‘I’m sorry, sir. But I did speak to the Bureau, as you instructed, about the Texas matter. They’re going to do what they can, but it will take time. I just –’

Kipper held up his free hand like a nightclub doorman. ‘Nope, Jed. Not tonight. There’s nothing I can do about it tonight. And even if there was, I wouldn’t. Because it’s pork chop night. You want me to ring Director Naoum first thing in the morning and lean on him, that’s fine. But it’s not happening tonight.’

He expected a fight, and was preparing himself for one, getting a rein on his temper before it got away from him, but the Chief of Staff merely sighed and shook his head. Almost as if he was trying to shake off a wearisome thought or mood.

‘No, sir. That won’t be necessary. You said you wanted the FBI on this. They’re on it, in their own methodical, dilatory fashion. I’m sure they’ll do a thorough job. But I just want you to know it will take time. And there are alternatives that I could set in play before I have my first martini tonight.’

‘Only if you really want to go to jail, Jed,’ the President said, half in jest. But with a tone to his voice that, he hoped, implied he was serious also.

‘Fair enough,’ replied Culver, finally seeming to accept that he’d lost. ‘Tomorrow morning then. Barb.’ He dipped his head to say goodbye and left to locate his driver.

‘Not a happy customer,’ said Barb once he’d gone. ‘Can I help there?’

‘Sweet potato bake and trees are in the oven. They’ll be good to go by now,’ Kipper told her, trying to recover his good mood from earlier on. He was relieved that Jed hadn’t pressed the point about Blackstone and, he presumed, that damned Echelon woman, but he was still pissed off he’d even had to think about it this evening. That was the problem with living where you worked: there was no escaping the office.

Barbara busied herself with removing the two porcelain baking trays from the oven, one heavily burdened with a large sweet potato done au gratin, the smaller one holding the obligatory greens, namely broccoli baked with lemon wedges. ‘Trees’, as Kip still called them. A term from his childhood. Broccoli he wouldn’t eat, but ‘trees’ he would. Just like their daughter now. There were times it drove Barbara batshit, right up there with the fart jokes when Barney Tench was around.

He lifted down two white, square dinner plates from the crockery cupboard and wondered why they had to be square. What was wrong with round, normal-looking plates, for chrissakes? American dinner plates. Fucking Seattle, sometimes they just push things too far here. He definitely needed more beer.