Breakfast was the first real meal Harry had eaten for the best part of a week, but despite that, he was surprised how little he could manage. They sat in silence as he regaled them with everything he’d experienced since they’d last seen him. They were introduced to the taxi driver, the old woman in the bookshop, the KGB colonel, the tribunal chairman, the chief prosecutor, the defense attorney, the jury, and, finally, Anatoly Babakov, whom he’d liked and admired. He told them how that truly remarkable man had spent every hour he could stay awake telling Harry his story.

“Won’t he be in considerable danger if the book is published?” suggested Giles.

“The answer must be yes, but he was adamant that Uncle Joe be published before he died, because it would allow his wife to live in comfort for the rest of her life. So once the trial is over, I plan to fly back to the States and hand over the manuscript to Harold Guinzburg. I’ll then travel on to Pittsburgh to see Yelena Babakov, and pass on several messages from her husband,” he added as Big Ben struck the first of ten chimes.

“It can’t be that late,” said Emma, leaping up from the table. “Seb, go and find a cab while your father and I get ready.”

Seb smiled. He wondered when mothers stopped treating their children as if they were perpetually fifteen years old.

Ten minutes later, they were all heading up Whitehall toward the Strand.

“Are you looking forward to being back in the House?” asked Harry as they drove past Downing Street.

“I haven’t even been selected as the candidate yet,” said Giles.

“Well, at least this time Alex Fisher won’t cause you any trouble.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” said Giles.

“You must be a shoo-in,” said Emma.

“In politics there are no shoo-ins,” Giles assured her as they drew up outside the law courts.

The cameras began flashing even before Emma had stepped out of the cab. She and Harry walked arm in arm through the phalanx of journalists and photographers, most of whom seemed more interested in her husband than in the defendant.

“Are you relieved to be back home, sir?” shouted one of them.

“Is London colder than Siberia?” quipped another.

“Is it good to have him back, Mrs. Clifton?” yelled a third.

Emma broke Giles’s golden rule. “Yes, it most certainly is,” she said as she squeezed Harry’s hand.

“Do you think you’ll win today?” persisted another, which she pretended not to hear. Seb was waiting for them, and held open the massive door to allow them through.

“Are you hoping to be the Labour candidate in the Bristol by-election, Sir Giles?” But Giles simply waved and smiled, giving them a picture but no words, before he disappeared into the building.