‘I’m happy enough with that,’ accepted Brine.

‘I think I can go along with it, too,’ accepted Jones. There was still reluctance in his voice.

‘I’m grateful,’ said Hartz.

‘But we will keep in touch?’ persisted Jones. ‘I’ll know what’s going to be issued before it’s announced? I don’t want to be caught out on something I don’t know anything about.’

‘My personal guarantee,’ assured the Secretary of State.

After the city official had left, Ross said: ‘The only way to keep the mayor quiet would be to shoot him in the mouth, too.’

‘I’m not sure what’s going to be more difficult,’ said Hartz. ‘The investigation. Or the politics.’

‘I am,’ said the Bureau Director, with feeling. ‘It’ll be the investigation. It’s going to be a bastard.’ Very briefly, he wished he hadn’t waited this long before resigning.

The overnight rain had cleared the thunder. The day was already hot, and was going to get hotter, as it does in Washington in high summer. There was no overhead shade at the far end of the parking lot where the grey Ford had been left, and by ten o’clock it was already beginning to cook.

Just over 5,000 miles away Mikhail Pavlovich Antipov, the man who had abandoned it there, walked across the concourse of another airport, conscious of the looks his new clothes were getting. He saw Maksim Zimin waiting for him before Zimin noticed him, and waved to attract the man’s attention.

The waiting BMW was in a prohibited parking area, but there was no penalty ticket. BMWs were the favourite of the Chechen Family, who considered Sheremet’yevo their undisputed territory: no police or airport official would be stupid enough to interfere with an obvious Mafia vehicle.