shower door and aimed a pistol at Hunt's chest.

'Are you clean?' queried the figure in a hard, menacing tone and Hunt realized immediately that it was Lassila.

'My back still needs a scrub if you're offering,' Hunt muttered defiantly. But he knew who he was dealing with. He knew a double cross had always been looming just around the corner. 'Still, you could have knocked,' he added.

Lassila smirked and lifted his sunglasses onto his forehead to reveal his cold, cruel eyes. 'I own every door on this damned bridge. That's why I didn't knock.'

'So, what is this? You want to renegotiate the deal?'

'Exactly.' Lassila fired the gun and the noise within the confines of the bathroom was ear shattering.

Hunt looked down to see a small black dart wedged between his ribs. He extracted it reflexively and squirmed at the length of the needle tip that had gone in. 'What the hell?'

'You're going to make fantastic fertilizer, gringo.'

Hunt became instantly weak and dizzy and collapsed onto his knees; he wondered in a half-thought how many people were going to die because of this betrayal. Maybe himself, depending on whether or not Lassila was bluffing. And then there was Hitchlow, Jose Catalan of the Democracy Dead Movement, and Doug Graze. Not to mention the many untold millions who would be casualties as the Second American Civil War wreaked its devastation. But all was not lost. Lassila was exaggerating when he said he owned every door on the bridge. Hunt passed into unconsciousness knowing there was at least one that he didn't.

*

Rafael Faz was painstakingly oiling the mechanism of a Stechkin automatic pistol when Hilario Valle and two hard looking members of the Enemigos stepped into his shop. He dropped the pistol onto the glass counter as though he were surrendering. He glanced about the numerous clocks for sale in the store and saw that it was eight o'clock in the evening.

One of the Enemigos turned the open sign around to closed and joined the other in standing guard at the doorway with his arms folded and his eyes fixed upon Rafael. The question in Rafael's mind wasn't what set these two men to kill someone, but rather, what might appease them sufficiently to actually let someone live.

Hilario Valle separated approached the counter slowly and deliberately, eyeing over the rows of miscellaneous items within the glass cases. Although the Bridge Master was the last person on Earth who would require the services of a pawn shop, he was clearly here with a purpose.

'Can I help you, sir?' murmured Rafael timidly.

'I think possibly you can,' Hilario replied, baring his gold capped teeth. 'I would enjoy the chance to peruse your watch and jewelry collections. Especially your latest arrivals.'

Rafael's heart missed a beat. From the tone of Hilario's voice and the murderous glint of anger in his eyes, it was plain something was badly amiss, and his mind immediately drifted to Hunt's visit earlier in the day. He had just known there was something fishy about him. 'Sir?' he murmured trepidly.

'Latest arrivals. Did you have any items come in today? I would very much like to see them.'

Rafael knew beyond doubt he was in grave danger and that his only chance of survival was total cooperation. He hurried into the back room and quickly returned with the gold watches Hunt had given him. He placed them on the counter with trembling hands. 'These came in at midday.'

Hilario picked one up and his face flushed crimson with rage. 'I will give you the benefit of the doubt that you did not know these belong to me.'

Rafael was overcome by a wave of nausea. 'I certainly didn't,' he cried. 'I swear to God I didn't.'

'If I had found them on display in your shop window, it wouldn't have mattered. For that indignity I would hang you by your balls from the bridge. And I still might, my friend.'

Rafael surprised and repulsed himself that even in this truly dire moment he couldn't help but instinctively value the things he saw before him. Hilario's navy-blue suit shimmered with the very finest silk and was clearly hand tailored. It was a refreshing change in an era of machine produced derivatives and no doubt worth four or five thousand US dollars. The diamond studded earring could have fetched anywhere up to a hundred thousand dollars depending on the purity of the stone. The sunglasses protruding from his breast pocket were probably worth hundreds, though he couldn't tell which brand they were. Rafael had to stop himself from reaching over the counter to check out his shoes as well - he could only imagine their quality. The one thing he was completely sure of, however, was what little value Hilario would place on his life. He paid Enemigos for murders as easily as he doled out pocket money to his three teenage daughters.

'You do know who I am?' queried Hilario with a raised eyebrow.

'Of course,' Rafael replied. 'You are the Bridge Master.'

'That's right. And to some small extent I know who you are too. You're a piddling pawnbroker who dabbles in the underworld.' Hilario, with an expert touch, reassembled the Stechkin pistol and pumped a bullet into the chamber. 'I would say it's a job that comes with certain dangers.'

'I pay my taxes,' urged Rafael, 'both to you and the Enemigos.'

'I'm sure you do. There would be no other explanation for you still being alive.' Hilario pointed the pistol at Rafael's heart. 'And yet when someone breaks into my home and steels my possessions, I need to hurt someone in return. So maybe your luck has just run out.'

'I don't know anything about the house break in,' pleaded Rafael, holding out his hands imploringly.

Hilario sneered doubtfully. 'What is even worse than having my valuables stolen is that the thief murdered two of my security personnel right there in my home. Do you know what a double murder does to the value of a property? It wipes hundreds of thousands of dollars off its worth, that's what it does. So, although the robber seems to have become repentant and pointed me in the direction of my stolen property, that does not change anything. I am going to find this person and torture him until I have drained to the floor every last drop of his blood.' He lowered the pistol a fraction. 'Notice that I am in the company of the Enemigos and not the police? Now you understand exactly why.'

'I shall tell you everything I know,' Rafael gasped.

'Very well. Consider this your one and only chance.'

'The man who brought the watches was an American. He had an uncanny resemblance to President Jefferson Hunt. He said he inherited the pieces from a distant relative.'

Hilario glanced at two Enemigos, who were just as underwhelmed by the story as he was. He glanced back at Rafael. 'Is that the explanation you want your life to depend on?'

'There is something in addition,' Rafael replied urgently. 'He didn't want money from me in exchange. Instead, he wanted me to arrange a meeting with Lassila Benson - an enforcer on the bridge.'

'I know who Lassila Benson is and I am not particularly surprised he is a friend of a hustling pawn dealer. Did you arrange the meeting?'

'Yes, at the Miami Diva Bar. This all happened only a few hours ago.'

'And what happened at the meeting?'

'I can't tell you much.'

'But I have a hunch you know something.'

Rafael dry swallowed. 'I'm not sure I want to trust my life to it.'

'You never know, it might just be all you have.'

Rafael winced. 'The man said he was one of two body-doubles of the President and that he wants Lassila to kill his rival, so that he would be worth more.'

'And you believe that nonsense?'

Real shrugged. 'As you said, I am just a pawn dealer.'

Hilario paused with a laser like stare as he studied Rafael for the slightest hint of a lie. At last he relaxed and smirked. 'Well, I would rather torture to death a US traitor than a couple of tax paying Cubans, so I will not punish the absurdity of this story unless the man himself convinces me it isn't true. As you have been organizing meetings for the American, it will be very easy for you to point me in his direction.'

Rafael shuffled uncomfortably. 'Lassila has already handed over him to Ciro Devaldo.'

Hilario frowned. 'That didn't take him long. If I am not mistaken, you are suggesting Lassila was negotiating with the American in the afternoon and betraying him in the evening.'

