Prologue
“No! For God’s sake, no! Rowland Sinclair cannot be trusted.” Freddie Middlemiss was adamant and furious. His lips puckered and pressed into a disconsolate line. “The man’s a disgrace. We still can’t be sure he’s not a b****y Red.” He stubbed out his cigarette, agitated. “If I had my way, we’d shoot him and be done with it!”
“What Charles is suggesting may be tantamount to shooting him,” Maguire observed. It was hard to tell if the surgeon was necessarily unhappy with the proposition.
Senator Charles Hardy pushed his fingertips together as he considered the warning. The select meeting of loyalists waited for his response in the private meeting room of the Riverine Club. A dozen men sat around the polished board table, ashtrays and scotch within easy reach. The air was heavy, a
