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a back street; it has the feel of a building that should overlook its own grand park. Today, however, he walks in without a glance at the elegant architecture, more convinced than ever that arranging a permanent office for him in Cowley Street was less about placating the Liberals in her cabinet than keeping him at a discreet distance.
    Everybody wants to talk about the bomb; but the predominant feeling is relief. If this is the big terrorist outrage that people have been warned about for so long, it’s something of an anti-climax. It wasn’t a dirty bomb; the only people to have been evacuated are those in buildings in Piccadilly closest to the blast, where surveyors need to check for structural damage. Everybody is speculating, everybody has a theory; but few people seem all that shaken up by it.
    At his desk by ten past seven, the first thing Mark does is to ring Sara. The answering service cuts in. “It’s me,” he says. “Where are you? In the bath, I guess. I’m sorry we argued last night. Sorry I drank too much. Lovely meal. Can you get back to me?”
    He’s checking the Internet for a news update – the roundabout above Piccadilly Underpass has been closed to all traffic – when Barbara Taylor, his P.A., comes in, pleased to see him, as always.
    “ You’ve done well,” says Mark. “Getting in on time.”
    She hands him a large sealed delivery bag. “Most of this lot originated before the bomb. Everything’s on hold.” Together they go through the briefing papers and his diary. “My guess is that your appointment with the P.M. is off.”
    “ Figures.”
    “ And before you ask,” she says, “It’s already brewed.” She smiles, her dark eyes, sparkling even at this time of day, shoulder length straight black hair tidily framing her small precise features. She’s about five years younger than him, in her early forties; divorced, bringing up her 12 year old son on her own. And this morning she is bloody gorgeous.
    She turns and leaves, and he watches her walk from the room. Desire can be so reassuring. A few minutes later she returns with a mug of coffee, a pain au chocolat , and a warm, open smile that sidesteps his predatory gaze.
     
    With e-mails and phone calls constantly zinging to and from the Mayor’s office, it’s a frustrating morning, and it’s not until just after midday that Mark can finally get on the phone to Jeremy Peters in Caracas.
    “ A good time to talk?”
    “ It’s half past six. I’ve only just got out of bed.”
    “ Can you give me ten minutes?”
    Jeremy agrees, even though he’s only half dressed and has yet to grab a cup of coffee.
    “ Is this about Rachel?”
    “ Partly.”
    “ She’s with good people, Mark Dias called yesterday morning. Says she’s doing fine. He’s impressed.”
    “ That’s good,” says Mark.
    “ Are you worried about her?” asks Jeremy.
    “ No more than usual. She rang last night. Seemed fine, but I haven’t been able to get back in touch.”
    “ Sat coms in the forest are notoriously unreliable. And she’s better off where she is than here in Caracas.”
    “ That’s great consolation.”
    “ I did tell ––”
    “ I know. I know you warned us, Jeremy. And we warned Rachel. But for Rachel ‘not very stable’ was the clincher.”
    “ Mark, this is localised. Believe me. Caracas is a hot spot. The rest of the country just watches and waits.”
    “ Is the government still in control?”
    “ I had an informal meeting with the Minister last night. He said foreign correspondents’ talk of civil war was a joke, upping the ante so they’d get longer in the fleshpots of Caracas.”
    “ And what’s your gut feeling?”
    “ My gut feeling! About civil war?”
    “ Yes.”
    “ My gut feeling, Mark, is it’s a fucking mess. But the government is very much in control. Kids get shot in the streets and nobody cares – because they daren’t. I guess I shouldn’t get upset about it. Shit happens, eh.”
    “ Tell me about it.