Rafael shrugged. 'Lassila didn't trust him very much.'

Hilario pulled out a cigar from his suit's inner pocket and spat the end of it out onto the floor. 'Where are they now?'

'I don't know,' replied Rafael nervously. 'Devaldo owns numerous properties in Havana. That gives him many choices.'

'Should I assume the rest of my stolen possessions are heading that way too?'

'I can only speak to those watches that were given to me.'

'You have Lassila's number. Call him and find out where he is.'

'Now?'

'Well, if you keep me waiting, you may no longer have fingers on your hand with which to place a call.'

Rafael hurriedly pulled out his phone and called the number. But he was sent to voicemail and he shook his head despondently. 'He's not answering. Shall I leave a message?'

'It's me who is going to be leaving messages.' Hilario placed the Stechkin pistol on the counter. 'You better not sell this,' he said. 'You might need it.' He left the shop and lit up his cigar out in the warm moonlight. He inhaled deeply and released a circle of smoke at the bright three-quarter moon above him. He ambled to the bridge's side railing and gazed down at the dark waters lapping gently against the bridge. A young woman with long black braided hair and glistening olive skin was approaching to his left. Even in the dim street light, Hilario recognized her immediately as Esmeralda, the enigmatic leader of the Enemigos. It was said she did a thousand pushups every day, something her leanness and effortless movement implied was entirely possible. She barked abruptly at the two gang members accompanying Hilario in a Spanish so heavily accented by the street Hilario could barely understand a word. The two men had been smoking joints in a huddle and they snapped to attention with her approach. One of them meekly muttered something into her ear and pointed at Hilario.

Esmeralda spun sharply that way. 'My comrades tell me you have not yet asked them to kill the pawn broker. They don't like it and neither do I.' She gestured to the neon street sign. 'This man Faz has taken things stolen from you, things that have cost the lives of two Enemigos. To not kill him immediately could be seen as disrespect.'

Hilario replied slowly and carefully, aware that he was addressing a habitual killer with a notoriously short temper. 'I am sorry for your fallen comrades, but we come at this situation from different worlds. Whereas you are a soldier of the underworld, I am a government officer. I am obliged to get to the heart of a problem before deciding who needs to die.'

'Alright then,' snapped Esmeralda impatiently, 'let's get to the heart of the problem right now. Who broke into your condo and killed my men?'

'It was an American. An outsider. The pawn broker has just told me that he is now in the hands of Ciro Devaldo.'

'What would Devaldo want with him?'

Hilario scrunched up his face. 'I would like to ask him that myself.'

'We can go see him if you wish. But you will have to travel the same way as the American surely went: blindfolded in the boot of a car.'

'You must be joking. Devaldo is merely a smuggler and I am in control of his main route into the United States. I demand to be treated with dignity.'

'Do not take yourself so seriously, Hilario. You merely control a bridge. Devaldo controls all of Havana.' Esmeralda paused for effect. 'And everyone within it.'

Hilario bit his lip to control his rage. He wasn't sure if Esmeralda was referring to his young family or Havana's ruling elite - but it didn't really matter, because both were true. He removed from his jacket the handwritten note that the courier had handed him just an hour earlier. He reread it carefully: The people who invaded your home and killed your protectors are agents of the United States Secret Service. They will keep steeling from you until there is nothing left. They know you inside and out. To stop them start with Rafael Faz. That same sense of foreboding chilled Hilario to the core. He needed to find out what was going on. He put away the note and glanced resolutely at Esmeralda. 'Very well, I will travel in your boot. Let's go.'

3

Jefferson Hunt regained consciousness with another dart fired at close range into his chest. This time he was left to pull it out himself.

'On your feet,' spat a man in a thick Latino accent. He grabbed Hunt with one hand and effortlessly lifted him onto his feet.

Hunt still couldn't see anything, but he could feel the pressure and texture of the cotton material wrapped around his face. He was blindfolded. And his hands were tied behind his back too.

He was corralled forward by the hands grappling his arms. He could not feel the weather and so figured they were indoors. His heart was pounding despite himself. Having been captured and tortured by terrorists in his military days he was all too aware of how fraught was the predicament he was in. On that occasion, his unit had rescued him before his torturers had really hit their straps. But deep-down Hunt suspected he had never been quite the same afterwards - at the very least some of his humanity had been lost. And on this occasion, there would be no one to rescue him as no one even knew he existed. The really scary thing for Hunt, however, was the sudden realization that if he broke and started telling them everything, they would simply not believe it. How could they? They would just get angry at being taken for fools and would apply even more pain. So, it would be torture with no way out. Hunt swallowed hard. And he tried in vain to block from his mind the memories of all those files on the Enemigos that he had read and all those accounts of how they had tortured their enemies with absolute sadism. Pliers, drills, axes and blowtorches were their tools of the trade. Hunt felt his legs buckle and it was only the hand upon him that kept him upright.

'Keep moving,' one of the captors barked callously.

They continued walking for a time and then Hunt was shoved against a wall. He heard the door slide closed and then they began to rise. So, they were in an elevator. The journey was brief. Then, Hunt was led out across a soft carpeted floor and through another doorway. He was plonked into a chair and the blindfold removed. He found himself at the center of a long rectangular conference table in the company of five other people, two of whom he recognized: Lassila Benson and Hilario Valle. They were sitting on the other side of the table and were hostilely peering back at him. The feeling was mutual and although Hunt was here to change the future, knowing how poorly the lives of these two men were destined to turn out gave him much satisfaction. Knowing that he had personally unleashed a CIA hit team on Lasilla was particularly sweet.

The other three people at the table were seated on either side of Hunt and were peering down at nothing in particular with a calmness and steely resolve. One was a red headed woman with large greens eyes and a pale, wrinkled complexion that placed her somewhere near retirement age. Next to her was a man of a similar age and had a large, round face, protruding stomach and was mostly bald. They were both wearing stylish, hand-tailored suits and were immaculately groomed. The furthest person from Hunt was an oddly attractive, relatively young woman with long braided black hair; she was tensely leaning forward, biting her nails and trying to deal with her disdain of inactivity. Hunt suspected she was Esmeralda, the leader of the Enemigos, though the CIA files had never been able to capture a definitive picture of her. What struck Hunt the most about this moment was the silence amongst the table. It indicated to him that this was more than likely Devaldo's lair - the most feared crime lord in Cuba. Every word uttered in the windowless, dome-shaped room would be recorded and analyzed, which made idle chatter a particularly dangerous pastime.

The room consisted ceiling to floor of reflective black steel and overhead downlighting that was dim and shaped in crosses. It would only have taken the addition of organ music for it to become the most gruesome of funeral parlors.

A previously invisible door slid open and from a brightly lit corridor a tall, bald man with olive skin and a hard, lean face walked in with a spring in his step, buttoning his navy-blue suit and staring fixedly at Hunt.

