Dead Edge: the gripping political thriller for fans of Lee Child. Jack Ford
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show up, she bitched all day. Couldn’t even slip out to go fishing, made me clean out the yard. You owe me.’
Cooper laughed. ‘Shoot, Levi, tell her I’m sorry.’
‘Tell her yourself. Take the heat off me a bit. But perhaps you should wait a few days; she won’t be happy to see you looking like that. You know you look like shit, right?’
Cooper stepped out of his truck. His six-foot-three frame towering over Levi. Touched his pocket to make sure his blister of pills was there. Put a cigarette in his mouth and gave a rueful smile. ‘Would it surprise you to know, you’re not the first one who’s said that… Come on, let’s go and see what Granger’s got in store for us.’
WASHINGTON, D.C.
USA
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Teddy Adleman walked into the Oval Office with a cup of green tea which Joan, Wood’s secretary, had enthusiastically made him. It smelt bad and it tasted worse. ‘Mr President. You okay? You look a bit peaky,’ Teddy said.
‘I’m fine.’
‘The Appalachian cheese still bothering you?’
‘Yep. Everything going through me like a Goddamn sieve. You?’
Teddy winked and patted down his growing afro. ‘Yep. There’s fire below deck. Joan got me drinking this green tea. Don’t think it’ll do a damn lot of good though.’
Woods’ secretary knocked before putting her head round the door. ‘Mr President? Naomi Tyler is here.’
Woods sat on the cream, flower-patterned sofa. A new and welcome addition to the office. The last couch had felt like somebody had just taken it out of a dumpster, with its springs driving into you like you were lying on a corkscrew.
Craning his neck to look behind him at Joan, Woods said, ‘Show her in… and Joan, you think you could make me one of those green teas? Oh, and I like your hair by the way. Short cut suits you.’
‘Mr President, I’ve had it like this for the past six months, but I appreciate the compliment.’
*
Naomi Tyler, an honors graduate and a former communications director of the Vice President, and one of the newest of John Woods’ senior advisors, clutched her phone. ‘Good morning, Mr President. Good morning, Teddy. Just to run down your out of towners for this afternoon. Shall I start?’
Flicking a large crumb of toast on the floor, which had inexplicably got caught on the ankle of his sock, Woods nodded. ‘Sure. But if I’m not happy with it, Naomi, I’ll be canceling and heading up towards Martha’s Vineyard. I could do with some downtime.’
‘Mr President, I’m afraid we wouldn’t be able to cancel anything at this short notice. I’d go as far to say it’d be impossible. Unless of course you’re taken ill, then…’
‘Naomi. Naomi. I’m joking.’
Naomi Tyler, in a tone which could have been mistaken for the sound of a heartbeat monitor flatlining, replied, ‘Oh yes. I see. Very funny, Mr President. Very funny.’
Woods raised his eyebrows, thinking the following:
Naomi was brilliant.
Sharp.
Intelligent.
Astute as hell.
Could organize better than any military personnel he’d ever met.
But as for a sense of humor? It was positively lacking. Nothing. Not one bone of funny.
Teddy’s lips twitched at each side. ‘Don’t humor him, Naomi, we both know his jokes aren’t funny. But he likes to think it’s everybody else who can’t see the funny. Isn’t that right, Mr President?’
‘I know I’m funny,’ Woods said.
‘Not according to the Washington Post you’re not. What did they say about your jokes at the White House Correspondents’ Dinner? Oh yeah, and I quote, Perhaps the President should leave the jokes to his professional speech writers, but if his politics ever become as bad as his sense of humor, America’s in trouble when it comes to next year’s NATO summit.’
‘Hey listen, Teddy, if people don’t get my jokes, I’d say that’s their problem, not mine. Anyway, sorry, Naomi, please carry on.’
‘Well, you’ve got the ceremony for the families of the servicemen and women in Delaware at fourteen hundred, and then there’s only a really tight window before you need to be in Baltimore for the start of the Wounded Warrior Ride to help raise awareness of our nation’s heroes.’
‘I need to see my speech for that, there’s a couple of things I want to change. Go on.’
‘Ok, then your sixteen hundred bilateral meeting with the VP and Prime Minister of Albania is cancelled because of the current code red situation. The VP will be doing that alone and he’ll bring you up to speed during your twenty-one hundred call with him. Instead of the meeting you’ll convene with the National Security Council at CIA Headquarters, Langley, no later than sixteen thirty. And of course it’s closed press then at eighteen hundred – I know it’s later than usual, and apologies for that – you’ll give the usual statement to the pooled press. Then at…’
Woods put up his hand. Cut in. ‘Naomi. Don’t do this to me. I quit.’
Touching her immaculate, slightly too-tight weave, Naomi frowned and, looking flustered, glanced down at her cell, then at Woods, then back down at her cell, then thought about glancing at Teddy but in the end said, ‘That’s a joke isn’t it, Mr President? That’s one of your funny jokes.’
‘Well, it was until you killed it.’
Teddy Adleman grinned. ‘Naomi, can you excuse us? I need to run something by the President.’
Naomi glanced at her watch. ‘But…’
‘Breathe, Naomi. I promise I won’t make him late. Give me five minutes and whilst you’re at it have some of Joan’s green tea.’
Naomi said, ‘That’s funny.’
‘No, it isn’t.’
‘It’s not a joke, is it?’
‘Absolutely not.’
*
Woods stretched his arms above his head. Got a nasty twinge in his back as he did so. Gave a yelp of pain and decided he was getting old. ‘What’s up, Teddy?’
‘Something interesting. I wanted to run it past you.’
Getting himself in a better position, Woods kneaded his back. ‘Go on.’
‘I had a call from an old colleague last night who works in the police department in Chatham. He’s been a cop longer than most people have stayed married. An all-round good type. Anyway, a couple of days after the coffee shop bomber – ’
‘You have to call him that?’
‘Nope. Not if it offends.’
‘I’d rather we stick to calling him by his name. Plain old David Thorpe. It just feels like the press are making it into a media circus by giving him a nickname – a kind of celebrity status. Takes away from the heinousness of the act, and helps to fuel the massive advertising campaigns terror groups like Daesh have. He’ll be on the cover of their magazine, Dabiq, before you know it, hailed as a Goddamn hero… I don’t know, maybe it’s just me.’
‘No, I’m with you there, John.’
‘Tell me something,