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  He allowed himself a bitter smile as he gazed out of the window at the sparkling sea below. This wasn’t how he’d planned to arrive in Camden but at least the views did not disappoint.

  After some scenic driving and negotiating the small roads, the police cruiser came to a halt outside a single-storey red-brick building. Cautiously, the two officers hustled him out of the car, through a column-adorned porch – which to Tate seemed like an architectural afterthought – and into the Camden PD station. An officer stood behind a processing desk at the front of the office. Posters were stuck on the walls: a mixture of tourist information, photographs depicting the local countryside and text-heavy notices. The desk officer glanced down at his desk then back up again and nodded at his colleagues. He looked worried and his voice sounded it too. ‘Belongings?’

  ‘In his vehicle,’ one of the officers replied.

  ‘I’ll take his watch.’

  The officer on Tate’s left undid the strap and handed the watch to the desk officer. The man’s eyebrows rose as he noted the brand before he placed it into a Ziploc-type plastic bag then put this under the counter. ‘OK. Room one.’

  Tate remained a compliant, silent witness to the unfolding events and let himself be pushed further into the station, past the desk and into the open-plan interior. The office door opened and a large figure stepped out, folded his arms and looked on as Tate was led through a door on the right. Inside was a narrow corridor with three steel doors on one side. The nearest was open. The two officers locked him inside and left him alone.

  The room was lit with a fluorescent bulb contained in a wire cage, which starkly illuminated a metal table in the centre space. The table was affixed to the concrete floor with steel pins, as were two chairs, one either side of the table – one facing the door and one facing away. ‘Welcome to Camden,’ Tate muttered to himself and shook his head. It was by no means the first time he’d been in a police interview room, but it was the first time he’d been in one as an innocent man.

  Still cuffed, Tate sat at the table facing the door. In the British Army, he was used to planning operations and, for this, intelligence gathering was crucial, but here there was no intel to collect. He’d assessed the situation but could come up with no other explanation for his incarceration other than the fact that he’d been picked up in error. A case of mistaken identity. Someone who matched his description had done something, and something serious at that. So why hadn’t he been read his rights? Why hadn’t he been Mirandized? It still made no sense to Tate. He tried to get comfortable on the metal chair, managed to slouch a little and kick his legs out underneath. He closed his eyes and let his mind wander to the first time he’d been in a police cell. Even all these years later it still made him chuckle.

  It had been on a family pilgrimage to North Wales to see his mother’s cousin. He and his brother hated going. They’d stay for a week, several times a year. With parents who didn’t approve of Game Boys, the brothers passed the long car journey playing “car cricket”. His brother was always “in bat” first. The boys would stare out of the rear windows of the Volvo looking for pubs. Once they spotted one, they’d read the name or look at the gaudy sign hanging outside. For each “leg” that appeared in the pub name (physical or pictorial) the person in bat scored a “run” up to the maximum of six per pub. If the name did not contain any legs, the player in bat was “out”, and the other player was now “in bat”. Pubs such as “The Coach & Horses” and “The Highwayman” always scored a “six” as there were either horses in the name or on the sign. Some pub names caused arguments, some made them laugh, and some did both – “The Cock” had been one of these. Their father said he preferred “legless pubs”; their mother tutted.

  In Wales they played with a local friend – Richie Williams. He lived across the road and according to their mother was a bad influence. The boys would kick a ball about or go exploring with Richie. On several occasions they’d been chased away from the fairway of the Prestatyn Golf Club. But this last trip had been different. His brother had not wanted to go out – he was sixteen and studying for his GCSEs – but fourteen-year-old Jack did. He’d sneaked out to meet Richie and that was where, according to his parents, his problems started.

  Richie boasted that he knew where the Golf Club kept the fireworks ready for their Summer Ball. He dared Jack to break in and take a rocket. And Jack did. But Jack, who never backed down from a dare, didn’t stop at just one rocket. Jack took four rockets and two display-size Catherine wheels. That night he shimmied onto the roof of the local Tesco’s superstore and set up his own display. The CCTV cameras had alerted the local police to their activity but not before Richie and Jack had set off the fireworks.