'Forgive the long wait,' he said with a slight Latino accent. 'I was in the backyard, butchering the putting green that is modeled on the world-famous Augusta Gold Course's fourteenth hole. With its false front, steep bunkers and daunting undulations, it is considered by many professionals to be the world's toughest green. Adding water traps has made this version even tougher.' The man stopped at the head of the table and remained on his feet. 'I hired Cuba's most renowned golf architect to build the hole and regularly fly in Augusta's head curator to refresh it. I usually play it early in the morning as I mentally prepare for the day, but also occasionally during working hours I use it as a negotiation tool in multi-million-dollar deals. I once made a twenty million dollar bet on a hotel somewhere up north. I can't remember where the hotel is, but I won the hole and so it belongs to me.' He smirked grimly. 'I must confess I am glad I was not playing for any kind of stakes just now, for I was well below my usual level. Your appearance here is clearly to blame. Although I am unafraid of the United States, I know full well that it needs to be humored and indulged like a spoilt child to avoid tantrums. Kidnaping President Hunt's body-double is potentially a very dangerous provocation. I suspect this dilemma caused me to miss my putt.'

'My apologies,' muttered Hunt dryly.

'Not at all.' The man stared at him some more. 'You do look uncannily like the President. Just older. I met him once during the presidential election campaign. He addressed the Cuban American Society in Miami.'

'About building schools and hospitals for Cuban Americans?'

'That's right. It wasn't you giving the address was it? I'll ask for my money back if it turns out I was listening to a fake President.'

Hunt just shrugged.

'Well,' the man continued, 'we have more important things to discuss. Shall we begin with introductions? My name is Ciro Devaldo. I am a prominent businessman in Cuba and have interests in both legal and illegal enterprises. I assume you already know Hilario Valle as you just broke into his home. Lassila you have met. And dear Esmeralda, who was the leader of the two men you killed.' He pointed at the older man. 'Then there is Levry Dasha, my Head of Operations. Don't get on his bad side unless you have a death wish.' He stepped across to the red headed woman. 'This is Diana Louganis. She is my liaison with the Cuban Army, which is another way to say my political adviser.' He sat down at the head of the table. 'Now it's your turn. Despite resembling Jefferson Hunt, you must have your own name.'

'I'm Rylan Dimore,' muttered Hunt, borrowing the name of the future President for his own private amusement.

'Before we begin our discussion, would you care for some refreshments? According to my people, you have until very recently been unconscious.'

'I would like to know the date and time,' Hunt replied.

'Of course. It is Thursday 21 July.' Devaldo glanced at his dazzling gold watch. 'And it has just gone 6pm. So, you have been asleep for approximately a day. Forgive me for that. I am a busy man with a full schedule. You can at least be thankful I did not decide to make your sleep permanent.'

Hunt steeled himself. He was still in with a chance. Although it was now too late for Jean Hitchlow, Doug Graze would be alive for one more day. And there was still a clear way out of his predicament. He still had cards to play.

'I have heard of you, Mr Devaldo,' said Hunt. 'I would have saved time and gone to you directly if there had been a way.'

Devaldo smirked. 'It's true I'm more difficult to gain access to than the President herself. Of course, I'm referring to our own Cuban President, Jennifer Herdes. I reside on the outskirts of Havana in a very large mansion with high walls and extremely unsociable pets guarding it. I do not stray from it often. My father was the same and that has been a secret to our dynasty. By holding ourselves in a prison of sorts, our enemies have lost that option from the table. Nor is assassination feasible. The perimeter walls are one meter thick and even a tank could not penetrate them. This means I can reach out to squash my rivals while they have little scope for reprisal.'

'They can build their own fortresses.'

'Such things are only effective for those who already have power, not for those trying to acquire it.'

Hunt glanced at the dome around them. 'And this is your home we're in?'

'My main residence.'

'It seems nice.'

'I am a very wealthy man, Mr Dimore. If all I thought you were worth was the million dollars you offered Lassila, I would have slit your throat by now. Or better yet, given you to Esmeralda to avenge the murder of her people. So, we should both be glad that you could be worth considerably more.' Devaldo turned to Levry Dasha. 'Have you heard back yet from the Russians and Chinese?'

Dasha nodded. 'Initial contact has been promising. The Iranians and Koreans are also interested. If we can get them in a bidding match, the sky is the limit. Well, at least ten million dollars.'

Devaldo smirked. 'That is good.' He glanced at Diana Louganis. 'Of course, offering him to the Cuban government for a discounted price is a viable option. Particularly if their gratitude is shown in other ways.'

'Our gratitude is certain,' replied Louganis.

'My cooperation with a foreign power is not out of the question,' interjected Hunt. 'That would raise my value all the more.'

Devaldo stared at him a long, hard moment. 'Go on.'

'I approached Lassila looking for a better life. Nothing has changed. Cuba for one could easily accommodate my simple needs.'

Louganis chuckled dryly. 'Just how simple?'

Hilario shot up his hand as though he was a student in a classroom.

'What is it?' Devaldo snapped agitated.

'I would urge caution,' Hilario stated. 'Clearly not everything is as it seems. My home on the Miami Havana bridge has state of the art security and yet this man was able to penetrate it without there being any trace of forced entry. As meek as he appears, I would impress on you that he is in fact extremely dangerous. My whole purpose for coming here today is to find out how he was able to breach my security and to get to the bottom of what he is up to. It would be in your best interests to know these things as well.'

Devaldo nodded earnestly. 'You're right, Bridge Master, I shouldn't get ahead of myself.' He eyed Hunt carefully. 'As I said, I'm already extremely rich and successful. Perhaps, the wisest course of action would be to bury you in a grave so deep that it would be forgotten by all that you ever lived.'

'It's already too late for that,' warned Hunt. 'The Pentagon has injected my blood with a tracking agent. If I am disappeared, they will conclude I was taken against my will. And this location will connect you with the crime. As Hilario has recently discovered, people are not always as secure as they might think.'

Devaldo glared at him. 'I don't like being threatened.'

'That was an education, not a threat. And in a sign of good faith let me sweeten our deal.'

'How?'

'Before I was betrayed by Lassila, I had arranged to meet my fellow presidential double on the bridge. We are going to have a drink at one of its more infamous bars, the Miami Diva. And Contilde Hargrove, the British Prime Minister's daughter is going to join us. We'll be wearing disguises of course.'

'Do not even consider this,' Levry Dasha urged to Devaldo. 'Kidnaping the Prime Minister's daughter would unleash untold repercussions.'

'That is not what I am proposing,' Hunt replied. 'The bodyguard they are bringing for protection is Doug Graze. He is one of the Secret Service's more decorated agents. Unlike me, he will not be inclined to cooperate. But if you can abduct him, he will prove a goldmine to a foreign intelligence service.'

'So, you're no longer suggesting I turn the other fake President into mincemeat?' muttered Lassila.

Hunt shook his head. 'If you have me, then he is of no value to anyone. Rob them if you will. I know Contilde carries a significant amount of jewelry on her persons whenever she goes out. She is quite complacent when it comes to the dangers lurking in the big, bad world.'

'What are the details of your meeting?' asked Devaldo.

'Tomorrow night at midnight. But you shouldn't expect Contilde to be on time. She's unreliable and very spoilt.'

Devaldo glanced at Lassila. 'Can you arrange to be at the Diva tomorrow night?'

'Certainly,' said Lassila. 'I kidnaped this man and I can kidnap a Secret Service agent if that's what needs to be done.'

'Hold the agent on the bridge. I want to keep my distance from this whole business.'

