He'd enjoyed seeing Dillon again, a great comrade in the old days, although their paths had altered, and he'd liked the girl. What a woman, and she'd seen right through him. It wasn't the money, never had been. He'd really showed those Russians in Chechnya: the General, with one round through his head at six hundred metres, and fifty pounds of Semtex for his staff. What they'd called an Ulster fry-up in the old days in the IRA… The door creaked open and Liam Casey came in with tea and sandwiches.

'I couldn't sleep. How are you?'

'Fine.' Aidan Bell put on the automatic pilot and took a sandwich as Casey poured tea into two mugs. 'How are you feeling?'

'I'll be fine myself, Aidan.'

'And why wouldn't you? We got away with it in Chechnya, didn't we?'

Casey took a sandwich himself. 'Yes, but the President of the United States, Aidan, that's something else again.'

'Ah, but what a ploy.'

He took another sandwich and Casey said, 'I've been thinking. What if Cazalet doesn't turn up this weekend? He must do that sometimes.'

'I checked his schedule, Liam. What am I, daft? I also checked CNN News earlier today on the TV there above the chart table. There was a mention of him going to the old family house by the sea as usual. This is America, they tell you everything.'

'Then why the hell didn't you tell me, Aidan?'

'Because Grant was in the wheelhouse at the time and you were on deck stowing the gear. What's it matter?'

Casey gave him a cigarette. 'I don't like him. He's what my old Gran used to call a sly boots.' 'Yes, well, if he crosses me, I'll cut off his boots with his feet still inside, but don't worry. I've a story for him that should keep him happy. Leave it to me. Just make sure he doesn't get into the weaponry bag.'

It was raining slightly, more of a sea mist than anything else, as the Alice Brown drifted parallel to the coast three miles off Nantucket. Arthur Grant was at the wheel and Aidan Bell and Casey worked under the stern canopy, which they'd draped with fishing nets. They already had the Dolphin Speed Trailer over the rail and tied up and were checking their diving gear.

'Throttle back,' Bell called, and Grant did as he was told, so that they simply coasted along as Bell and Casey pulled on their diving suits and inflatables.

Grant had the windscreen open and leaned out.

'Any problems?'

'No,' Bell said. 'Put her on automatic and get down here.'

Bell eased on his jacket with the tanks attached and wrapped the Velcro straps, while Casey did the same.

Casey said, 'You're sure about this? Three miles in forty-five minutes?'

'It's easily done at the speed this thing goes. We'll manage at fifteen feet all the way. We've plenty of air, and there's an onshore current.'

He dropped the weaponry bag over onto the Dolphin and clipped his holding line to his weight belt as Grant arrived. Bell pulled on his gloves.

'Well, it's the moment of truth. We're going on towards the coast looking for a World War II wreck. An Irish boat called Rose of Tralee.' The story was beginning to sound so good that he almost believed it himself. 'Amongst other things, it was carrying gold bullion from the Bank of England for safekeeping in Boston. People have been looking for her for years, but last month I traced an old guy of eighty-six who was a deckhand and survived when she was torpedoed by a U-boat. He didn't know about the gold, but he was able to give me the position.'

'Jesus Christ!' Grant said.

'So, play your cards right and I'll cut you in for a piece.'

'Sure. Anything you say, Mr Bell,' Grant said eagerly.

'Okay. You stay here. Drop your line. Get the nets out. Look busy. With luck, we'll see you in three hours.'

He pulled down his mask, put in his mouthpiece, and went backwards over the stern rail. As he untied the line on the Dolphin, Casey joined him. Bell switched on the two heavy-duty batteries, mounted the front seating position and as Casey got on behind, took the Dolphin down, levelled off at fifteen feet and turned towards the distant coast of Nantucket Island with a surge of power.

Standing on the front porch of the old house, wearing a United States Marines tracksuit, Jake Cazalet drank his first cup of coffee of the day and watched Murchison, his beloved flatcoat retriever, walking with Clancy Smith on the beach below. There was a step behind, and as Cazalet turned, Blake Johnson joined him, also nursing a coffee. 'Always great to be back, Blake,' Cazalet told him.

'It sure is, Mr President.' 'Can't wait for my run. You'll join me?' 'If you'll excuse me, not this morning. Even though it's the weekend and early in the day, Harper is finding himself under considerable pressure in the Communications Room. There's a lot coming down from the Hill. I'd better stay and give him a hand.'

'All right, then come and look at my new toy. I had it shipped down during the week.'

He led the way round to the yard. The barn door stood open and inside was a large motorcycle on its stand. 'A Montesa dirt bike,' the President said. 'It'll be a lot of fun riding it along those roads.'

'I'll take your word for it,' Blake said. 'To be honest, Mr President, I haven't ridden a bike of any kind for years.'

'Hell, a child could work this thing. Shepherds use them to herd sheep.' He sat astride, started the engine, rode out and circled the yard. 'There you go.' He switched off and pushed it up on its stand. 'Feel free!'

'I will,' Blake said.

As they walked back to the porch, it started to rain. Murchison was sitting waiting, tongue hanging. Clancy Smith came over wearing a hooded oilskin coat in yellow and carrying another, which he passed to Cazalet.

'Knowing you, Mr President, I figure we're going, rain or no rain.'

'You're always so right, Clancy.' Cazalet pulled on the coat, buttoned it up, and whistled to Murchison. 'Come on, boy.'

He went down the steps and started to jog, the dog at his heels. Clancy Smith adjusted his earpiece, transferred his favourite old Browning from his shoulder holster to his right-hand pocket, and went after them.

Aidan Bell was not far off in his calculations and, helped by the strong current, they entered the estuary leading to the marsh in fifty minutes. It was a salt marsh, of course, a magnificent wilderness of tall reeds, deep water channels, mudflats, and birds of every description, who rose angrily as the Dolphin surfaced.

Bell coasted onto a sloping sandbank, then he and Casey dismounted, eased the Dolphin forward and got rid of their jackets and air bottles. All this was done in silence. Finally, Bell undipped the weaponry bag, handed Casey an AK assault rifle and Browning, and took out his own. They stood there, strangely medieval in their black diving suits.

Bell said, 'One thing we know is that he always runs before breakfast. That could mean he's halfway round the roads already or that he'll turn up at any minute. But there's only one main road from the house leading to the marsh network. I'd say three or four hundred yards. We wait there -we're bound to get him either going in or coming out – so let's move in.'

He turned and led the way through the reeds, feeling cool, calm, and completely unemotional.

Jake Cazalet, Clancy and Murchison were running fast now in the heavy driving rain, and the President was enjoying every minute of it. As he had said more than once, it washed the years away, and with the world as it was, he could certainly do with that.

Murchison ran strongly at his heel, Clancy was five yards back, and he paused on an old plank bridge that was roofed over, a temporary shelter from the rain.

'You okay, Mr President?' Clancy asked.

'Fine. I'll have the usual.'

Clancy produced a packet of Marlboros, lit two and passed one to Cazalet, who took it and inhaled with deep pleasure.