There had been some ugliness in other parts of the country. It was tempting to say the less civilised parts. A section of the USA would forever stay frontier country, and God help any unwary English tourist straying too far from the safety of their metropolitan hotel. So far this week, Parfit had had reports of two firebomb attacks on British businesses in Boston and New York, several broken windows, threats, casual violence, and sixteen muggings, one of which had taken place in a picnic area of Yosemite National Park.

Then there were those who were merely annoyed: the British businessmen who were losing contracts, the British immigrants who were being harassed at work. And all of it filtered back via the great brown fan to the Washington embassy, where some of it landed squarely on Parfit’s too-small desk.

‘Looks peaceable enough, Mr Parfit,’ said Tom Banks, one of the security team whose job it was to watch the screens, seeking breaches in the line of defence.

‘The rain will cool their tempers, Tom,’ said Parfit. ‘See you later.’

‘Bye, Mr Parfit.’

He was headed for Johnnie Gilchrist’s office, the inner sanctum. Towards Gilchrist’s door, the carpet pile seemed to grow discernibly deeper. It was said that this was because so few people dared disturb Gilchrist in his lair. Like many myths, there was a core of truth to it. But Parfit knocked anyway, his distinctive three short raps and one long.

‘Come in, Parfit.’ Seated behind his desk, half-moon glasses resting precariously on his aquiline nose, Gilchrist could look tame enough, more the retiring scholar than the shrewd – and vicious – career diplomat. He and Parfit had sharpened claws on one another in the past, but at least each understood the other’s territory. Gilchrist’s job was to get things done, no matter what. Parfit’s job was damage limitation. There could never be one without the other.

‘Sit down.’

Parfit sat, crossing his legs. The chair was as uncomfortable as it needed to be. It was not designed for long-stay visitors.

‘Another demo outside.’ It was a statement of fact.

Gilchrist removed his glasses and rubbed at the red indentations either side of his nose.

‘It seems quiet enough today,’ Parfit commented.

‘Thank Christ for that at least then.’ Gilchrist slipped the glasses on again, pushing them down firmly onto the bridge of his nose. ‘Now, what about Dreyfuss?’

‘What about him?’

‘Come on, Parfit. What’s your game?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Gilchrist waved the comment aside. ‘You should be there in Sacramento. Somebody should be there at least. Has he regained consciousness yet?’

‘We think so.’

‘Think?’