'That's fine. I'll lock him up somewhere secure and wait for instructions.'

'Good.'

'And the items I take from the Prime Minister's daughter?'

'If they are truly of worth, you can bring them to Havana. Valuing them will go a long way to telling us if our new friend here is telling the truth.'

'I would suggest you be careful of Contilde's jewelry,' said Hunt in an even voice. 'Some of the pieces will contain micro-tracking devices - just like me.'

'Do not concern yourself with that,' replied Devaldo. 'I possess a van with state-of-the-art anti-tracking systems - its technology was appropriated from the CIA at considerable cost. That's where you too will be staying until I decide what to do with you. If I wish to keep you alive, it seems a full blood transfusion will be required. If death is the decision then the entire van will need to be buried. That would be a shame because it's been quite useful.'

'I would beg you to show caution,' said Levry Dasha. 'I agree with Lassila that this whole thing wreaks of a trap.'

Devaldo frowned. 'Esmeralda, you are a warrior of the streets, I would appreciate your thoughts on this.'

Esmeralda remained impassive. 'There's only one fact we know for sure. This man here looks like the President of the United States. If tomorrow night another lookalike goes to the Miami Diva with the British Prime Minister's daughter, you'll have a second fact. And if there's a Secret Service agent watching over them, that'll be yet another.'

'I get your point. So, we'll keep Rylan Dimore alive at least until tomorrow night. I want you to take him for a ride in the security van. Find a secure parking facility and spend the night there. Use your Enemigos rather than my people to guard him.'

'To distance yourself?'

Devaldo nodded. 'That's what I said. If tomorrow night things on the bridge develop the way Dimore claims, I will send Levry to take charge of the situation. In the meantime, you are to be benevolent nannies and nothing more. And that means no torture.'

'Well, that's different to the nannies that raised me, but alright,' replied Esmeralda. 'I'll take him for a ride and we'll see what happens.'

'Good. Handle it personally. Some of your minions have unpredictable temperaments and my instincts tell me this cargo is very valuable.'

Esmeralda nodded.

Devaldo fired at Hunt the murderous glare that had been his trademark since his formative years as a child hitman. 'If this is in fact a trap or if you have been lying to me in any way, it will turn out very badly for you. It will include pain beyond your wildest nightmare. So, before it is too late, is there anything you would like to tell me?'

Hunt returned his stare unflinchingly. 'Yes, I'm starting to feel hungry. Do you have any food in your van?'

Devaldo headed out of the room, muttering over his shoulder, 'Take him to a drive-thru.'

4

Jefferson Hunt had spent his first night back in 2072 stuffed unconscious in the boot of a gangster's car and now his second night had come and gone locked away in the van of the gangster's boss. So, he supposed he was moving up in the world. The van's cuboid-shaped cargo area was seatless and windowless and was entirely made of mirrored-steel. There was a single side-entry door, which had been locked the moment Esmeralda and her band of Enemigos had tossed him in.

With the arrival of morning the van was back on the road, and the way it was stopping and starting, the traffic was clearly heavy. Two of the Enemigos had joined Hunt in the cargo area for the ride and were sitting quietly, gazing at him with the indifference of coldblooded killers. They were anemically pale, heavily tattooed killers, and were both wearing sleeveless shirts and tattered black jeans. But it was the guns and knives tucked loosely into their belts that Hunt noticed most; as tempting as they were, with his hands bound tightly together by cord, it would be almost impossible to get to them. For the time being, the best he could do was lure the two gangsters into a sense of complacency through his deflated stillness. His mind, in actual fact, was racing as he contemplated for the hundredth time whether the meeting with Devaldo and his cronies the previous day had preserved enough elements of the past for it to repeat itself now. He dared to hope as much, but he knew the situation was balanced on a knife's edge. If he allowed himself to become property to be traded by Devaldo, all would be lost. The lies he told Devaldo would become the truth. He would be bought by Cuba or a rogue nation and he would disappear to a history that he already knew culminated in disaster. He couldn't let that be his fate. He would just have to keep an eye on the door on the other side of the van and bide his time - be ready for anything.

And he didn't have to wait long. The van abruptly pulled sharply to the roadside, drawing an angry retort of car horn from behind. Hunt positioned himself ready to spring for the door, at the first opportunity. But Levry Dasha proved even keener to get inside, opening and closing the door in one rapid action, and the van immediately tore back into traffic. Hunt had lost his moment, but was encouraged all the same. He recognized Levry's black suede jacket from peering through the sniper's scope on the Nacional de Cuba rooftop twenty years earlier; history was indeed repeating itself and he was going along for the ride.

Levry was wearing broad rimmed tech-glasses with an inbuilt earpiece and mike. As he listened to the messages coming in, he glanced protractedly at Hunt and then turned to the two Enemigos. 'My friends, today is shaping as a good day,' he said. 'We're going to fetch ourselves some royal jewels. It seems this is the real fake President after all.'

'Did you pick up Doug Graze?' muttered Hunt, battling hard to keep his voice calm.

'Sure,' replied Levry. 'We've got the bodyguard and we've got the jewels. But they've come with a lot of heat. The bridge is burning.'

'I bet it's nothing you can't handle.'

'That's a good bet.' Levry pulled out a pistol and cocked it. 'Damn those gringos to hell.'

The Enemigos hurriedly gathered up the machine guns that had been lying under their seats.

'Stay cool,' said Levry. 'Although the gringo enemies have showed some fight on the bridge, it is highly doubtful they would dare bring the fight to Havana.'

One of the Enemigos patted his gun barrel menacingly. 'This little pet of mine is in case you're wrong.'

Levry was unimpressed. 'Just make sure you know where it's pointing. You wouldn't want to accidentally shoot anything that belongs to Ciro Devaldo.' He pointed at Hunt. 'Including him.'

Hunt raised his bound-up wrists. 'If you're warming to me so much, you should cut me loose.'

'Don't get ahead of yourself. We're only at the stage where I wouldn't want you getting shot accidentally. Nothing more.'

Hunt bit his tongue. They had already done him a great service by not chaining him to the floor. He started discreetly wrapping his jacket around his wrist bindings so that when he was out of the van and running, he wouldn't so resemble an escapee running for his life. He kept his eyes anchored on the van's door and waited, just as he hoped his younger self was now waiting with sniper rifle in hand on the Hotel Nacional de Cuba rooftop.

As the van aggressively swerved through traffic, Hunt found himself thinking back to his Inauguration Day speech. He couldn't remember the precise words but it was something about being the United States's loyal defender and guiding light against adversities that had left been unchecked and those still to come. Written by a Hollywood scriptwriter, the speech had simply been words for Hunt to read aloud while he stood victorious before a hundred thousand supporters. He was also hazy about the Presidential oath as, for some reason, his Special Forces oath always clouded his head whenever he tried to recite it. So, the United States' very existence depended on him upholding words and pledges he couldn't even remember. Not that he was particularly fazed by it. He knew exactly what he had to do from here and getting out of the van without a bullet in his back was an important first step.

'Get ready, boys,' said Levry to the two Enemigos, pushing up closer to the door as he cupped a hand over his earpiece in order to hear perfectly the message coming in. 'We're on the Malecon and Esmeralda has spotted our man. Keep your eyes open for trouble.'

