photograph for a full five seconds, then looked at Burrow expectantly. 'Everything,' he said softly. 'Tell me everything.'
Burrow spoke for ten minutes while Meacher listened, his hands in his lap as if meditating. When he had finished, Burrow drained his glass and went over to the drinks cabinet to refill it. Meacher's glass remained untouched on the coffee table.
'Remember what I said to you when I first agreed to join your team?' Meacher asked.
'Yes. I remember.'
'So why did you withhold this from me?'
Burrow sat down and adjusted the creases of his trousers. 'Jody, this all happened a long time ago. A lifetime ago.'
Meacher held out the Polaroid photograph so that it was just inches from the senator's face. 'And this? When did this happen?'
Burrow felt his face redden. 'I don't know.' He took another mouthful of Jack Daniels.
Meacher tossed the photograph on to the coffee table. 'You know what this means?'
'You don't have to spell it out for me, Jody.'
'Everything we've worked for, everything we've done, it'll all be for nothing if this gets out.'
'I know, Jody. I know.'
Meacher sat in silence, staring into the middle distance. Burrow crouched forward, his elbows on his knees. Burrow could practically hear Meacher's mind working.
'Who else has seen the photograph?' Meacher asked eventually.
'My secretary. Kristine Ross.'
'Would you miss her?'
Burrow flinched at the question. 'Is there no other way?'
Meacher's pale blue eyes bored into Burrow's. 'Senator, you know as well as I do the state of the Vice President's health. He's going to have to step down within the next few months, and you are the frontrunner to take his place.' He nodded at the Polaroid. 'What do you think will happen if what you've told me becomes public knowledge?'
Burrow drew a finger across his throat. The end of his career. The end of everything.
'So don't ask me if there's any other way out of this. There's only one way. My way.'
Burrow held Meacher's gaze for several seconds, then he nodded slowly. 'Whatever it takes, Jody,' he said, and drained his glass.
Tommy Reid grunted and fumbled in his pockets for his keys. Nick Wright beat him to it and slotted his Yale into the lock. He pushed open the door and allowed Reid in first. The two men walked down the narrow hall to the sitting room. Reid stopped dead. The room was a mess, with empty fast-food cartons on the floor, stacks of newspapers and magazines on a coffee table and a pile of dirty laundry in the corner by the television.
'Shit! We've been burgled,' said Reid. 'Call the cops.'
Wright pushed him in the small of the back. 'You always say that,' he said. 'If it annoys you so much, get a cleaning lady.'
'Who said it annoys me?' He staggered over to the window and pulled the curtains shut with a flourish. Dust drifted down around him. 'Is it snowing?' he asked.
'You're pissed,' said Wright, dropping down on to a sofa that had once been beige but had long ago turned into a dirty brown.
Reid exhaled and looked around the room. There were two overstuffed leather armchairs next to the sofa, both scuffed and THE TUNNEL RATS 45 worn from years of abuse, facing a portable television on a black plastic stand. 'What's on the box?' he asked.
Wright ran his hands through his hair. 'Who cares?' he said. The two men had spent several hours in a local Indian restaurant, challenging each other to increasingly hot curries and cooling themselves down with half pints of lager. All Wright wanted to do was sleep.
'Do you want a nightcap?' Reid asked. Wright shook his head. 'Okay, I'll get myself a beer and head off to bed. See you tomorrow.'
Wright gave Reid a small wave. He heaved himself up off the sofa and went over to the pine shelving unit which had been amateurishly screwed into the wall opposite the window. On the middle shelf, surrounded by well-creased paperbacks, was a mini stereo system. Below it were several dozen CDs, mostly jazz. Wright ran his finger along the cases and
Burrow spoke for ten minutes while Meacher listened, his hands in his lap as if meditating. When he had finished, Burrow drained his glass and went over to the drinks cabinet to refill it. Meacher's glass remained untouched on the coffee table.
'Remember what I said to you when I first agreed to join your team?' Meacher asked.
'Yes. I remember.'
'So why did you withhold this from me?'
Burrow sat down and adjusted the creases of his trousers. 'Jody, this all happened a long time ago. A lifetime ago.'
Meacher held out the Polaroid photograph so that it was just inches from the senator's face. 'And this? When did this happen?'
Burrow felt his face redden. 'I don't know.' He took another mouthful of Jack Daniels.
Meacher tossed the photograph on to the coffee table. 'You know what this means?'
'You don't have to spell it out for me, Jody.'
'Everything we've worked for, everything we've done, it'll all be for nothing if this gets out.'
'I know, Jody. I know.'
Meacher sat in silence, staring into the middle distance. Burrow crouched forward, his elbows on his knees. Burrow could practically hear Meacher's mind working.
'Who else has seen the photograph?' Meacher asked eventually.
'My secretary. Kristine Ross.'
'Would you miss her?'
Burrow flinched at the question. 'Is there no other way?'
Meacher's pale blue eyes bored into Burrow's. 'Senator, you know as well as I do the state of the Vice President's health. He's going to have to step down within the next few months, and you are the frontrunner to take his place.' He nodded at the Polaroid. 'What do you think will happen if what you've told me becomes public knowledge?'
Burrow drew a finger across his throat. The end of his career. The end of everything.
'So don't ask me if there's any other way out of this. There's only one way. My way.'
Burrow held Meacher's gaze for several seconds, then he nodded slowly. 'Whatever it takes, Jody,' he said, and drained his glass.
Tommy Reid grunted and fumbled in his pockets for his keys. Nick Wright beat him to it and slotted his Yale into the lock. He pushed open the door and allowed Reid in first. The two men walked down the narrow hall to the sitting room. Reid stopped dead. The room was a mess, with empty fast-food cartons on the floor, stacks of newspapers and magazines on a coffee table and a pile of dirty laundry in the corner by the television.
'Shit! We've been burgled,' said Reid. 'Call the cops.'
Wright pushed him in the small of the back. 'You always say that,' he said. 'If it annoys you so much, get a cleaning lady.'
'Who said it annoys me?' He staggered over to the window and pulled the curtains shut with a flourish. Dust drifted down around him. 'Is it snowing?' he asked.
'You're pissed,' said Wright, dropping down on to a sofa that had once been beige but had long ago turned into a dirty brown.
Reid exhaled and looked around the room. There were two overstuffed leather armchairs next to the sofa, both scuffed and THE TUNNEL RATS 45 worn from years of abuse, facing a portable television on a black plastic stand. 'What's on the box?' he asked.
Wright ran his hands through his hair. 'Who cares?' he said. The two men had spent several hours in a local Indian restaurant, challenging each other to increasingly hot curries and cooling themselves down with half pints of lager. All Wright wanted to do was sleep.
'Do you want a nightcap?' Reid asked. Wright shook his head. 'Okay, I'll get myself a beer and head off to bed. See you tomorrow.'
Wright gave Reid a small wave. He heaved himself up off the sofa and went over to the pine shelving unit which had been amateurishly screwed into the wall opposite the window. On the middle shelf, surrounded by well-creased paperbacks, was a mini stereo system. Below it were several dozen CDs, mostly jazz. Wright ran his finger along the cases and
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