That evening, in Downing Street, he sat in the cabinet room overlooking the garden with the foreign secretary, the Brexit secretary and the prime minister’s private secretary. A larger meeting had just finished and the atmosphere in the room still resonated with bodies, speech and movement. The two politicians were relaxed, the Brexit secretary leaning back in his chair, hands in pockets, retailing an anecdote about someone in Brussels. The foreign secretary nodded and smiled while looking at his phone. ‘His statement here says precisely the opposite,’ he said.

The Brexit secretary guffawed. ‘Course it does. What do you expect? That’s why he’s called Both Ways.’

The private secretary, seated a discreet two places apart from the politicians, smiled and said nothing. He was a slim, bespectacled, alarmingly youthful-looking man whose expression suggested alertness and self-restraint. Charles had known him off and on for some years, initially as a promising young MOD official with nuclear expertise. He sat with pen and notepad before him.

‘Point of this meeting,’ said the foreign secretary, ‘is to get absolutely clear what you’re going to say to your lupine friend when you meet him. The PM has agreed your submission without demur – correct, Simon?’ The private secretary nodded. ‘But insists that what our lupine friend thinks he wheedles out of you must be word for word, syllable by syllable, what our battling negotiators here want the other side to understand about our position. Which happens to be the truth. We’re not selling them a pup but trying to persuade them to recognise reality. So far, it’s like dealing with a pack of religious nutters. They’re fixated on maintaining the political purity of the EU project rather than trying to work out what works best for everyone. Next round of talks starts on Wednesday. Can you meet your lupine friend before that?’

‘We’re lunching on Monday.’

‘Good for you. Great tradition, the Brussels lunch.’ The foreign secretary gave a conspiratorial grin. ‘You arranged it before you knew the submission was agreed, then?’

‘The precautionary principle.’

‘Your man Horley,’ said the Brexit secretary. ‘How’s he taking this?’

‘His vetting certificate has been withdrawn and he’s been suspended pending investigation. He no longer has access to the case nor to anything else.’

‘But how’s he taking it?’ The Brexit secretary’s manner was still relaxed but his gaze was calculating. ‘Not likely to run off to the press and spill the beans, is he?’