murmurs a voice in a headset.

Obama closes his eyes for a moment. When he opens them again, his gaze is different. Harder. More distant. It is the gaze of a man who knows that in a few minutes he will have to own a decision before the whole world – or hide it for ever.

The door of the Oval Office opens. Obama enters alone. The room is plunged into semi-darkness, with only a single lamp lighting the Resolute desk. He does not sit down. He walks. From the window to the desk, from the desk to the fireplace. A steady, measured to-and-fro.

Régis observes this interstitial moment, this void between the action and its telling. History has just been made in the secrecy of a Pakistani valley. Now it has to be told. Or not. The advisers wait outside, with their conflicting opinions: announce immediately, wait for confirmation, keep it secret.

Obama stops in front of the large window. Washington sleeps. A few lights twinkle. He lays his hand flat on the cold glass. Régis sees his lips move without a sound. He is rehearsing sentences. Fragments of the speech he might give:

CONTENTS