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the flight. According to her preference, she wasthe last one to get on the plane, in first class, and there was a small stir as she walked down the aisle and people recognized her. There was almost no one in the world who didn’t know who Blaise McCarthy was, and she was easy to spot with her distinctive looks and bright red hair.
    The two airline officials left her at her seat, and the purser on the flight took over, offering her magazines, newspapers, and champagne, and she declined all of it politely, and took out her research, to prepare for the interview the next day. She had brought her own cashmere blanket and a small pillow and continued reading after they took off. She declined the meal, but asked for a cup of tea. She didn’t like eating on late-night flights, and never understood how people could, but she supposed that people felt they had paid for it and wanted their money’s worth. Blaise preferred sleep to indigestion. And when she finished reading, she turned off her light, had the steward turn her seat into a bed, which was why she traveled first class, put on a sleep mask, and was asleep in five minutes, with her cashmere blanket around her. She had asked them to wake her up, half an hour before they landed, so she could brush her teeth and comb her hair and have a cup of tea before the descent. She was being met by a VIP escort from British Air and airport security to get her through customs quickly. She had no time to waste, and the driver from Claridge’s would be at the airport. She glanced out at the British countryside as she drank her tea. And it all went like clockwork when they landed.
    She was in the car from Claridge’s within twenty minutes, and at the hotel forty-five minutes later. She had an hour to bathe and dress, send e-mails, make some notes, and get to Downing Streetfor the interview. The cameraman was meeting her there. And as soon as she checked into the hotel, they took her to the familiar suite she always requested. It had pale yellow walls and flowered chintz furniture, and looked like a guest room in an English country home to Blaise, and she loved it. She ate a quick breakfast, although it was lunchtime in London by then, but she never suffered from jet lag, which made traveling easy for her. She looked fresh as the proverbial daisy when she arrived at Downing Street, where the cameraman and crew were waiting in a van with all their equipment. He had identified himself to the guards outside, and they were expecting Blaise.
    Three secretaries helped them set up in a pretty sitting room, and by the time the prime minister joined them, promptly and on schedule, they were ready, and Blaise glided into the interview with ease. She found the prime minister extremely astute and charming and very witty. He fielded her questions nicely with a twinkle in his eye, and answered fully those he liked better. It was an excellent game of verbal Ping-Pong, and they were evenly matched. He liked her, had been looking forward to meeting her, and he had been told she was a very clever woman, and he wasn’t disappointed. But he answered enough questions in depth, and with seeming sincerity and candor, that the interview was a success for her. She had gotten what she came for, a glimpse behind the mask of the new prime minister. The interview felt warm and personal, and she had put him at ease. And he enjoyed her enough, and admired her, to answer questions he might not have otherwise, which was what always happened with her subjects. And when he asked her what she was doing next, when the camera was no longer rolling, she toldhim about the interview in Dubai the next day, and he grinned broadly.
    “Now that’s an interview I’d like to see. He’s a much more interesting subject.”
    “More controversial perhaps,” Blaise said with a gleam in her own eye, “but surely not as interesting, or charming.” She thanked him for the interview then, wished him luck in his endeavors, and they both