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A Santa figure knocks on the door of The Olives on Christmas Eve. As I recall, there is something like a blizzard blowing and he resembles a snowman, though his whiskers owe much to an unshaven face. Once you discard the snow that still swirls round him, you will see a powerful-looking man, standing over six feet tall, and something over sixty years old; even so, you would not mistake him for Father Xmas - not with those coal-black eyes fixed on you. Nor would you turn your back on this man: one look warns you, this man is dangerous. Now that we know our visitor is not Father Christmas. Who might he be, wandering abroad on a night such as this ... perhaps he's seeking a night's lodgings? As it happens, he's been expected these past thirty years. He has a wife waiting to greet him... perhaps. Only Jordan has barred her from the family home. She would be my (Jacob's) mother. Jordan barred her not only from the house but also with having any association with me. I am on good and generous behaviour when I meet my father for the first time - that is, I don't show him the door straight away; well, it is now Christmas day and he's still with us, and though insults are exchanged, he is still with us when Jane Tinsley - the girl who slapped my face ... and turns out to be a first cousin - is kidnapped by terrorists wanting to get their hands on Jordan, and using her as bait. This begins a new life for me, as my father and I chase through Europe and the Middle East. We have mixed fortunes, shed a lot of blood, some of it mine. I won't spoil you with more details ... or you'll never need to read the book. Suffice to say, I'm not among the dead.
