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'Hello, Lara, my name is Lincoln Roberts. Well, don't we make a pair?'

Jake Tolland had to smile at that. Roberts was the epitome of an African-American patriarch: physically imposing, exuding a commanding dignity, with a full head of hair lightly dusted with silver threads among the black. Next to him, Lara looked tiny, very young and utterly vulnerable. The White House stylists had deliberately gone for the most innocent, girl-next-door look they could find, rejecting anything that even hinted at sexiness. So she'd been dressed in flat shoes, loose-cut jeans, a plain T-shirt and a knitted cotton cardigan to ward off the cool of a grey day in June. Her hair was tucked behind her ears and the make-up artist had given her face just enough definition to show up under the stage lights, without adding any glamour whatever.

Even so, Tolland thought, Lara looked wonderful and he agonized for the umpteenth time about the fact that his heart did a backflip every time he set eyes on her. It was inappropriate in every way. She was too young for him. She had been appallingly abused by men. They were supposed to have a dispassionate, professional relationship. If she wanted anything from him, it was protection. Yet he could not deny what he felt and the detached, observing side to his nature saw that she was the perfect poster-girl for Roberts's campaign. The world would fall a little in love with her, too. And for a black President to be fighting for the rights of a white slave girl, well, Tolland reckoned that was a stroke of public-relations genius.

'And you must be Jake Tolland…'

Tolland realized with a start that the President was talking to him. He just managed to splutter an answer: 'Er, yes, Mr President.'

Lincoln Roberts looked him in the eye, and as he looked into that strong, warm, wise face Tolland found himself overawed, almost hypnotized by the sheer charisma of the man.

'You wrote a good story, Mr Tolland. I could tell that you were being true to your subject. I admire that. I can see why Lara trusts you. You be sure to keep deserving that trust.'

'Yes, Mr President, I'll do my best.'

'Good for you. So, you guys gonna ride with me to Bristol?'

Jake Tolland gulped and nodded, unable to speak. He was twenty-six years old, at the very start of his career, and the President of the United States had just offered him a lift.

He was vaguely aware of a woman laughing softly just behind his right shoulder.

'Don't worry,' said Chantelle Clemens as she walked by. 'We've all been there. The man has that effect on everyone.' Forty-five minutes later, the presidential motorcade pulled up backstage at Broad Quay. Roberts got out and walked to a special media area where he posed for press photographers and TV crews with the British Prime Minister, who was basking in his reflected glory. A huge roar rose from the crowd as Roberts's face appeared on the massive screens that were arrayed at regular intervals along the full length of the quay, followed by a few desultory boos for the PM.

Two hundred feet up on the office-block roof Damon Tyzack saw the images on the screens and spoke a single word into his phone.

'Go!'

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