The rain was coming down in a relentless grey sheet, turning the Garden Hotel driveway into a shimmering lake of black oil and neon light. Gavin Monroe, the Chief of the Lakeport Police Sub-bureau, stood rigid in his white shirt, his eyes fixed on Ambrose Ward. He was counting the seconds, his mind a whirlpool of spite. He was desperately waiting for the moment when the Federal Bureau of Public Safety ignored the call, when the Provincial Committee stayed silent, and when this arrogant young upstart finally realized he had no backing at all. He wanted to see Ambrose become a pariah—a laughingstock who had tried to play with the big fish and drowned.
"What on earth is going on out here? Why is there such a commotion in the middle of the night?"
The voice was a sharp, authoritative bark th