  As Jack sprinted across the car park he was illuminated, not by blossoming fireworks but by the full beams of a North Wales Police Range Rover. That night was the first time he had been put in a police cell and it was the last time he had seen Richie Williams. It was also the last time they ever went to Prestatyn. That event had been the beginning of the end of his relationship with his parents. They weren’t his real parents; he’d been in long-term foster care with them. He didn’t miss them, as much as missed their son, his brother. And that was the reason he was on a road trip in the US.

  Tate’s eyes snapped open as the door creaked. The desk officer entered. ‘I’ve got to take your prints – Chief Donoghue’s orders. Will there be an issue?’

  ‘No issue at all.’

  ‘British?’

  ‘English.’

  ‘Like the Queen.’ The officer had a legal pad-sized black plastic case in his hand. He retrieved a card. It had a printed table on it, columns to receive the inky print of each digit. ‘Hold up your hands.’ Tate did so and the officer inked the tips of each finger with a spongy implement from his case. ‘Now on the card, roll each fingertip slowly once, from left to right.’

  Tate complied. Once satisfied with the prints, the officer abruptly stood and left the room. Tate stared at his dirtied fingers, thought about rubbing the ink off onto his jeans but couldn’t be bothered. Instead he stood up and wiped them on the clean, whitewashed wall directly next to the door. It was like finger-painting, a childish but satisfying act of defiance. Tate sat again. He didn’t know how long he’d be stuck in the room for. How long would it take the local authorities to realise their mistake? One of the army’s many mottos had been “eat when you can and sleep when you can” because you never know when you’ll get another chance. There was no food, so Tate closed his eyes and tried to sleep. Fleetingly the stolen fireworks again bloomed in his memory and then he woke with a start, his neck stiff and his head groggy.

  ‘Get up and follow me.’ It was the desk officer again.

  The officer led Tate out of the cell, back into the open-plan squad room, along the full length of the space and through a door into the big office at the back. The large man he’d seen earlier was sitting at a desk. He nodded Tate into the empty chair opposite him.

  ‘I’m Chief Donoghue of the Camden Police Department. Care to tell me, Mr Tate, the reason for your presence in Maine?’

  Tate examined his inky fingertips. ‘Vacation.’

  ‘That’s what you told my men. But I’d like to know the real reason.’ Donoghue leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers in his lap. Tate noted that his bulk was muscle rather than fat. He had the look of an old soldier – a short, no-nonsense haircut and a stern brow. ‘You see the thing is, Mr Tate, we think you may be just the person we have been looking for.’

  Tate remained silent. In his experience, men in authority liked to hear the sound of their own voice, regardless of how much power they had. And this was Donoghue’s desk, in Donoghue’s town. He took in Donoghue’s office. The same white walls as his holding cell but here the concrete floor was covered with grey carpeting. The wall directly behind displayed several framed certificates as though to confirm his legitimacy to all those sitting in Tate’s seat. The desk itself was bare save for a lapto
p and a blue Maine PD coffee cup. There was a modern coffee station on a unit, and a coffee table with two comfy chairs.

  ‘What job do you do back in the UK?’ Donoghue asked.

  ‘I’m a Human Resources consultant.’

  ‘And the name of your employer is?’

  ‘Fir Tree Consulting.’

  ‘Branches everywhere? That’s cute,’ Donoghue said without humour. ‘Can you verify that?’

  ‘I’ve probably got a business card in my wallet somewhere. It’s in my car, but I’m sure your men have already checked it.’

  ‘You’ve got an attitude there, Mr Tate.’

  ‘That’s right, Chief Donoghue; we are both wasting our time here.’

  ‘Do you have an issue with authority figures, Mr Tate?’

  Tate shrugged. ‘Not when I see one.’

  The police chief’s nostrils flared, but his tone remained neutral. ‘You are doing what, exactly, during your vacation here?’

  ‘Driving around, taking in the sights.’

  ‘How long do you plan to be in the US for?’

