Tillie answered the London number with a Cheltenham Ladies’ sneer; the Swiss line connected straight to Hessa’s burner mobile: Gradibus, wie kann ich dir helfen? In both cases, Bantham had ended the calls almost immediately, apparently convinced.

A cheerfully resting actor, Ibrahim lolled back against his seat now, as Bantham hurried towards them.

Casey watched him approach, picking her character like a book from the shelf. She would reflect his mannerisms now. Terse to terse, flirt to flirt, nudged along so carefully. A blank canvas, a broken mirror, and very bad luck.

‘I’m not late, am I?’ Bantham knew he wasn’t.

‘May I present you to Mr Halim.’ Casey bowed her head respectfully towards Ibrahim.

‘How do you do?’ Bantham half-bowed.

Ibrahim nodded his head.

‘I am afraid Mr Halim does not speak much English,’ said Casey. Turning her head, she spoke the few words of Bahasa Ibrahim had taught her on the way to the restaurant. Ibrahim nodded thoughtfully at Bantham.

For the first half an hour of lunch, Casey and Bantham made idle conversation. Although Bantham chatted easily to her, Casey knew his attention was on Ibrahim.

Ibrahim largely ignored them, occasionally making phone calls in rapid-fire Bahasa.

After three-quarters of an hour, Hessa approached the table.

‘I am very sorry to interrupt, Ms Faraday, but you wanted to be reminded about Mr Halim’s phone call with the Prime Minister. At 2.30 p.m.’

‘Of course,’ Casey waved her away.

Hessa sat down a table away, pulled out her laptop and started tapping.

‘I always enjoy lunch here,’ said Bantham. ‘You get to see everyone in the end.’

There was a hush as a woman with long blonde hair strutted in, almost bouncing out of her tight black suit.

‘Goldie Robinson,’ said Bantham. ‘She’s claiming to have had an affair with that California senator, and well . . .’

They both pondered the blonde’s lively film career.

‘Do you know how you come up with your porn name?’ Casey grinned. ‘Your first pet, and your mother’s maiden name. I’d be Bunny Beeching. How about you?’

‘Beau,’ Bantham screwed up his face, smiling. ‘Kilmartin. Beau was a dog. A little Jack Russell.’

‘That’s a good name,’ Casey laughed. ‘Why are the MPs out here, anyway?’

‘Cross-border trade discussions.’ Bantham faked a yawn. ‘But quite coincidentally, they’re out here at the same time as a certain African president. There’s been some kerfuffle over an oil well, apparently. Some British company wants to get drilling, but a rival bunch also have a claim.’ He laughed. ‘And if the MPs happened to bump into the president at, say, a function at the Washington Ballet tonight, I am sure there will be a discreet nudge.’

And the situation would be resolved, Casey thought. She grinned broadly at Bantham. He was almost advertising his skills.

At a quarter past two, Ibrahim stood up. He nodded his head to Bantham, and struggled for the words: Good – bye.