From her red leather banquette, Casey was watching the entrance. Anyone walking in would only see the back of Hessa’s head, anyway. It didn’t matter that she was nervous.

After landing in Washington, it hadn’t taken Casey long to find out where Bantham would be for lunch today.

There was a delegation of British MPs in DC, over to discuss trade relations. A jolly, they all knew. Cross-party, very cosy. A Labour MP had happily handed over the delegation’s schedule to the Post’s political editor, hoping he was dropping his Tory colleagues in the soup. It would never occur to an MP that Bantham was the target.

Lunch, today’s schedule read. DC restaurant tbc.

It had taken ten minutes to ring round; only a few restaurants fitted the bill.

A smart English accent and a mumbled title never failed: I’m calling from Lord Gidleigh’s office. Just ringing about the VIP party today. The British parliamentarians, yes. The Foreign Affairs select committee. Just checking you knew two of the guests were gluten-free?

There was confusion at Cafe Milano. Polite bemusement at Fiola Mare. And a casual, oh sure, I’ll make a note about that, from Le Diplomate.

‘You have a good day now.’

‘You too.’

And here they were.

Casey watched the MPs crowding through the entrance, full of noise and importance. They wouldn’t recognise her face, she knew. She kept away from Parliament for exactly that reason. She identified several MPs, pontificating loudly. In the heart of the throng, she could see Alicia Dalgleish, the bright young thing of British politics, with an interest in surrogacy, smiling and chatting. She was talking to a pretty blonde woman, probably some backbench MP.

Now Casey waited for the group to settle, in a flurry of menus and water, still or sparkling, and would-you-like-some-bread?

She had spotted Bantham in his smart suit and green silk tie as he walked through the doors. Light brown hair was smoothed back from a neat parting, above a sharp, pale face. It had been hard to find a photograph of him; diplomats were careful. Casey had trawled his university archive in the end. Oxford, of course. Sepia pose, distant eyes.

The consummate diplomat, Bantham’s eyes darted around the restaurant, noting all the Washington players. Casey felt his eyes on her for a second, before they flicked on. When the Tory MP sitting next to Bantham dripped a spot of olive oil on her shirt, he whisked out a silk handkerchief.

Hessa’s nervousness had disappeared, Casey noticed, as soon the MPs arrived in the restaurant. The actress, on her stage. Now Hessa was an elegant young executive, graceful in a navy suit, her shiny dark bob gleaming in the light. Casey smiled at her.

A few tables beyond Hessa and Casey, an up-and-coming Texan congressman was holding court. Casey knew that Bantham would not be able to resist a quick hello.

She waited.