‘Totally,’ said Saul. ‘In fact, I should head back to Pasadena; we’re scanning Matthieu Ricard’s love, joy and compassion this afternoon.’

‘The French lama—’ said Hunter.

‘Right,’ said Saul. ‘This guy is phenomenal. You could waterboard him and his vital signs wouldn’t shift, he’s so deep in the Alpha State.’

‘Here, have one for the road,’ said Hunter, handing Saul a signed photograph of Ronald Reagan on which he had been chopping a couple of long lines. ‘We shouldn’t really have carried our weekend into Monday morning, but when you’re brainstorming, you’re brainstorming.’

‘Definitely. Brainstorming,’ said Saul, snuffling up one of Ronald Reagan’s trouser legs.

‘You’d better go scan your lama. I’ve gotta make a call to Lucy Russell, the new head of Digitas in London.’

‘How’s she working out?’

‘We’ll see, but you know me – easily bored – and I’m not bored by her. Most people are falling over to agree with me, but she’s not afraid to point out if I’ve missed a beat,’ said Hunter, snorting his way up Reagan’s red tie, across his creased and grinning face and into his incongruously inky hair.

The two men parted with back-slapping hugs and Saul set off on the six-mile drive from Hunter’s ranch down to the meandering ribbon of road along the coast.

Left alone, Hunter returned indoors and after cleaning the photos with screen wipes, hung Senator Goldwater and President Reagan back on their hooks against the oak-panelled walls of his magnificent study, which looked entirely traditional, except that two of the walls formed an arrow head of thick glass pointing out to sea, making the masculine gravitas of the room seem to float in air and light. He was fired up and ready to talk to Lucy. The call was scheduled for fifteen minutes’ time. He took up his position in a red leather chair opposite the gleaming scabbard of a priceless samurai sword, cradled among the bookshelves on the other side of the room.