Bear went into the outer office and took the phone the President’s aide handed to him. “It’s ringing in the Prime Minister’s office at Chequers. You’re secure.”

“Chequers . . . Where the hell’s that?” demanded Bear, himself furious at what he had just witnessed in the Oval Office. To him checkers was a board game.

“The country residence of the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom,” came the response. “The Prime Minister likes to start his weekends early as he enjoys his family time. He can be very chilled.”

Then the phone was picked up. Bear heard an English voice speaking, in what he later discovered was a south London accent.

“Hello. Trev Walker, the PM’s Director of Communications.”

Bear was courteous. “I’m sorry, Sir. I guess there’s been a misunderstanding. I’m calling from the White House. I’d hoped to talk to the PM’s aide to set up a call with President Dillon. This is not a media issue.”

“Don’t worry, mate,” came the retort. “I’m on the inside track with the PM. And anyway, he likes to keep the staff to a minimum while he’s at Chequers. I’ll handle it. What’s the call about?”

“Russia, NATO, Latvia and the way ahead.” Bear was surprised to find himself talking to the Brit PM’s media guy and not his Military Assistant, but guessed that was the way they did things over there. Nevertheless, Bear felt his irritation rising at the Brit’s obviously false friendliness and doubtless feigned ignorance. After all, what else would the President of the United States of America be ringing the British Prime Minister about at this exact moment in time, other than the crisis in Latvia. But, as was his custom, he took people as he found them. He knew no other way.

“Hi, Trev. Bear here,” he replied, trying to keep his voice friendly. “Can you get the Prime Minister on the line, please.”

“No, mate. You put the President on first, then I’ll get the PM.” Walker was quick to try and take advantage of the American’s courtesy.

There was a strict protocol for arranging such phone calls and Bear knew it full well: the junior waits for the senior. And there was no question who was the senior leader here. Which meant that Bear was having none of this. What was more, he hadn’t grown up on the wrong side of the tracks in Atlanta without developing a sixth sense for a chancer. “Thank you, Sir. But no. I’ll wait for the Prime Minister.”