The Killing Ground

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BLAKE JOHNSON WAS RECEIVED WITH COURTESY AT THE American Embassy in Grosvenor Square, as befitted President Jake Cazalet’s most important security adviser, the head of a secret White House operation known simply as the Basement. An aide took him to the Ambassador’s office, a fine young Marine captain in dress uniform bearing medals from Bosnia, Iraq and Afghanistan. “The Ambassador’s hosting a cocktail party, mostly for those who weren’t invited to Brussels for the conference.”

“And who would that be?” Blake asked. “The dregs of every embassy in London, Major.”

“I know the feeling. And it’s not ‘Major’- Vietnam was a long time ago.”

“Once a Marine always a Marine, Major. My dad was in Vietnam, and my grandfather was in North Africa and in Normandy on D-Day.”

“They must be proud of you. That Navy Cross speaks for itself.”

“Thank you, sir. I’ll alert the Ambassador.” He went out. Blake helped himself to scotch from a decanter on the sideboard and moved to the window at the terrace and looked into Grosvenor Square, the roads shining in the streetlights, rain pounding down.

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