There was something touching in Updark’s inherited loyalty to Queen and Country, even if the pride that he took in his daughter impeded him from enquiring after Leandro. Had Updark asked, ‘What do you wish for your child?’, Dyer would have replied that he wanted Leandro to connect with something he cared about and to lead the life that suited him, and neither wealth nor climate should have anything to do with it. ‘Be considerate’ was cockadoodle as far as it went, but the Phoenix motto left out too much. In place of the name of another school, Dyer had hoped by now to have come across one unseen line or story that he could give his son; like in a Borges parable, it would encompass and answer everything, it would be the pin number to the universe’s vault. He was still in the process of searching for it.

Dyer nodded. ‘And you? Have you heard what your next post will be?’ The rumour in the Bon Croissant was that Updark’s Paris Embassy was on hold, suddenly, for something more hush-hush.

‘Not yet,’ said Updark. ‘Not yet.’

As a journalist, Dyer had come across diplomats like Updark, and in general he got along well with them. The majority were civilised merchants of high-class gossip. They shared a professional interest, immortalised by the poet Flecker, at whose college Dyer had been, as the ‘lust of knowing what should not be known’. Only, in Dyer’s case this forbidden knowledge was tailored for public consumption.

‘You know where would be interesting?’ reflected Dyer. ‘Iran.’

Updark’s alert hazel eyes fixed him. ‘What do you know about Iran?’

His expression was hard to read. He looked combative, as though ready to thrust his crimson face into a scrum.

‘Not much more than I learn from the news,’ said Dyer. ‘But I was nearly posted there. One always has a tender spot for the things one didn’t do.’

‘The problem is, which Iran are you talking about?’ There were two Irans, Updark went on, a little over-eager, like a teacher, to share his superior knowledge on the subject. ‘The nice, democratic, charming face to the world, which we would all like to believe in, ancient, sunny, Paris-educated – or Scottish, in the case of the current president.’ Then there was the Iran of the hard shadows, the Revolutionary Guard, the judiciary, the nuclear commission—

The dog was chewing the end of his scarf. ‘Stop that!’ Updark jerked his scarf away and coiled it tighter around his neck.

Spassky watched Dyer, then barked. The whirr of the docked tail. Pigeons scattering like applause into the sky.

‘Come on, Phoenix … move it!’ Other shouts returned Dyer to the pitch.

‘Good pass, Leandro!’ The game had ten minutes left to go when Dyer heard the shout.

Updark had vanished in the same disarming manner as he had materialised. In his place stood Rustum Marvar.