Cullis opened the first folder. Diplomacy, he reflected, was the science of telling someone to go to hell in a way that would make them look forward to the journey. He primed himself for the task.

He cleared his throat. “It’s not Lisbon,” he said. “In a number of ways it’s more important than Lisbon.” With all the solemnity he could manage he said, “We want you to be our eyes and ears in Abyla.”

Wavery ran his tongue over his teeth. He had no idea what Cullis was talking about. “Abyla?” he said.

“That’s it, Abyla,” said Cullis, much as he would have said Paris or Rome. “‘The pearl of the Mediterranean’.”

He rotated the photocopied map and searched for the Spanish enclave. His finger descended on an area opposite Gibraltar, covering it.

He said, “Abyla’s of considerable interest at the moment.” The enclave was the southern exit for the tunnel linking Europe with Africa, a dream to exercise the minds of men since Hercules separated the two continents.

“Work on the tunnel should be complete by August next year,” said Cullis. There would then be a grand opening ceremony attended by the monarchs of Britain, Spain and Morocco. This treaty, the fruit of wearisome diplomatic endeavours designed to neutralise centuries of argument, would result in the transformation of Gibraltar and Abyla into International Zones.

There was no need to remind Wavery, Cullis reminded him, of what it meant for an officer to be involved in the preparation of a Royal Visit. Cullis was confident the customary knighthood would offset any disappointment Wavery might feel on not being promoted to Ambassador. In designating Abyla and Gibraltar as free zones, it had been decided to take as model the former International Zone of Tangier: Wavery’s appointment, in common with his European colleagues, would enjoy the rank of Consul General.

“I don’t think you’ll find any problems of an Anglo-Abylan nature. The Moslem community is quite small. It’s all in the post report.” Cullis closed the folder and launched it with the back of his hand towards Wavery.

“Congratulations,” he said warmly.

Wavery accepted the folder. He could not find any words. He squeezed out his most diplomatic smile, that of someone who believed if he smiled in uncomfortable situations it had an effect comparable to squeezing lemon on a fish that had begun to turn. Cullis divined his disappointment. “Listen, Thomas . . . ” The PUS despatched his gaze out of the window, through the transparent trees, in the direction of his club where later he would walk to lunch and order, as he ordered every Monday, a dish of cauliflower cheese – “but without the sauce”.

His reason for vetoing the Lisbon appointment had nothing to do with the reasons he had advanced yesterday to the board, that Wavery was due to retire in eighteen months’ time, that despite a first-class report his heart evidently wasn’t in it, that the Foreign Secretary was on Cullis’ back to find something for a young high flyer threatening to leave the Service for banking. No, Cullis had vetoed Wavery’s appointment because of the expression on his face at the airport; and out of sympathy for Wavery’s wife. Did Penny have any inkling of what he had seen?