  ‘Like it says on my car rental agreement, a month.’

  ‘That’s a long vacation.’

  ‘There’s a lot to see.’

  ‘Did you serve, Mr Tate?’

  ‘You mean like a waiter?’

  Donoghue pursed his lips. ‘You know what I mean.’

  Tate shrugged again. ‘You’ve got my details and my prints. I imagine that you’ll have a pretty good file on me soon enough.’

  ‘Is that how you want to play this? Really?’ Donoghue’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why are you being so unhelpful, Mr Tate?’

  Tate sighed. ‘Yes, I served.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Afghanistan.’

  ‘Infantry?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘See much action?’

  ‘More than I would have liked. What am I being charged with?’

  ‘Nothing at the moment, apart from driving in excess of the speed limit.’

  ‘So why haven’t I been read my rights?’

  ‘You may or you may not be aware that the Amended PATRIOT Act provides me with increased powers to hold and question “persons of interest” without charge. You, Mr Tate, are a person of interest.’

  ‘I’m honoured you find me so interesting, but I still don’t know what this is all about.’

  ‘OK.’ Donoghue pursed his lips again. ‘At lunchtime today, a prominent local resident was murdered. It looks like a contract killing. A single shot was fired. I’m still awaiting confirmation on the type of round used, but it was pretty big – we believe some sort of sniper rifle.’

  Tate’s eyebrows rose. It was something serious. ‘And you think I have something to do with this?’

  ‘Something, or maybe nothing, or maybe everything. An SUV, like the one you were driving, was seen leaving the area. A surveillance camera captured a suspect fitting your description.’

  ‘Who was the murder victim?’

  ‘A retired senator by the name of Clifford Piper; you ever heard of him?’

  Tate shook his head. The only Piper that flashed in his mind was the wrestler – “Rowdy” Roddy Piper.

  ‘His wife was killed last year in a terrorist attack. He retired afterwards.’

  Tate vaguely remembered the headlines. ‘I’ve never heard of him, and I wasn’t there. My SUV has a tracker, and you can check that against your intel.’

  ‘Intel?’

  ‘Your reports.’

  ‘Yep, see, I know what “intel” means. I’m just surprised that you’d use that term. I don’t think you are who you say you are, Mr Tate.’

  ‘So you are going to hold me until what, you decide that I didn’t shoot a senator with a Barrett?’

  ‘Who said anything about a Barrett, Mr Tate?’

  Tate remained silent for a moment; he was tired and snappy. ‘It’s the most reliable 0.50 rifle, in my opinion, and it’s what I’d use if I wanted to make sure of hitting a target with one round. One large round. There’s a pretty good suppressor available for it too, and in a semi-urban environment you want to make as little noise as possible.’

  ‘Ha,’ Donoghue said with a knowing nod.

  Tate was getting bored; he wanted to be on his way. ‘You don’t have the murder weapon – just a large hole and a deformed round. And the fact that you didn’t mention anyone as having heard the shot leads me to believe that the shooter used a suppressor. A 0.50 calibre makes a hell of a bang without one.’

  ‘What did you do in Afghanistan, Mr Tate?’

  ‘I soldiered.’

  ‘What exactly did you do in Afghanistan?’

  ‘I can’t tell you.’

  ‘Oh, yes you can. Weren’t you listening to me? The Amended PATRIOT Act gives me—’

  Tate stood. ‘Yes, I heard.’

  Donoghue got to his feet with surprising speed. ‘Where the hell do you think you are going? Sit down!’

  The two men sized each other up, Donoghue incensed, Tate impassive. A loud knock on the office door, followed quickly by an officer entering the room broke the standoff.

  ‘Chief, this is urgent.’

  ‘On my way. Officer Kent, please escort Mr Tate back to his holding cell. He won’t be any trouble, will you, Tate?’

  ‘None at all,’ Tate said flatly.