The van pulled in to the roadside and the door began to slid open. Bright sunshine and cool sea air came gushing in. Levry Dasha sprung out onto the Malecon's sidewalk with a hand in his gun pocket. Lassila Benson pushed himself off the seawall towards him, moving with a pronounced limp.

'Have you been followed?' Levry called out to him.

'No,' replied Lassila at the very moment a bullet exploded into his chest and flung him back onto the seawall. His eyes rolled up into a death trance and his body relaxed into a corpse on the ground. Hunt couldn't help but be impressed with the shot: from the distance of the Nacional de Cuba rooftop, he hadn't known how accurate his aim had been, but now up close he could see that Lassila's heart had been perfectly pierced. Just as promised, it was the President's own magic bullet. Hunt used the split second of confusion that followed to burst through the two Enemigos out onto the street. He shouldered past Levry Dasha in a fast sprint for the seawall.

'Somebody shoot him!' screamed Esmeralda from the front of the van, but Hunt dived headfirst over the wall before a shot could be fired. He curled up to lessen the damage the rocks at the base of the wall would inflict upon him, and he crashed against a sharp-edged rock that knocked the air from his lungs and sent him tumbling ungainly into the water. He forced himself to keep moving forward, fighting a path through the rocky shallows until the water was deep enough to dive into. With his hands bound, the only stroke he could do was a porpoise kick and he applied all his strength to it, knowing his back was still vulnerable to someone with a steady aim. But the shot never came: with a sniper on the loose, Levry and the Enemigos had chosen to cut their losses, and the van screeched away. Hunt knew, however, the Cuban police and military would not be so easily denied. Lungs screaming for air, he broke the surface and he took a rasping swallow of air. As he did so, he spotted Lassila's mini-submarine sitting at anchor almost directly ahead. He recognized the model as indeed the one described in the CIA report twenty years ago. With a top speed of 80 knots it was the fastest submarine in the world. Heartened by its proximity, Hunt ignored the pain of his fatigued and battered body to push through the remaining distance to the submarine. He hauled himself up the sleek, slippery carbon-fibre hull to the entry hatch. He could hear in the distant sky the emerging roar of helicopters fast approaching from the United States. The special forces team were on their way and would soon be joined by fighter jets scrambled from the Boca Chica Key military base. With the Cuban Air Force set to challenge them, the sky was about to erupt into a full-scale aerial battle. There could scarcely be a better diversion for a vessel slipping under the Florida Straits.

Hunt closed the hatch behind him and slid down into the cramped space of the pilot's seat. He put his eyes to the iris scanner, which, being US made, promptly unlocked the controls. The touch screen panels that came to life were a generation or two more advanced than what Hunt had encountered in his soldiering days but were familiar enough that he soon had the submarine headed at full speed on a direct course for Fort William Zachary.

5

Less than an hour later, Hunt found himself clinging to one of the pylons of Fort William Zachary's main pier as a stampede of soldiers pounded overhead. He had scuttled the mini-submarine just outside Fort William Zachary's five-hundred-meter exclusion zone and covered the remaining distance in a flat ten-minute surge of freestyle. A tad slower than he might have done in a younger year, but, considering he had been fully clothed and swimming against the currents of the open sea, it was respectable all the same. And the main thing was his approach to the pier had almost certainly gone undetected. The soldiers on the boardwalk were continuing passed him yelling at each other about who was going to take which of the four speed boats at the moorings. Hunt caught glimpses of soldiers and guns through the gaps in the timber planks, though it was through their voices that he realized they were members of his Unit X. A twenty-year absence made him feel mostly sadness and regret. Their loyalty and hardness were a major reason he had been the most feared President the United States had ever seen, and yet, by 2083, all of them were gone: Wars, drugs, depression and cancer had taken their toll. At this moment in time, however, the Unit X was still the best fighting unit in the country and was his to control. The mission that had set them sprinting for the speedboats involved tearing the Miami Havana Bridge apart in the search for Doug Graze. Hunt remembered how forcefully he had given his orders in the small, windowless Situation Room of the Little Whitehouse, cracking the glass table top with a pounding fist and screaming so dementedly he couldn't even recognize his own voice. He would rectify that as soon as he could: he would get in touch with the team in a tone that had the luxury of being calm and measured, for this time he was confident that not only was Graze was still alive but also that he knew where to find him. The CIA investigations into Lassila Benson had uncovered his ownership of a tattoo parlor, an automobile repair shop, and a black-market warehouse. Hunt would have them all raided simultaneously and hard. But, for the time being, he was content for his soldiers to leave Fort William Zachary on their wild goose chase. Having them away from the Little Whitehouse, combined with his Secret Service contingent escorting the British Prime Minister and his daughter to be their helicopter, meant that, for the next ten minutes, his younger self was going to be left unguarded. With Lassila Benson having proven an unreliable hitman, Hunt was going to have to go embrace the role himself. It was just unfortunate that it was too late to save Jean Hitchlow and Jose Catalan in this new version of history. Hunt blamed Lassila for it and would make him experience his displeasure before he was done.

As the four speedboats powered away across the strait, he climbed the pylon ladder to the boardwalk. Weakened by his captivity and escape, his body felt twice as heavy as normal. He rolled onto his back to rest a moment under the morning sun, though the roar of helicopter from beyond the fern groves of the Little Whitehouse's front lawn quickly stirred him from his stupor. It was Prime Minister Hargrove's helicopter preparing to depart the fort. It would mark the inglorious end to the failed US-British summit of July 2072. Hunt could immediately initiate another one, but first he would need to commit the most bizarre murder in history - certainly not quite suicide as he fully intended to be still alive after murdering himself. He picked himself up from the boardwalk and, as he headed off the pier, he tried to make himself look Presidential and twenty years younger by slicking back his hair and straightening up his collars. At the end of the pier, there was a security gate requiring an iris scan. Hunt passed the test and the gate slid open to reveal two intense looking Marines standing guard on the other side. Hunt saluted them on his way passed. He was half-expecting them to raise their guns and call him to halt and so was relieved when they instead saluted him in turn.

The roar of the helicopter was growing rapidly as its rotors reached take-off velocity. Crecy would be there shouting at the top of her lungs as she futilely tried to persuade Hargrove to change his mind about Hunt. History, however, was to prove Hargrove's misgivings well-founded: Although he never did introduce the Hitchlow Plan into Britain, his mere association with its development in Fort William Zachary - which Hunt greatly exaggerated out of pure spite - led to a no-confidence spill in the House of Commons and the abrupt end of his prime ministership.

Hunt had enjoyed that at the time but would not let it come to that again. He increased the length of his stride across the lawn and the Little Whitehouse came fully into view. It buoyed him to find it in one piece again, remembering all too well how, President Dimore had obliterated it with Cruise Missiles in 2090 after it had fallen into the Rebel Army's hands. Many of the domestic staff lost their lives in the attack, including his favorite cook, Marcia Fay, whose breakfast of omelets and hash browns was right now permeating mouthwatering odors onto the front steps. Hunt recalled how good it had tasted after his long night of combat in Havana and knew it would taste even better the second time round, especially if he could take care of business first.

