Sam Bourne 4-Book Thriller Collection. Sam Bourne

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      The 1992 stand-off at Ruby Ridge, where a white supremacist lost his wife and child in a shootout with federal agents, like the siege at Waco, Texas, a year later, revealed a world that most Americans – certainly those in media offices in New York – had never heard of. It saw Washington as the centre of a shadowy, new world order, embodied by the hated United Nations, which was determined to enslave free people everywhere. How else to explain the mysterious black helicopters spotted over rural America? What other meaning could there be to the numbers on the back of road signs; surely they were coded co-ordinates that would one day help the US army herd their fellow citizens into concentration camps?

      The more Will read, the more fascinated he became. These civilian warriors believed the craziest theories – about Freemasons, the Federal Reserve, coded messages printed on dollar bills, mysterious connections with European banks. Some of them were so sure the jackbooted bureaucrats of the federal government were out to get them that they had retreated into the hills, hiding in mountain cabins in remotest Idaho or wooded Montana. They had severed their links with the government in all its forms: they carried no drivers’ licences, they refused to sign any official paper. Some moved, quite literally, off the grid – generating their own power, rather than living off the national electricity system.

      And they were not playing games. On the second anniversary of the conflagration at Waco, the Alfred P Murrah federal building in Oklahoma City had shattered into dust, broken up by a mighty car bomb, killing 169 people. The culprits turned out to be not Islamist extremists but all-American boys whose heads had been filled with loathing of their own government.

      The Seattle Times had an archive picture of Baxter at a rally in Montana in 1994. Except it looked more like a trade fair, down to the stands where exhibitors showed their wares. Baxter was pictured manning a stall that sold MREs – military-style ‘meals ready to eat’. Apparently, he did a fairly brisk trade in dried foods, portable tents and the like: survivalist gear that would keep the freedom-loving American in food and shelter during the coming confrontation. In the remote world of the anti-government movement, Baxter was, if not a celebrity, then a fixture.

       ‘He was a great patriot and his death is a great blow to all those who love liberty,’ said Bob Hill, a self-styled commandant of the Montana militia.

       Wednesday, 9am, Seattle

      Worryingly, the phone had not rung. When he finally awoke at nine – noon New York time – he saw that his cell phone was recording no missed calls at all. He reached for his BlackBerry; just some unimportant email. This was not right.

      He reached for his laptop, pulling it down from the table and onto the bed, stretching its cable to breaking point. He checked the Times site: no sign of his story. He clicked down to the National section: links to stories out of Atlanta, Chicago and Washington, DC. He clicked and clicked. Here was something, datelined Seattle. But it was only an Associated Press wire story, written that morning. No sign of his own piece.

      He phoned Beth. The hospital had to page her.

      ‘Hi babe, have you seen the paper today?’

      ‘Yes, I’m fine thank you. How kind of you to ask.’

      ‘Sorry, it’s just – have you got it there?’

      ‘Hold on.’ A long pause. ‘OK, what am I looking for?’

      ‘Anything by me.’

      ‘I looked this morning. I couldn’t see anything. I thought maybe you were going to do more work on it today.’

      Will tutted silently: of course he wasn’t going to work on it today. It was an on-the-day news story, about weather for Christ’s sake: there was no more perishable commodity in journalism than a weather story.

      ‘You checked the National section inside? Each page?’

      ‘I did, Will. I’m sorry. Does this mean they didn’t use it?’

      That was exactly what it meant: his story had been spiked.

      He braced himself for a call to the desk. If anyone but Jennifer, the news clerk, answered, he would hang up. He dialled.

      ‘National.’ Jennifer.

      ‘Hi, Jennifer, it’s Will Monroe here, out in Seattle.’

      ‘Oh hi. Wanna speak to Susan?’

      ‘No! No. No need. You know that piece I filed yesterday, from the floods? Do you know what happened to it?’

      Jennifer’s voice suddenly dipped.

      ‘Kind of. I heard them talking about it. They said it was very nice and all, but that you hadn’t talked about it with them first. If you had, they’d have told you they didn’t need a story yesterday.’

      ‘But I did speak . . .’ Of course. He had only talked with Jennifer, told her his co-ordinates and his plans. He had assumed they wanted him to file. Had Harden not told him to pack his galoshes?

      Now he realized: he was in Seattle just in case. He was keeping Bates’s seat warm. All that soaking effort yesterday had been in vain. He felt embarrassed, like an over-eager intern. It was a stupid mistake.

      ‘Hold on, Susan wants a word.’

      Three time zones away, Will readied himself for a roasting.

      ‘Hi, Will. Listen, I think the rule ought to be no filing unless we’ve talked about it first. OK? Maybe just find something that interests you, poke around a bit and see what it’s worth. As for spot-news, keep your phone on and we’ll call you if we need anything.’

      Will ate a glum breakfast. He had screwed up and screwed up badly. By now Jennifer would have spread the word among the tiny circle of Times staffers in their twenties: they would be having a good laugh at his expense. The golden boy with a big-shot daddy had come down to earth.

      There was only one solution. He would have to reel in a proper story. Somehow, from this far-off patch of snow, timber and potatoes, he would have to eke out a tale that would prove to New York that they had not made a mistake. He knew exactly where he would go.

EIGHT

       Wednesday, 3.13pm, Washington State

      The flight across Washington State had been brief, if bumpy, and the drive from Spokane gorgeous. The mountains were almost painfully beautiful, each cap dusted with a snow that looked like the purest powdered sugar. The trees were as straight as pencils, lines of them, so densely packed, the light almost seemed to strobe.

      He was driving east, soon crossing the state line into Idaho – or at least the long, slender upper part of the state where the United States appears to be giving the finger to its northern neighbour, Canada. He drove past Coeur d’Alene, which sounded like a Swiss skiing village but which was most famous as the home of a racist movement known as the Aryan Nations. Will had seen the pictures in the cuttings: the men dressed in quasi-Nazi uniforms, the ‘whites only’ sign at the entrance. It would make a fascinating stop, but Will did not leave the road. He had somewhere to go.

      His destination lay across the Idaho finger, in the western part of Montana. The roads were small, but Will did not СКАЧАТЬ