Expecting no response. And got none. Perhaps a vestige of the usual curt nod. Hardly a people person, the minister. Not that Mickey gave a shit. This, as he repeated to himself routinely, was just a job. He closed the passenger door. Waited until Major Cavendish had taken his seat alongside Sir Patrick. Made one last careful scan of their surrounds. Satisfied that all was well, he boarded last, shooting Wade a meaningful glance. The meaning being that today, of all days, required a smooth drive. And his fellow officer, being astute enough to know the score, delivered.

Up the long drive, tall hedges on either side. Out through the gate, past the scattered photographers. The snappers caught off-guard by the small convoy’s unexpected exit. Through country lanes for a mile, then onto the M40. Accelerating smoothly up to the legal limit and holding it there. The car’s occupants obeying the unwritten etiquette of ministerial travel. Prot officers not speaking unless necessary, and not to the principal unless addressed or for operational reasons. Who in this case busied himself with his smartphone. Rallying allies, perhaps. Or just trying to nail a difficult crossword.

Mickey had broken one of his own cardinal rules during his time off. Driven by curiosity to read up on the man he was guarding. And found himself both impressed and disquieted. Sir Patrick Sutherland, age fifty-seven. Born in the Sixties to unremarkable parents. His childhood spent in an unfashionable Midlands railway town. A decent education had led to a place at Cambridge. Earned, fair and square. A bright boy, young Patrick.

Fresh out of university, he’d opted for five years in the army. Grenadier Guards, perhaps not the instinctive choice for a middle-class boy lacking a private income. Evidence that he was determined if nothing else. And the Guards, working hard to meet a changing social landscape, had done right by him. But what came next was to impact his life for decades. Proof that it’s not what you know, but who.

Leaving the regiment, he’d gone straight into merchant banking. The City being a traditional route into lucrative employment for a chap from a good regiment. And then found himself just as quickly back out again. Not “one of us”, the overall sense from the unauthorised biographies. And, perhaps predictably, the making of him. Mickey smiling to himself that they shared a derogatory title. Although in Sutherland’s case it stood for “Failed In London Try Hong Kong”.

He’d been a multi-millionaire inside five years. Ten times as rich inside ten. His business empire growing steadily despite the end of British rule. A billionaire by the time he was forty-five. Profiting from the rise of China’s dragon through astute investments. He’d learned to speak Mandarin, rather than Cantonese. And mastered the knack of cultivating close relationships with the right people.