He passed the biometric testing at the Little Whitehouse's front entrance and moved purposefully through the ground floor and bounded up the main spiral staircase to his living quarters. He paused outside the door to gather himself and realized his heart was pounding: of all the times he had killed someone, this was going to be the hardest. With a calming breath he opened the door of the presidential living quarters and slipped inside. The first of the rooms was the sitting room and consisted of exquisitely upholstered lounge chairs, a mounted computer screen, arched windows, sparsely populated bookcases, coffee tables, cartoon character beanbags, and a back-corner minibar stocked with gins and whiskies in crystal decanters. Megan had handpicked everything except the minibar, which was Hunt's contribution to the room. Hunt had ended many an evening unwinding in one of the chairs with a drink in hand and a decanter by his side. It was regrettable he couldn't simply do that now with his younger self: to explain over a quiet drink how things in the future had gone bad and what he needed to do to make it right. He might even have tried if only there had been more time and if he weren't in a room filled with so many concealed weapons, he would struggle to remember them all.

He crept carefully across the plush burgundy carpet to the door to the next room – it was slightly ajar, offering a glimpse of the bedroom beyond. Hunt peeked inside to see that t was empty. Although the big, brass-framed bed had not been slept in, the sopping, tattered, blood stained clothes scattered carelessly about the floor, gave the room a lived-in feel. Hunt stepped lightly into the room and closed the door behind him keen to ensure the sounds of the murder to come were contained. The shower was running in the adjoining ensuite and Hunt recalled how he had settled under the scalding water upon his return from Cuba, taking almost an hour to wash away the salt of the sea and his lingering desire for Contilde. With his head immersed under the heavy stream of water and his ears numbed by the roar of combat, his younger self would be ripe for the taking - and there were enough weapons hidden about the living quarters that Hunt did remember. Amongst the options were a Heckler and Koch pistol under the bed, an Uzi machine gun in his seldom used golf bag in the closet and a large hunting knife in a briefcase sitting under one of the coffee tables. Hunt saw possibilities in all of them, but instead went to the tool box at the bottom of his wardrobe and took from it a monkey wrench. It was heavy and cumbersome but when it struck it would spill less blood - so, in its own crude way, it was the clean.

Hunt opened the bathroom door with painstaking care, aware that the slightest noise or disturbance in the dense, humid cloud of steam within could betray his presence. His younger self was an imposingly muscular naked silhouette behind the opaque shower screen; he was leaning blissfully forward into the shower-jet completely oblivious to the danger lurking behind. The older Hunt moved purposefully and on tiptoes. He had been given a painful lesson by Lassila Benson on the art of sneaking up on someone in a shower. And he was about to demonstrate that he was a quick learner. He threw open the shower screen door and brought the monkey wrench brutally down upon the head of his younger self. It was a blow full of fury and hate – a release for the loss of his two children, the end of his marriage, the loss of so many years in self-exile and the errors in judgment that had brought the United States to its knees. The young Hunt collapsed like a machine that had had its power abruptly switched off. A wisp of blood mixed with water on the floral-patterned marble floor.

Hunt stood over the body until he was sure a second hit was not required. He then put aside the wrench and pulled off the upper-bed sheet, which, at last, he was going to put to use. The sheet's grey cotton darkened with blood patches, but at least it absorbed the blood better than the silk sheets he would have been using if the Prime Minister's daughter had been lured by his charms. Hunt was mostly just relieved that his younger self was now covered up. He could make believe it was just another fallen soldier in a body bag. He hauled the body onto his shoulders and headed for the back door. He moved shakily, not able to entirely block from his mind that he was carrying on his shoulder his own dead body. He passed through the seldom used library room and was just about to reach the glass sliding door leading out into the back garden when his butler, Thomas Garnett, announced himself from the far doorway. 'Can I be of assistance, Mr President? You'll put your back out carrying something like that.'

Hunt cumbersomely turned to find Thomas standing in the far doorway in a precisely fitted and pressed black suit and white shirt and with that attentive, unassuming gaze that never seemed to change. Although the bed sheet had held fast in his trip across the house, Hunt couldn't see how the object upon his shoulder would appear to be anything other than a corpse. He stared at Thomas a long moment waiting for his stolid expression to transform into one of horror and accusation. But he did not register even the slightest flicker of curiosity. It comforted Hunt to recall that Thomas had seen similarly compromising situations over the years and had never said a word. Even during the FBI interrogations after his Presidency was finally over, he had refused to divulge a single secret. Loyal to the end, which came with the Cruise missiles sent by Dimore. At that time, he had still been working at the age of seventy-five and was reportedly the last human butler in the whole United States. Hunt let his body relax and shook his head. 'Thanks Thomas. It's nothing I can't handle. But I need to speak to Lucy Crecy as a matter of urgency. When she returns from the helipad, be sure to direct her to the pool area.'

'Very well, sir.'

Hunt managed to get the door open and strode out to the shark pool; he pushed through the entrance gate and moved carefully across the decking to the water's edge. He swung the body off his shoulder and it rolled out of the sheets into the pool with a splash. The dozen sharks within it were well-attuned to such offerings and immediately set upon it. As the feeding frenzy began, Hunt sat down on one of the deckchairs and peered up at the sky and listened to the churning of the water. And so it was done. The older Hunt was now the President of the United States. It was a miracle that the rest of the world could never know about. And it would not matter much either just so long as he made it count.

'There you are,' said Lucy Crecy, emerging poolside after a time. 'Thomas said you wanted to see me.' She looked him over and grimaced. 'You look like shit. And why are your clothes all soaked? Did you forget to remove them when you got in the shower?'

Hunt sprung up from the chair and led her away from the pool before she looked too closely at the breakfast being gorged upon by the sharks. 'I've been thinking about the Hitchlow Plan,' he said. 'I can see that it's not going to work after all. I want you to reroute Prime Minister Hargrove's flight to Washington DC. Tell him I have considered what he said last night and I'm open to discuss it further.'

Crecy frowned. 'Are you sure? People are going to think you're backflipping. Indecision is death in politics.'

'Don't worry,' replied Hunt abruptly. 'I know exactly what I'm doing.'

*

'As a father, I wish I had been permitted to return outraged to the UK with an excuse never to see you again. But as the leader of Britain, I must say I am relieved to have been invited back when an untenable failure appeared all but inevitable.' Rodney Hargrove was drinking lemon and ginger tea on the opposite side of the desk to Jefferson Hunt, who was nursing a glass of twenty-year-old scotch whiskey. The two leaders were alone in the Oval Office, taking a moment's downtime while the world's media gathered for a midday press conference on the sunny White House lawn - the way Hargrove was pontificating, suggested to Hunt that he was warming himself up for it. Both men were exhausted after the talks that had begun early the previous day and extended well into the night. But now that agreement had been reached, there was an opportunity to relax and appreciate the moment, which promised to be of historic significance.

'Whether your priority was to be a father or a leader, I wasn't going to let you leave the States,' muttered Hunt only half in jest. 'Our agreement has to happen.'

'And yet over our dinner together you showed not the slightest inclination to compromise.' Hargrove narrowed his gaze upon him. 'What happened in Cuba? It has made you different.'

