Erica Taylor waited in her office for the transatlantic phone calls to switch in reverse and someone to tell her she could stop Denning flying home. The light had started to fade outside her window and she looked at the clock on her desk. One minute to six. She turned on the early evening news on the television in the cherrywood bookcase in her office. The staff at the court complex were threatening to go on strike. She nodded silently. That was just their union posturing, she had people negotiating with them and the word was that they would reach an agreement. There was a piece on a forest fire to the east of the city and then the sports news. She had almost lost interest when her phone rang.
‘Burnett’s on WGCL,’ said Curtis Hoffman’s voice.
She pressed a button on her remote control and the jowled, self-satisfied face of Porter Burnett filled the screen. It was a face she had never liked and was now beginning to loathe. Porter had just been introduced by the reporter. He was standing in the street facing the camera, she could clearly see his campaign headquarters, the window was filled with posters behind him. Porter’s face didn’t have its usual good-natured smile, it was full of concern.
‘So, Mr Burnett,’ said the reporter into a large WGCL microphone, ‘you feel that the only way to track down the Second National robbers is to call in the FBI?’
The microphone moved to just under Porter’s chin.
‘These are desperate men,’ said Burnett, looking directly into the lens of the camera as he had been taught, to show how serious he was, ‘more probably than possibly terrorists. They seek to strike at the heart of our community and society. They are ruthless and highly trained in the black arts of death and destruction. They have violently robbed one of our major banks and killed two dedicated, long-term employees in the process.’
As he got into his stride, Porter Burnett told the people of Atlanta that their mayor had been panicked into trying to fight trained terrorists with a small group of local police officers. Atlanta policemen and women were a fine body, the best in the world, but they had no business fighting terrorists. If, he continued, he had been in the mayor’s office, the Federal Bureau of Investigation would now be using their vast resources to eliminate this danger to all Atlanta’s citizens.
‘There you have it,’ said the reporter, turning to the camera, ‘the first of the battle lines are drawn in this election campaign. Ray Preston for WGCL outside Porter Burnett’s campaign headquarters.’
Erica Taylor slowly picked up the remote control and used it to turn the television off. Then she threw it violently at the set. From kindergarten onwards, sports had never been a strong point and the remote hit the spine of a book 18 inches to the right of the television and bounced harmlessly onto the carpet.
She sat for ten seconds looking at the blank screen, then reached for the telephone console on her desk and pushed the button for Curtis Hoffman’s mobile phone.
‘Did you see it?’ she asked.
‘Yes, I’m in reception at Kerr’s Grocery Stores headquarters, they have it on their set here.’
‘What are you doing at Kerr’s?’
‘They promised $300 thousand for your campaign fund, I’m trying to get them up to half a million.’
‘Okay, Curtis, I’ve been thinking about this, I’m going to make the call to the FBI.’
‘You can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘We’ve been through this, Porter has backed you into a corner. Either you call in the Bureau and look as if he’s had with a better idea and had it first, or you stick with the plan of using Atlanta’s Finest.’
‘What if we can’t get this expert to stay in Atlanta?’
‘Then you will have no choice, you will have to go to the FBI, but Porter will annihilate you for it.’