‘As you probably know, the Politburo is mainly a bunch of old men, and it is not often that old men get excited. I know from experience that if the Politburo is excited, gentlemen, then we should be worried – very, very worried.’

There was a long silence. Nettlefold broke it. ‘What are your views on the Libyan connection, Bill?’

‘Well – Libya is a major international terrorist base. Its neighbour, Chad, has massive uranium reserves, and the Libyans have been moving in on Chad for a long time – but that’s not necessarily relevant here. Maybe the Russians are going to get the Libyans to blow up all these power stations for them. Perhaps it’s not the Russians’ baby at all – it could be someone else’s plot and they’re just footing the bill, or someone could be fronting for them – there are a lot of possibilities.’

‘Could it be an IRA plot?’ asked Ross.

‘There’s no evidence at the moment to suppose it is,’ said Fifeshire, ‘and the IRA would be concerned only with Britain.’

‘What about the other Intelligence services?’ said Ross, flapping a pair of bony white hands like an excited schoolboy.

If you met him in the street, and didn’t know he was the Home Secretary, you would think he was a complete twerp. He was gangly, very thin, and boyish-looking, with a conical head thinly layered with neat, mousey hair. He had a penchant for bright flowery ties which did not go with the grey chalk-striped suits he wore, and he walked with a distinctive bounce on flat, white, rubber-soled lace-ups. His voice and gestures had become, by the month, increasingly camp, ever since he had taken the opportunity of his appointment as Home Secretary to announce to the world that he had decided to ‘come out’. His problem was that, having come out, he didn’t have any idea where he was. He was an embarrassment to the entire government, yet the Prime Minister dared not sack him, for fear of upsetting the not inconsiderable gay electorate.

‘Which other countries have you informed?’ he asked.