She smiled at him and offered her hand for him to shake. One of her front teeth was discoloured, and she noticed Emil Coetzee trying not to stare at its grey dullness as he shook her hand. It was her one imperfection, and so she broadened her smile and experienced a perverse pleasure in making him have to be made uncomfortable by her tooth.

‘My name is Saskia Hargrave. I am a journalist with The Chronicle,’ she said, sitting herself down opposite Emil Coetzee, despite the fact that he had not asked her to. ‘I would like to write your story – a feature in The Sunday News.’

‘My story? I don’t have a story,’ he replied.

‘You’re Emil Coetzee. You’re The Head of The Organisation,’ she retorted. ‘Of course you have a story. You’re one of the country’s heroes.’

‘The country must be in a truly bad state if it has a man like me for a hero,’ he said, sounding genuine.

Humble was not one of the many things Saskia had expected Emil Coetzee to be, and so what he said confused her until she realised that he was just saying what he felt a man so honoured as to have a story written about him ought to say. ‘Oh … I see. Humility. A nice touch,’ she said. With practised alacrity, she reached for her rucksack and retrieved her notebook and pen. She hurriedly wrote three words – ‘hero,’ ‘humility’ and ‘honourable’ – and then looked at him with an expectant smile. She made sure that he saw the words she had written down.

‘Miss Hargrave,’ Emil Coetzee said after stealing a glance at her scribbled words. ‘I really do not have a story for you.’

Saskia knew that he had deliberately referred to her as ‘Miss’ so that she could correct him, and so she equally deliberately did not correct him.

‘But you’re the man of the hour,’ she said.

Unable to hide his obvious pride at this statement, Emil Coetzee excused himself and went to open a bay window and stand by it for a moment. She watched him as he breathed in the polluted air of the City of Kings. As he looked down at the city, his chest puffed out, and it was very obvious that he loved this city. Of course he loved it. How could he not? He had stood over it like a colossus, reigned over it like a king, master of all he surveyed.

‘Emil?’ Saskia said tentatively, ‘I was actually contemplating doing more than a feature. I would like to write your biography. Your life has just been so full, rich and exciting. Your story has to be told.’ She had decided that it was best to flatter him while his head was still full of the idea of his own grandeur. She saw him carefully weigh the impact of her words, and took that opportunity, while he was absorbed with himself, to look at the items on his desk top. You could tell a lot about a man from the contents of his desk.