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in. He wore a black suit, white shirt and sober blue tie. A wire by his neck revealed the presence of an earpiece.
    ‘Any news?’ asked the President.
    Special Agent Tord Bahr of the US Secret Service nodded. ‘Yes, sir. And I have to advise you, Mr President, that I strongly recommend evacuating you immediately. Our latest intelligence indicates a high probability of an attack on you tonight. There’s still time to get you away.’
    ‘You’re certain of the threat?’
    ‘Yes, sir.’
    ‘And you’re totally prepared?’
    ‘Absolutely. As much as anyone can be.’
    ‘And my family are quite safe at the White House?’
    ‘Yes, sir.’
    ‘Then I’m not going to cut and run. It doesn’t look good, the leader of the free world hiding at a moment of crisis. Are we clear?’
    Bahr’s jaw clenched for a second before he replied, ‘As crystal, Mr President.’
    ‘Thanks, Tord, I have total confidence in you and your team.’
    Roberts looked out through the bullet-proof glass that had been fitted to all the windows of his house. ‘Guess it’s going to be a long night,’ he said. But his Chief of Staff had already followed the Secret Service agent out of the door and was setting about his business.

7

    Carver crossed the coast of North Carolina at an altitude of 15,000 feet, seeing down below him a narrow stretch of uninhabited scrub, less than a mile wide. He passed over it in twenty-five seconds, during which time he fell another 1,200 feet. Now he was over the inland waters of Back Bay. This was the longest section of his journey: four miles of open water, dropping all the time till he could feel the air getting warmer and richer, so that he no longer needed any oxygen. He knew exactly where he was and for now his flight was smooth and untroubled. He had a couple of minutes to make the best of it. After that, things would turn very nasty again.
    To his left was Knotts Island. It was about five miles long by four miles across at its widest, southernmost end. A thin ribbon of land connected it to the Virginia mainland, splitting two stretches of inland water: Back Bay and Currituck Sound. The Roberts estate lay on the ribbon, with the main house right up against the Currituck shoreline.
    Carver flew a few hundred yards to the north of the estate. He was getting nervous now. The strong following wind which he’d counted on to carry him on his way had slackened and he was losing airspeed, not covering enough distance relative to the height he was losing. His altimeter started beeping in his ear, telling him that he was down to 3,000 feet. In no more than twenty seconds, he would have to open his chute. It was an illusion, he knew, but the ever-nearing roofs and trees below him seemed almost close enough to touch. Surely he would be seen. He felt the gaze of unseen eyes and his body tensed, waiting for the sound of gunfire. Yet none came.
    And then he was back over water, not much further to go.
    He banked hard left, turning through 90 degrees on to a southerly course that would take him over Currituck Sound, back down towards the estate. Then he passed 2,000 feet; the parachute opened; he felt the massive G-forces imposed by instant, radical deceleration, and after all the dangers he had overcome to get this far, Carver prepared for the deadliest part of his journey.
    For the next ninety seconds, he would be drifting over enemy airspace. Both he and his chute were covered in black, non-reflective material, making him very hard to spot. But even so, he knew from personal experience just how vulnerable a man felt hanging from a chute with hostiles armed with guns beneath him. It was a noxious cocktail of bowel-juddering fear, mixed with the exposure of a nudity dream, going out in public naked from the waist down. As he steered towards the sound, Carver didn’t feel any better about it than he had on any previous occasion. He had his pants on all right, but somehow his balls were still dangling in the wind.
    Up ahead