  Chapter 2

  Camden, Maine

  Oleg Sokol gazed out over the waves and breathed in the fresh sea breeze. Camden was so different to his native Sochi, but the sea air smelled the same. He saw birds soar on thermals and smiled at the sound of their excited calls. Oleg’s surname “Sokol” meant falcon in Russian, and he too wished he could fly carefree and enjoy the beauty of the bay and the August sunshine, but alas, this was neither the time nor the place. Oleg’s time in Maine would abruptly end with the coming attack. Many innocent people, of course, would perhaps perish in the aftermath and although he did feel for them, there was nothing he could do, so it was not his concern. His concern was whether the technology he had helped design in the laboratory would work in the field.

  He watched a yacht out in the bay, its crew delightfully unaware that in thirty-eight hours the world as they knew it would vanish. Vanish for how long he did not know. Could the US rebuild, re-plug and reboot in six months, a year? He shook his head, as the vessel tacked to head south along the coast. Perhaps thirty-eight hours was all the crew had left.

  ‘Good afternoon.’ The voice that interrupted his thoughts was cheery.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ Oleg said.

  ‘Is that a Russian accent I detect there?’ the elderly woman asked.

  ‘Yes, it is.’ Oleg had once been a naturally friendly person. As a student learning English he had longed to meet native English speakers so he could practise, explore new words and improve his understanding. That Oleg would have been overjoyed to be overseas in the US. He would have been chatty and gregarious and engaging, but that was not the Oleg of today. He had a mission to conduct, and talking to anyone could put that at risk. He looked down at the old woman; her hair was ice white and immaculately styled. She wore a vivid pink blouse over equally bright, lime-green slacks, a sturdy pair of hiking boots, and a day sack on her back.

  ‘And what brings you here?’

  Camden was a town of only five thousand permanent residents, and each summer up to ten thousand more took up places in vacation homes and rentals. Yet even at the height of the tourist season it was all but impossible not to draw attention to himself. The locals were, like Oleg, naturally friendly people.

  ‘I am here just to relax for a while. I work in Washington, so it is nice to get away from the city.’

  The old woman smiled. ‘I love it here – in the summer, that is. In winter I go down to Florida or go on cruises.’

  Oleg smiled. He liked cruises and had once taken a train from Moscow to Kyiv, then cruised down the river Dnipro to the Black Sea resort town of Odessa where he’d proposed to his wife. He felt a sadness,
and then didn’t want to say anything more.

  The old lady carried on talking, unaware of the distant grief behind his smile. ‘Hill walking is what I love. Give me a good hill and I am happy. Tomorrow a group of us are walking down to Rockport and back. The weather forecast says that it’ll be clear skies and sunshine. Well, goodbye.’

  ‘Good luck and goodbye,’ Oleg said as he watched the woman walk away. He noticed a cuddly panda keychain hung off the back of the day sack. He took a further five minutes to enjoy the scenery before trudging back up the path towards his Tahoe. It would be interesting to see how many yachts and other vessels arrived after the attack and how, if at all, they were affected. He pulled his encrypted sat phone out of his trouser pocket and read the message sent from his employer. The plan was unchanged. His team was to monitor the aftermath of the attack before falling back to the regional operating base six hours after the event.

  Oleg checked his watch; he had time for one extra supply run. He’d drive past the inn, turn up Conway Road and go to Hannaford Supermarket. He may even buy a few bottles of Wild Turkey to take back home; they’d skyrocket in price once the stock in stores ran out and production ended.

  Camden Police Station, Maine

  ‘How’s the coffee?’ Donoghue asked.

  ‘Good. Thanks,’ Tate replied, four hours after the last time he’d faced the chief.

  ‘I thought you Brits drank tea.’

  ‘That’s just the women; real men drink coffee.’

  The police chief nodded. ‘See this?’ He pointed to a couple of sheets of letter-sized paper on his desk. ‘This is all we got from running your prints through the system. Now the first sheet here is what I was meant to see … mundane details about your entry into the US and movements, et cetera. But the second is what I managed to see after I called an old buddy of mine who owes me a favour, and that’s what took the time.’

  ‘Am I still a person of interest, Chief?’

  ‘You are an interesting person, Mr Tate. You were in the SAS.’