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contents of his red boxes for the last two days had dwindled to nothing but personal matters, letters from colleagues, an invoice from the office for expenses that couldn’t be claimed. He’d get that drink eventually, but on his own. He was drinking too much on his own.
    It was as Goodfellowe’s private secretary was showing out the visitors that she turned. Both the private secretary and the interpreter hesitated, wanting to stay, but Madame Lin ushered them onward. The private secretary stood his ground, reluctant to leave his Minister alone with the diplomat, fearful of the damage that might result from an unguided discussion. Yet Goodfellowe didn’t care for his private secretary, Maurice, nor the bureaucratic games he played. Like handing him speaking notes so late that Goodfellowe had no chance of considering them, let alone altering them. Or hiding all the important papers that Maurice didn’t want the Minister to study too carefully in the middle of the pile. And stuffing Goodfellowe’s diary so full he didn’t even have time to break wind. Should have got rid of this wretched man months ago. Now was his very last chance.
    ‘Don’t you have some papers to shuffle? Or spies to catch, Maurice?’
    Maurice smiled, lips parting like the drawer of a well-oiled filing cabinet. ‘Did all that last week, Minister.’
    ‘Do it again, will you? Can’t be too careful. Not about paper.’
    Maurice hesitated. ‘Yes. I’m sure we have a few last items of yours to clear, Minister. Wouldn’t want to miss any.’
    The door was closed as though on a lepers’ ward. They were alone.
    ‘Thank you, Mr Goodfellowe.’ Madame Lin was smiling, the dark eyes open and amused. ‘Now the formalities are over, I wondered: the opportunity for a private word, perhaps?’
    ‘So long as you have finished chastising me.’
    ‘It was never my intention to be unkind to you. Nor about you. I wanted to make that clear. I am deeply saddened by your loss of office; it was not my wish to refer to it in the official remarks. But my masters in Beijing insisted.’
    ‘As we thought they would.’
    ‘Which, of course, is why you did it.’ She laughed, a throaty, surprisingly masculine sound.
    ‘It’s kind of you to wish me well,’ he responded, trying to divert the conversation. She was unusually direct for a diplomat, astonishingly so for a Chinese.
    ‘I have enjoyed our meetings, no matter how brief. We could have done business together. Perhaps we shall in the future.’
    ‘A pleasant thought. But, as we both know, not very realistic.’
    She crossed slowly to the old globe that stood in the corner of his office, by the window that overlooked the great Horse Guards Parade. The globe was an artefact of considerable value, if not of the greatest age. 1910. And about forty grand at auction. Her finger tracked slowly through the continents of Europe and Asia.
    ‘Life often comes full circle, Mr Goodfellowe. It changes. Then it changes again. Look at this globe. No Soviet Union, just a collection of nation states. As it was then, and as it is once more. Don’t give up hope. Life is a turning wheel.’
    ‘Funny. The Tibetans agree with you about that. The Wheel of Life turns. Uplifting. Turns again. Crushing. Your point of view depends on whether you are pushing the wheel or strapped beneath it, I suppose.’
    ‘I did not stay to continue the argument about Tibet.’ The eyes clouded in warning, then relaxed. ‘Merely to express my sincere condolences. To sacrifice office for your family is an act of honour. And of courage.’
    ‘You are very kind.’
    ‘I know the power of family, Mr Goodfellowe. I have but one daughter, no sons. Rather like you. And of all the many hopes I have for myself, my greatest ambition is to be a grandmother. I would like many grandchildren.’
    Strange, Goodfellowe thought. The Chinese pursued the most ruthless birth-control policies of any power on earth. Compulsory abortions. Enforced sterilization.