'In what way?'

Hargrove thought about that a moment. 'There's the physical side of it. Which I suppose is understandable if you were abducted by criminals. But there is also a seriousness in your eyes that wasn't there before.'

'It's fair to say there have been some developments since I saw you last.'

Hargrove was uneasy. 'But do they comply with international law?'

'You don't have to worry about that.'

'I don't have to worry? Four Cuban fighter aircraft shot down and retaliation being threatened by Cuba and Russia. And I'm about to face a press conference on the White House lawn with the man everyone holds responsible.'

'No, like I just said, you don't have to worry. But you will need to trust me a little.'

'Trust would be easier if you explained exactly what happened.'

'Your daughter has already given you a version of events.'

'Sure. You were in a bar some time after midnight and you got robbed. Not particularly becoming of a United States President. But it was after she went home and you set off on a revenge spree that Havana somehow turned into a warzone. And no matter what you're intending to announce at the press conference, that's all the reporters are going to ask you about.'

'Let me worry about that. All you need to know is it's a domestic issue.'

'Domestic in the sense that my daughter is being seduced by a corrupt President twice her age?'

'I am not that old. And, to be frank, she is not that young.'

With a quick rap on the door, Lucy Crecy entered the room. 'They're ready for you, gentlemen.'

'Thank you, Lucy.' Hunt killed off the last of his whiskey and smiled encouragingly to Hargrove. 'And to correct you, Rodney, I meant it is domestic in the sense that it is nothing to do with either Cuba or yourself. Of course, Cuba will need to be bought off - or if you prefer, compensated. I've already put our ambassador onto that.'

'You sure I'm not being bought off too? You were dead-against the Work for Life Program when we first talked about it. Just like the American public, I don't much trust a backflipper.'

Hunt stood up and peeled his jacket off the back of the chair. It was the one he had brought from the future and it had been freshly dry-cleaned. 'What I am going to say in the press conference will be the truest words I've ever spoken,' he said earnestly as he put the jacket on. 'Trust me, you're going to want to be a part of it. Both as a father and as a prime minister.'

'Well, the world will have a lot better chance if you actually know what you're talking about, so I'll come along and pray.'

Hunt shrugged. 'Ok, then let's go.'

Crecy led them out to the awaiting media on the West Wing lawn. It was a hot, still midsummer afternoon and the setting somehow reminded Hunt of his early years as President: when his popularity was high and the Democracy Dead Movement was just another obscure collection of radicals - the time before he had needed to get his hands dirty to maintain his hold on power. He stepped up to the podium labeled with the United States crest and sized up the media contingent before him. They were staring at him with a mixture of surprise and unease, just like everyone else he had encountered since he had replaced his younger self as president. He was not fazed by it. In fact, he hoped it would add credibility to the scenario he was here to sell.

'Thank you all for gathering here today,' he said leaning into the microphone and he gestured to Hargrove, who had assumed the Union Jack draped podium beside him. 'And I'd like once again to welcome Prime Minister Hargrove to the White House. Our open and frank discussions over recent days have laid the foundation for what I am going to announce today.' He returned his gaze to the media throng. 'I understand you will also be eager to find out more about the recent military confrontation over the Florida Strait. Well, put your minds at rest because it is an integral element of what has led to this moment in history. The last time I addressed the American public it was to announce the Hitchlow Plan, the most ambitious, far-reaching policy in the entire world for combating the rise of automation and the chronic decline in human ambition. Reactions to its implications were expected to be heated and I was advised by leaders in law enforcement that riots were not out of the question. This compelled me to introduce a temporary state of martial law. This appears to be having the desired effect. Our cities are calm and our citizens are peacefully discussing the Hitchlow Plan's merits both within families, among friends and at mass forums. So, you might well ask what has changed.

'Less than twenty-four hours after the Hitchlow Plan's announcement, I received a top-secret message from Jose Catalan, one of the senior leaders of the Democracy Dead Movement informing me that he wished to turn whistleblower against the Movement. He could see that they are pushing the country towards a civil war of a scale that would surpass even the catastrophic original more than two centuries ago and he wanted to do everything he could to prevent it. Due to the sensitivity of the information and the insidious manner in which the Democracy Dead has infiltrated all levels of government and law enforcement, Catalan refused to pass on his information to emissaries. He would talk with no one other than myself and nowhere that could connect him to the United States Government. Therefore, despite the obvious dangers, I agreed to meet Catalan in person at the time and place of his choosing. As you now may be able to surmise, that is what led me to be to the Diva Havana bar at midnight in Cuban territory on the 23rd of July: the beginning of a Saturday that will be remembered for a long time to come.'

Hunt was pleased to see that the media were riveted by his account. And through the corner of his eye he could see that, although clearly taken aback, Hargrove was not showing any inclination to interject or obstruct.

'Requiring an impartial witness for the meeting, I decided to take the Prime Minister's daughter, Contilde Hargrove. Her work with charities and other community programs has earned her a reputation for honesty and integrity and made her the ideal choice. To her great credit she accepted the invitation without hesitation, even despite my warning of the very real dangers this meeting presented.' Hunt didn't dare look at Rodney Hargrove's reaction to what he was saying, knowing that any semblance of good will could easily be evaporating with each and every word. 'We arrived at the bar at the designated time, taking just two members of our security teams in order to maintain a low profile. We were promptly met at the rendezvous point by one of Catalan's intermediaries. He relieved us of our personal items, including watches and jewelry in case of listening devices and other forms of spyware - a notion which was not without foundation. Once my identity was confirmed, the intermediary informed me that Catalan was waiting at a secret location further along the bridge. Deciding that the risk to Contilde was no longer tenable, I sent her back to Fort William Zachary with her security escort. I continued on to the meeting with Catalan, which unfolded in the backseat of a stolen car. As we were being driven along the bridge, Catalan detailed how the Democracy Dead were making advanced plans to put together a rebel army that would attack the Working-Class areas designated under the Hitchlow Plan. What was even more disturbing was his revelation that the Democracy Dead leadership had agreed to remove any restrictions in the use of automated weapons systems in these attacks. With the ever-increasing advancements in automated technologies and artificial intelligence, such recklessness would have the potential to enslave the entire human race. Listening to Catalan's revelations I realized with some horror that my administration had seriously underestimated the Democracy Dead's ruthlessness and treachery.

'I was just beginning to discuss with Catalan how I could bring him in to safety for a more detailed briefing when our vehicle was ambushed and run off the road. Being a lawyer by profession, Catalan had no chance. I, on the other hand, with my special forces training, had the skill required to evade, resist and repel their attack. That, in its simplest form, was what took place on the Miami Havana Bridge and in Havana City. Although much of what happened will necessarily remain classified, let me just say that when called upon in a moment of extreme emergency, the men and women of the United States armed forces acquitted themselves with tremendous bravery and skill. We should feel nothing but pride and admiration for their efforts.

