crack, coming from the prompt corner just below them, and they could smell the powder. Paul sprang to attention in his chair, and took a moment to calm himself. Flemyng unfolded his arms. Wherry, sitting in front, remained quite still at the sound of gunfire. A hunter, for sure.
Paul didn’t waste a minute in the second interval, but took Flemyng aside. No one seemed surprised. The Americans were talking to Francesca, and she found Sassi exploring her Italian background, more distant than his own. ‘We were Naples,’ he said. ‘You?’
‘The north,’ said Francesca. ‘In the Veneto. But it was generations ago. I take it you’re more recent.’ Sassi offered little more. He continued, gently, to probe her. ‘I don’t often talk about my family,’ he said. ‘ Omertà , you might say.’ Francesca laughed, enjoying his game.
Penny was dealing with the ministers and Flemyng and Paul were free to speak, standing in a corner, Paul with his back to the others. ‘Let’s talk about Washington and one of our bigger problems,’ he said, keeping his voice low. ‘An ambassador.’
Flemyng started and his eyes came up. ‘Dennis is home and dry,’ he said. ‘On his way. Surely.’ Old Inskip was getting his move from Paris, after years of manoeuvres, and the office was happy for him.
Paul said, ‘No. We’re changing horses, I’m sorry to say. Can’t say more, but you’ll be pleased. A grown-up appointment.’ Francesca had broken from Sassi but saw Paul’s serious expression and turned away.
‘It’s another damned complication that we don’t need,’ he was saying. But the calendar couldn’t be denied and it was time for the greatest diplomatic prize of all to be passed on. Runners and riders headed for the line, straining at their bridles. Malton at the UN, Colquhoun in Pretoria, O’Hare in Brussels, his unorthodox love life notwithstanding, Glendinning in Bonn looking for escape from a one-horse town and a last chance of glory, and the permanent secretary himself, Finzi. No one else in the running save for Dennis, who had got Paris as a consolation prize when Moscow slipped through his fingers. They had all been at it for two months, making unscheduled visits to London to sit at the right lunch table (‘happened to be in town… half term for the youngest… time to catch up’) and at first Dennis seemed to have faltered.
But he had put in a wondrous late run, with the help of Flemyng’s boss who admired his style with the French and had managed to fix it for him with a discreet conversation at a Downing Street dinner. ‘Steady and classy,’ he’d said. ‘Washington will like him. A good vintage and at his peak. Drinking well, you might say.’ He regretted the phrase afterwards, but never mind.
All of a sudden Dennis was the man: throwing a wild party in Paris to celebrate in advance, the excuse being the visit of an artist whose name would bring French ministers flocking to the embassy, where he could quietly pass the word that, sad though he was, he would soon be taking his leave of the Faubourg St Honoré for the big Lutyens house on Massachusetts Avenue, Washington NW, which he told his guests was almost as lovely a residence.
Everyone knew of Dennis’s problem with the third Courvoisier, but his comfort with the American scene, his grace in public and his happy ability to write a political précis laced with the tartness of a natural diarist meant that his colleagues put it to one side. Everyone was happy; Downing Street signed it off. His appointment would produce small headlines and minimal comment in the public prints. Relief all round.
‘What happened?’ said Flemyng, in a tone that suggested he already knew the answer.
‘Well,’ said Paul, ‘Tom Brieve did for him.’ Flemyng’s face darkened. ‘He was in Paris the other day, a pre-conference thing. Dennis en fête . Completely pissed at dinner, pardon my French. Prattled on about tennis on the White House courts, how the
Paul didn’t waste a minute in the second interval, but took Flemyng aside. No one seemed surprised. The Americans were talking to Francesca, and she found Sassi exploring her Italian background, more distant than his own. ‘We were Naples,’ he said. ‘You?’
‘The north,’ said Francesca. ‘In the Veneto. But it was generations ago. I take it you’re more recent.’ Sassi offered little more. He continued, gently, to probe her. ‘I don’t often talk about my family,’ he said. ‘ Omertà , you might say.’ Francesca laughed, enjoying his game.
Penny was dealing with the ministers and Flemyng and Paul were free to speak, standing in a corner, Paul with his back to the others. ‘Let’s talk about Washington and one of our bigger problems,’ he said, keeping his voice low. ‘An ambassador.’
Flemyng started and his eyes came up. ‘Dennis is home and dry,’ he said. ‘On his way. Surely.’ Old Inskip was getting his move from Paris, after years of manoeuvres, and the office was happy for him.
Paul said, ‘No. We’re changing horses, I’m sorry to say. Can’t say more, but you’ll be pleased. A grown-up appointment.’ Francesca had broken from Sassi but saw Paul’s serious expression and turned away.
‘It’s another damned complication that we don’t need,’ he was saying. But the calendar couldn’t be denied and it was time for the greatest diplomatic prize of all to be passed on. Runners and riders headed for the line, straining at their bridles. Malton at the UN, Colquhoun in Pretoria, O’Hare in Brussels, his unorthodox love life notwithstanding, Glendinning in Bonn looking for escape from a one-horse town and a last chance of glory, and the permanent secretary himself, Finzi. No one else in the running save for Dennis, who had got Paris as a consolation prize when Moscow slipped through his fingers. They had all been at it for two months, making unscheduled visits to London to sit at the right lunch table (‘happened to be in town… half term for the youngest… time to catch up’) and at first Dennis seemed to have faltered.
But he had put in a wondrous late run, with the help of Flemyng’s boss who admired his style with the French and had managed to fix it for him with a discreet conversation at a Downing Street dinner. ‘Steady and classy,’ he’d said. ‘Washington will like him. A good vintage and at his peak. Drinking well, you might say.’ He regretted the phrase afterwards, but never mind.
All of a sudden Dennis was the man: throwing a wild party in Paris to celebrate in advance, the excuse being the visit of an artist whose name would bring French ministers flocking to the embassy, where he could quietly pass the word that, sad though he was, he would soon be taking his leave of the Faubourg St Honoré for the big Lutyens house on Massachusetts Avenue, Washington NW, which he told his guests was almost as lovely a residence.
Everyone knew of Dennis’s problem with the third Courvoisier, but his comfort with the American scene, his grace in public and his happy ability to write a political précis laced with the tartness of a natural diarist meant that his colleagues put it to one side. Everyone was happy; Downing Street signed it off. His appointment would produce small headlines and minimal comment in the public prints. Relief all round.
‘What happened?’ said Flemyng, in a tone that suggested he already knew the answer.
‘Well,’ said Paul, ‘Tom Brieve did for him.’ Flemyng’s face darkened. ‘He was in Paris the other day, a pre-conference thing. Dennis en fête . Completely pissed at dinner, pardon my French. Prattled on about tennis on the White House courts, how the
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