Allen Dulles, the director of Central Intelligence, also appeared to be skipping the event. It was an open secret that Dulles and Kennedy didn’t get on. In the eight years he’d been in charge of the CIA Dulles had overseen the American-backed coups in Guatemala and Iran, both of which had caused long-term damage to the country’s reputation, as well as the U-2 programme and the Bay of Pigs invasion. Kennedy was looking for a reason to get rid of Dulles, and Dulles was keeping his head down. Dixon guessed that if Grissom’s Mercury mission didn’t go well, Dulles wouldn’t want his name anywhere near it.

Finally, he saw someone he knew. Across the crowd, he spotted Murphy talking to an elderly dowager, festooned with mink and diamonds despite the heat and humidity. In summer Washington liked to remind people that it had been a real swamp long before it became a political one. With a brief nod, Murphy told Dixon that he’d seen him too and that he should stay put while he excused himself.

A moment later he was next to Dixon with two glasses of champagne in his hands.

‘Quite the collection,’ Murphy said, handing Dixon one of the glasses. Dixon was fairly sure he wasn’t referring to the art. ‘Did you know that lady’s great-grandfather bought Louisiana?’

Dixon wasn’t interested in making any more small talk, particularly with his boss.

‘What’s going on, Phinn?’ he asked.

‘We’re drinking someone else’s champagne, and giving ourselves pats on the back we don’t deserve.’

Dixon realised that Murphy wasn’t smoking. He watched as his free hand kept reaching in and out of his trouser pocket, a force of habit and muscle memory.

‘Is the president coming?’

‘No. But you didn’t hear that from me. Some senator started kicking up a stink about overdue federal funds a couple of hours ago and he’s been sucked into it.’

‘Well, I’ll be leaving then.’ Dixon handed his still-full champagne glass to a passing waiter. ‘It’s a long drive back to Langley.’

‘Not so fast,’ Murphy replied, picking Dixon’s glass back up off the waiter’s silver platter. ‘You’re not going back to the lab just yet.’

‘I thought I had a deadline.’

‘Yeah, well, something’s come up.’

‘Again, Phinn, what’s going on?’

Murphy took a long swig of his champagne. ‘We’re taking a trip.’

‘Where?’

‘Some guy called Devereux in London wants to sell us something, and I need you to check he’s not talking horseshit.’

‘I didn’t pack my passport.’ Dixon meant it as a joke—even the CIA’s beck and call had to have limits.

‘Don’t worry, we picked it up for you.’