'In regard to the Democracy Dead, I will be instructing the FBI and other relevant agencies to launch an investigation into their treasonous activities. Naturally, the full force of the law will be applied wherever illegal activity is uncovered.' Hunt took a moment to be sure he wasn't speaking too fast, that every word was being absorbed and recorded by the world's media. 'Despite all our efforts to date, there has been no sign of Jose Catalan since the ambush on the Miami Havana Bridge. The search is continuing but it is appearing more and more likely that he has paid the ultimate price for his decision to turn away from the dark forces threatening this country. If this indeed proves the case, his sacrifice will be appropriately honored - very much in the manner that I intend to honor Jean Hitchlow for her supreme sacrifice. The other casualty in this fight that is already clear and beyond doubt is the Hitchlow Plan itself. With agents of destruction so willing to exploit it to set Americans fighting against Americans, it is simply a risk I, as your President, am unwilling to take. And that is where the talks with my British counterpart have proven so productive. We have always agreed that encouraging people to learn new skills and apply them in the professions is one of the biggest challenges facing nations today. We also agree that our respective governments have been floundering for many years in achieving this. Looking to what is being done around the world we have keenly noticed that the Work for Life Program in Europe is achieving good results. To describe the program in it simplest terms, the citizens who are bringing value to their communities through their research or work are provided with the Eternal 360 drug. Research has shown that the drug will increase life expectancy by thirty to forty years. And I am advised these results will only continue to improve as further refinements are made.

'This too will be the policy our Government will adopt in partnership with Prime Minister Hargrove and the citizenry of the United Kingdom. The message it will send is clear. If you invest in your country with your time and effort, your country will invest in you with the gift of life. Naturally, there will be calls in certain quarters for the Eternal 360 drug to be provided to all without conditions. But, due to the significant costs and the rarity of the molecules, that would be unrealistic. Not to mention the population density and universal income issues that are already threatening our way of life. Of course, the decision has been far from easy. As I embarked on my first term as President, I was told by my predecessor that I could expect to age ten years in the space of five. I would have to say now, however, that it feels more like twenty years. Still, I come to this decision with the best interests of the nation at heart and with a great partner in the form of the United Kingdom to work with, and so I remain entirely optimistic. Now, I am sure Prime Minister Hargrove would like to add his thoughts to today's mutual policy announcement.'

Hargrove hesitated. He sensed he was somehow being wedged by Hunt but could not pinpoint how or to what end. He trusted his daughter enough to be certain Hunt was lying about what had happened on the bridge. She had gone with him to the Miami Diva bar purely because she had heard it was fun. There had been no secret meeting with a whistleblower from the Democracy Dead. And if Hunt was lying about Catalan, then his credibility about everything else dropped to practically zero. It was reason enough for Hargrove to walk away from the press conference before he found himself going on record with support for a President reeking of treachery. But they were right in the middle of announcing the very policy he had come to the US to secure. It would be one of his greatest achievements as Prime Minister and would consolidate his leadership back home. A leader who could deliver results. It was a seemingly miraculous turnaround after coming so close to returning to Westminster with egg on his face and his position in Cabinet in tatters. Victory was here to grasp. Hargrove simply needed to suppress his instincts long enough to embrace the moment.

'Thank you, President Hunt,' he began in a slow, measured voice. 'The incredible events you have outlined today highlight once again what a tumultuous time we are living in and what a divisive issue artificial intelligence has become. Put simply, humans are no longer the smartest entities on the planet and it is going to take some getting used to and forward planning.'

As Hargrove entered into his own monologue about the worthiness of the Work for Life Program, Hunt let his eyes wonder about the media throng to gage the mood amongst them. They were every bit as attentive as during the unveiling of the Hitchlow Plan the previous week and on that occasion, word spread around the world like wildfire. Hunt would need the same thing to happen now. He only had little over a year before he was up for re-election, so he had to work quickly to dismantle the Democracy Dead Movement and put new limits on artificial intelligence. Not that he needed to be too pessimistic about his chances in the election. Hurricane Eleanor, a category five mega-storm would hit Florida in the following month and he would predict it earlier than the meteorologists and be on the ground running. It would play out much better politically than the first time Eleanor struck: when he merely flew over the disaster area on his way to open a Las Vegas casino.

He was also handily forewarned about the many sexual and financial transgressions of both Republicans and Democrats that would eventually blow out into full blown scandals in the years to come. He was mulling over which skeletons he might enjoy shaking out of their closets first when an eerily familiar man in a dark brown suit moved up alongside the journalists huddled together on the lawn. The man had black hair and a long beard and was wearing a large pair of silver-framed aviator sunglasses. He came to a stop and crossed his arms casually. Although the Prime Minister was still speaking, the man's gaze was fixed on Hunt. Hunt was jolted by shock as he realized it was Doug Graze. The Unit X team must have successfully extracted him from the bridge. Hunt raised a hand as greeting and Graze acknowledged it with the thinnest of smirks. They continued to hold each other's gaze a long moment before Graze turned and headed towards the White House. Hunt's eyes followed him still. After twenty years of guilt, hurt and solitude, his only true friend was back with him again - it was just fortunate he had already completed his speech, for he doubted he would have been able to pry out a single word. And what really set his heart palpitating was the thought that there more reunions to come.

*

Hunt's two children, Susie and Neil, were putting together a jigsaw puzzle on the floor of Susie's bedroom. Hunt kneeled beside them and tried to work out what the picture was going to be. Although there were not many pieces yet down, it seemed to be a snowy mountain scene. Possibly Yosemite National Park.

'How many pieces are in the puzzle?' Hunt queried.

'Five hundred,' replied Susie.

'That's quite a lot. Can I help? This sort of thing is what I do for a living.'

'Sure, daddy.'

Hunt felt himself on the verge of tears - he had always been too busy fighting the world to find time for his kids. It had taken him a lifetime to learn that the opportunities to fight were infinite but the chance for happiness was not. He took in a breath to compose himself and gazed around the bedroom. Their mother's taste for simple, country-style homeliness was clearly evident: There were soft toys and colorful embroidered cushions on a bed of purple sheets and fluffy pink pillows; there were pictures of horses and lake scenes on the walls - many of them were framed jigsaw puzzles like this one; and there were neatly arranged cupboards containing a rich assortment of clothes arranged into colors and seasons. Hunt wondered if this was the first time he had ever been past the threshold of his daughter's bedroom. He was just glad that now that he was there, his two children seemed at ease and unquestioning. Words such as neglect and bitterness did not seem to be a part of a child's lexicon. So perhaps it was not too late. Hunt picked up a piece of the puzzle from the pile and considered where it might fit. He noticed that his hand was trembling.

'What are you doing, Jefferson?' came a hard voice from the doorway.

Hunt turned to see that it was Megan: The young version, the one that had only just started to go dead in the eyes with all his lies and philandering. This time a tear did escape. Hunt wiped it quickly away, but he knew she had seen it.

'I'd say, we're building ourselves a mountain,' he murmured. 'But there are a few hundred pieces still to go, so we'll busy.'

'Daddy's helping us,' said Neil proudly.

'Daddy has an important dinner with the British Prime Minister to get ready for,' replied Megan and her voice became cold, 'and the Prime Minister's daughter will be there too if that means something.'

Hunt shook his head adamantly. 'No, it doesn't.'

Megan held his gaze a long moment - maybe the longest since they had been married. 'I heard your speech today. You we right when you said you look older.'

'Is that a bad thing?'

Megan watched him some more and softly replied, 'Maybe not.'

