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but may I talk business for a moment?’
    He frowned. ‘This is meant to be my day off, but I asked Sam a couple of business questions, so I guess it’s only fair. You got two minutes, starting now.’
    ‘Thank you, sir . . . I’ll cut straight to the chase. I’ve been asked to go to London to meet Mark Adams. I don’t know if you’ve heard of him . . .’
    ‘Sure I have. He was a minister in the last Labour administration. Now he’s setting up his own party, running as a kind of populist alternative to the establishment.’
    ‘That’s the one.’
    ‘Interesting guy. Last time I spoke to the Prime Minister he mentioned Adams. Dismissed him as a racist, neo-fascist rabble-rouser, but I got the sense he was plenty worried about his popular appeal. So what’s your connection to this guy, Alix?’
    ‘He wants to establish himself as a credible international statesman, someone the electorate can trust to represent them abroad. And . . .’ Alix began, almost wincing as she thought of what was coming next.
    ‘And more than anything else he wants his picture taken with the President.’
    ‘Yes, sir, that’s exactly it.’
    ‘You’ve not told him that we know each other socially, I hope.’
    ‘No, sir, I’d never do that.’
    Roberts nodded, accepting her word. ‘Good, because I don’t want to be within a million miles of some guy who bases his politics on racism. I might just find myself beating the crap out of him, and that wouldn’t exactly befit the dignity of my office.’
    ‘We don’t know for sure that he is a racist,’ Alix pointed out. ‘Adams strongly denies it. His people told me that’s just propaganda put out by his opponents. They said he’s spent years doing voluntary work for a housing association, finding homes for low-income, minority families. It’s really hard to get a take on him, to be honest. Depending on who you talk to, he’s the saviour of Britain or a Nazi dictator-in-waiting.’
    ‘He could be Winston, or he could be Adolf,’ mused Roberts. ‘Look, I can’t give Adams a one-to-one meeting. But there’s no reason why I can’t meet a senior British politician at some kind of event, and if there’s a photographer present, well, I can’t stop them doing their job. But before that happens I have to know that this guy is for real. I don’t want that picture coming back to haunt me if he ends up wearing jackboots and sticking people in camps for having the wrong colour skin or worshipping the wrong god.’
    ‘I don’t want that either, Mr President. I grew up in one totalitarian system. I have no desire to help someone start another.’
    ‘Good. Then here’s what we’ll do: I’ll get our people doing some due diligence on Adams. We’ve got to do that anyway if there’s even an outside chance of him becoming the British Prime Minister. Meantime, you get close to him. Keep your eyes and ears open. Use your brain, but use your gut, too. Trust your instincts. Then let me know if he’s a man that you want to work with and I want to meet.’
    ‘Yes, sir. Thank you, Mr President.’
    ‘You’re welcome . . . and now, can I get back to sailing my boat?’
    The
Lady Rosalie
was tied up in the dock at Lusterleaf, the Roberts family compound on Knotts Island, North Carolina. Carver and Alix had sat down for a quick brunch with Lincoln and Rosalie Roberts. Now the President needed to get back to work, and Carver and Alix were settled in the back seat of the black Cadillac Escalade that was taking them up to Norfolk for the one-hour flight to Washington. Their hosts were just about to wave them off when Roberts held up a hand and said, ‘Wait a second.’ He walked across to the limo and tapped on the Escalade’s passenger window, on Carver’s side of the car.
    Carver lowered the window and the President leaned into the car. ‘I meant what I said. Keep your eyes open and stay out of trouble. Y’hear?’
    ‘Absolutely.’
    ‘Good . . .’ Roberts looked up at Alix,