Sam Bourne - Pantheon

And there was Preston McAndrew, happy to shake this man’s hand, happy to engage in polite chat with him, happy — more to the point — to do business with him. Was there no end to this man’s wickedness? Even the sight of it turned James’s stomach. He could feel his loathing turning into a physical thing, a viscous fluid flowing through his veins and vital organs.

Of course James knew the Dean had come to Washington with evil intent: to prolong Britain’s agony. But he had assumed that his method would be… what? Perhaps some discreet lobbying, a quiet word in the ear of an official or two in the State Department? The scene James had witnessed in the Buchanan Room at the Willard Hotel, those lapel pins on Lowell and the other man, had reinforced that thought. He had expected McAndrew to be engaged in looking up his fellow alumni of the Wolf’s Head Society, doubtless spread throughout the higher reaches of the US government, using that network of old members to advance his cause, patiently putting the case for non-intervention. You’re too young to have served in the last war, he would say to those officials in the administration, as he began to detail the horrors of conflict…

But he had never bargained for this, McAndrew supping with the devil himself. Sitting with the enemy — not America’s enemy, perhaps, not while the US remained so devoutly neutral. But James’s enemy: the enemy of his country.

And then he was struck by a kind of premonition. His parents might have called it a divine visitation. Or perhaps it was just a lucky instinct. Without looking at Harrison, he whispered, ‘Give me the camera.’

Then, in a walk that was stealthy, noiseless and fast, James got closer — though not so close that his camera would be heard. He put the device to his eyes and watched. He snapped once, moved the winder on, then snapped again. As he was moving the winder on again, it happened and just in time for him to capture it on film. In a movement so swift that it was barely noticeable, the German reached into his briefcase and produced a white, foolscap envelope. Just as James pressed on the shutter, the diplomat handed it to Preston McAndrew, who in a similarly unfussy movement slotted it into a slim leather portfolio case which he then fastened and lodged under his arm. They shook hands — which James photographed too — and rose to their feet.

At once, James pivoted around so that should McAndrew happen to look into the middle distance to his right, he would see only the back of a man walking away from him.

James caught up with Harrison. ‘Can you see him? Which way is he going?’

‘West. Towards Lincoln.’

‘Lincoln?’

‘The Memorial.’

James counted to three, then turned and walked in the same direction, wincing to hear the sandy gravel of the path crunch beneath his feet. He could see McAndrew clearly, perhaps thirty yards ahead of them, that same purpose in his stride.

‘Please tell me you got a picture of that,’ Harrison said eventually.

‘I hope so. I pressed the button, it made the right sound. I only hope you put film in the camera,’ he said, handing the machine back to the American.

‘You sure you didn’t become a reporter in England and you’re just not telling me?’

James’s eyes were locked on the Dean, now about to cross 17th Street. Always the riskiest moment in any pursuit, the crossing of a main road. So many chances to lose the subject: he could turn left or right; he could get in a car; he could cross in a break in the traffic, leaving you stranded on the other side.

‘I mean when you said I’d get a story, I didn’t-’

‘We don’t have anything until we see what he does next,’ said James, his voice as firm and unwavering as his gaze.

Now they were by a long, ornamental stretch of water with grass on either side. James estimated the length at less than half a mile, perhaps a third. The sunlight was reflecting off the water, making it hard to see. He used his left hand to shield his eyes, aggravating his shoulder, and forced himself to ignore the pain. All he had to do, he told himself, was keep McAndrew in view.

They were no more than two hundred yards from the end when he heard a voice that made him shudder.

‘Stop right there.’

It was from behind him. James pictured a gun, silencer attached, as it had been on the train, aimed at his back. Or perhaps it was the police: they had found the corpse by the railway, had realized that no one else had been riding the overnight train. He turned around slowly.

‘Eddie Harrison as I live and breathe! Well, I’ll be.’

Standing, arms outstretched, was a round-faced man in a white suit, his face glistening with sweat in the clammy Washington heat. ‘Congressman, always good to see you,’ Harrison said. James let out a gale of air in relief.

‘Now, Ed, I’ve been wanting to talk to you about this metal embargo for Japan. You sure you can’t get Luce to run something-’

James looked over his shoulder to see that McAndrew was still striding ahead. This delay had cost him valuable seconds and therefore yards. He wanted to sprint, to catch up, but feared that could trigger another bellow from this blasted congressman: ‘Hey, where you off to, son?’ It would be disastrous to make any kind of scene. Raised voices and McAndrew would turn around.

Eventually desperation propelled him. He muttered an excuse, swivelled round and carried on walking. He could hear protests from the Congressman, the reporter apologizing on his behalf, as James quickened his pace. He looked ahead but could see McAndrew nowhere.

James’s heart began to thud. In front of him was a crowd of women, advancing in that slow amble characteristic of out-of-towners. They were blocking his view. Had the Dean realized he had been tailed and deliberately shielded himself behind this group of sightseers? Damn.

James broke into a jog, always a calamity during surveillance. At intervals he leapt, endeavouring to see over the heads of the women. No sign of McAndrew. He looked to his left and right: had the Dean taken a different route or, realizing he had been discovered, aborted his plan altogether?

James had come to the end of the Reflecting Pool now. Before him was a vast edifice in white stone, a Greek Doric temple of columns, fronted by a wide, steep staircase. So this was the memorial to their President Lincoln. How ingenious of the Dean to choose this place for whatever move he planned to make, rather than skulking about in some back alley. Jorge would have been impressed: hide in plain sight.

But McAndrew had vanished.

Suddenly the pain in his shoulder violently asserted itself. James put his hand to the wound as he squinted up to look at the staircase. There were too many people, all in motion. If you checked one side you risked missing someone on the other. Scan one section and the section above or below had already changed. In this shifting throng, McAndrew had concealed himself. James’s shoulder was screaming. He had been outwitted.

Now Harrison was at his side. ‘Where is he?’ he asked unhelpfully. James nodded toward the steps, then added ‘Come on!’ He took the first two in a single leap.

Maybe the Dean had ascended to the memorial itself, entering the temple at the summit, but even as they climbed the steps James forced down the fear that they might have lost their subject for good.

Behind him, he could hear the reporter breathing heavily. James guessed they were both thinking the same thing. That Preston McAndrew had received Nazi documents with a direct bearing on the war effort and, thanks to their failed attempt at surveillance, was about to get away with it.

‘Keep walking,’ Harrison said suddenly, his tone urgent. ‘Ahead, two o’clock.’

James’s heart raced in anticipation at seeing his prey again. He could see a man — brown suit, felt hat even in this heat — walking with an intent that set him apart from the tourists, but it was not McAndrew.