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Rogers to Richard’s Fred Astaire outfit on the bed. He had his white braces adjusted, his turn-ups sitting squarely on his patent dancing shoes, his white tie hanging round his wing collar and his white waistcoat ready to be buttoned.
    â€˜â€œI just got an invitation through the mails”’ he sang as he helped Robin step into the dress and then began to settle it into place. ‘“
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our presence requested this evening, it’s formal, a top hat, a white tie and tails.”’
    â€˜Very funny,’ she said as he pulled ribbons into place between her broad shoulders and her slim waist. ‘I’d like to know what you’re up to, sailor. I never quite trust you when you start singing apropos of nothing. No, don’t tighten those too much, or I’ll burst out of the top like a couple of balloons.’
    â€˜Hmm,’ he answered. ‘Maybe we’ll try that later. You know what the sight of you in all those white frilly underthings does to me.’
    â€˜Do I ever!’ she answered throatily. ‘Down boy! For the moment at least. And zip me up at the side here!’
    Richard obliged, then crossed to the mirror, picking up his tailcoat, and sang the next section of the song in a baritone more reminiscent of Frank Sinatra than Fred Astaire as he did what it said in the words: tying up his white tie, duding up his shirt front, putting in his shirt studs and brushing off his tails. But his eyes were narrow, and Robin, looking at his reflection, knew that the song was a cover for some very rapid thinking indeed.
    Richard and Robin stepped out of the Nelson Mandela Suite at exactly the moment that Max Asov and his current partner stepped out of their suite and the couple from the IMF stepped out of theirs. ‘Madame Lagrande,’ said Richard, at his most suave, greeting the chic, petite economist with the suggestion of a bow – and a quick smile to her gangly, bespectacled husband. ‘A pleasure to meet you again. Professor Lagrande. You remember Madame Mariner, of course. Have you met Monsieur Asov, Managing Director of Bashnev Power and the Sevmash Shipping Consortium, and his partner Mademoiselle Irina Lavrov?’ Max looked very much the intellectual, with a whisper of the young Trotsky and more than a suggestion of Che Guevara. Everyone was likely to know Irina – to some extent at least. Her kick-ass blockbuster films routinely topped the box office listings if not the Oscar nominations.
    Richard was relieved to see that both Max and Professor Lagrande were also in white tie. Max, surprisingly, looking urbane and at ease; almost as much the intellectual as the pair of topflight economists beside him. Every inch the well-dressed, sophisticated man about town, he even sported a gold watch-chain; an affectation which put to shame Richard’s insistence on staying with his battered but beloved steel-cased Rolex Oyster Perpetual.
    â€˜Of course, Captain Mariner,’ answered Claudette Lagrande smoothly in her impeccable Oxford English. ‘It is very pleasant to see you again. Shall we?’ She gestured towards the lift and the doors opened as though at her command.
    They made easy small-talk in the capacious elevator. Professor Lagrande was a fan of Irina’s and he managed to flatter her without being overpowering. Max struck back by turning on the charm and engaging Madame Lagrande in a techno-financial conversation that made Fermat’s last theorem seem positively elementary. ‘So,’ said Robin. ‘The airport. What did you learn?’
    â€˜I don’t think the president has managed to pull things round as well as he seems to think . . .’ Richard began to explain.
    â€˜But Colonel Kebila pulled your chestnuts out of the fire in the end . . .’ she repeated as he reached the end of his brief explanation.
    â€˜And gave us a ride to the front door,’ he confirmed. ‘Full military