The plane was curling in above the airport, descending rapidly. ‘I don’t know how you think you’re going to sell anything to the Belgians,’ Mrs Schumacher said. ‘They are the strangest people. Can’t even make up their minds whether to speak French or Flemish. If you’ve never been to Brussels before you’ll find it very confusing.’ She smoothed down the front of her print dress. ‘Looks like we’re coming in to land, Henry. Have you got the passports?’

*

The terminal building was busy. A soulless modern structure where subliminal piped muzak attempted to lull the traveller into a false sense of security. Nonetheless, there were dark-uniformed Belgian policemen everywhere in evidence. They carried sub-machine guns and wore pistols in leather holsters on black belts. A legacy of the recent hijackings.

Bannerman watched the Schumachers drag a luggage trolley off towards the taxi rank. ‘Perhaps we’ll meet you again, Mr Bannerman,’ Mrs Schumacher had said earnestly. ‘It’s been a great pleasure.’

‘Yes indeed, sir, a great pleasure.’ Schumacher had shaken his hand and presented him with his embossed card. ‘Any time you’re in the States . . .’

You can’t dislike such people, Bannerman thought. He picked up his case and made his way to the telephones, where he had to wait five minutes in a queue and then decipher operating instructions in French and Flemish. He pumped the box full of Belgian francs and dialled. The phone rang twice before a receiver lifted at the other end. ‘Herald.’ A girl’s voice.

‘Tim Slater, please.’

‘Sorry, you’ve missed him. He’s just left for the twelve o’clock press briefing. Can I help?’

‘Neil Bannerman, Edinburgh Post. I’d arranged to meet him for lunch.’

‘Ah, yes. He said you might call. You’re in Brussels?’

‘Yep.’

‘Then your best bet is to intercept him after the briefing. You know where the Salle de Presse is?’

‘’Fraid not.’

‘Ah. It’s in the Commission building. The Berlaymont. In the Boulevard Charlemagne. Do you have press accreditation?’

‘Is this an audition for Mastermind?’

The girl laughed. ‘I’m sorry. But if you don’t have accreditation . . .’

‘I do.’

‘Then you’ll have no problems. The Salle de Presse is on the first floor. Just ask when you get there.’

‘Thanks . . .’ He couldn’t recall if she’d mentioned her name.

She detected his pause. ‘Mademoiselle Ricain. Just the dogsbody. The Post and the Herald not only share an office, they share me too – secretarially speaking.’

Bannerman laughed. ‘Of course. Thank you, Mademoiselle.’ He hung up and squeezed past a fat Belgian who was anxious to secure his phone.