'It is no surprise to find that Philip Gwynne Jones lives in Venice... art and architecture interweave into a story that builds to an almost surreal climax' Daily Mail
'Gwynne Jones's talent for evoking place and atmosphere is clear as ever'Literary Review _______________
It's the night of 12 November 2019. The worst flooding in 50 years hits the city of Venice. 85% of La Serenissima is underwater. Gale force winds roar across the lagoon and along the narrow streets. And the body of Dr Jennifer Whiteread- a young British art historian, specialising in the depiction of angels in Venetian painting - is found floating in a flooded antique bookshop on the Street of the Assassins.
As the local police struggle to restore order to a city on its knees, Nathan Sutherland - under pressure from the British Ambassador and distraught relatives - sets out into the dark and rain-swept streets in an attempt to discover the truth behind Whiteread's death.
The trail leads to the "Markham Foundation", a recent and welcome addition to the list of charities working to preserve the ancient city. Charming, handsome and very, very rich, Giles Markham is a well-known and popular figure in the highest Venetian social circles, and has the ear of both the Mayor and the Patriarch.
But a man with powerful friends may also have powerful enemies. And Nathan is about to learn that, in Venice at least, angels come in many forms - merciful, fallen and vengeful... _______________
Praise for Philip Gwynne Jones 'I devoured all Philip's novels and felt transported to Venice with a new intimacy' Val McDermid
'Superb - always gripping, beautifully constructed and vivid' Stephen Glover
'Clever and great fun' The Times
'Sinister and shimmering, The Venetian Game is as haunting and darkly elegant as Venice itself' L.S. Hilton, bestselling author of Maestra
'The Venetian setting is vividly described... good, fluid writing makes for easy reading' Literary Review
'Un-put-downable . . . If you love Venice, you'll love this because you'll be transported there in an instant. If you've not been to Venice, read this book and then go. If you like intrigue, and a clever plot, you'll love this book' Amazon reviewer, 5*****
'The lively, colourful narrative scuds along as briskly as a water taxi...you'll enjoy the ride' Italia Magazine
Release date:
July 14, 2022
Publisher:
Little, Brown Book Group
Print pages:
90000
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CPSM 22.50 La laguna subisce gli effetti di non previste raffiche di vento da 100 km orari. Il livello potrebbe raggiungere i 190 centimetri alle ore 23.30
CPSM 22.50 The lagoon is being affected by unforeseen wind gusts of 100 km per hour. The level could reach 190 centimetres at 23.30
– Message from the Centro Previsioni e Segnalazioni Marea, Venice, on the night of 12 November 2019.
The wind rattled the windows of the apartment once again, and the lights flickered momentarily. Gramsci howled, and dived under the sofa.
I shook my head. ‘Daft cat. He’s never cared for storms.’
‘I’m not sure I care for this one either,’ said Federica.
I peered outside, trying to see how bad things had got, when the windows shook once more and I jumped back, startled.
‘Caro, just get back from the window, would you?’
‘I’m sure it’s fine.’
‘And I’m not sure it is. Come on. Please.’
I nodded, and stepped back. There was another blast of wind, and, again, the lights flickered.
I shivered. ‘God, for a moment there I swear I felt the bloody building move.’
‘That’s impossible. This place has been here for centuries. It’s survived everything the elements have thrown at it. And yet—’
‘And yet?’
‘I think it moved, too.’
The lights dimmed again before flickering back into life and I heard my phone buzzing away on the table.
‘Dario?’
‘Nat. Are you okay, man?’
‘We’re fine. But it’s blowing a gale outside and the electricity’s on and off. How are you?’
‘Well, we’re on the top floor. So you think we’d be okay. Except I swear I can feel the building swaying.’
‘How’s Emily?’
‘She thinks it’s the most exciting thing ever.’ He chuckled. ‘Small girls, eh?’ Then his voice changed. ‘Listen, Nat, I’m calling round all my buddies. Just telling them to stay at home. Don’t go out.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ve got no intention of getting wet.’
‘It’s more than that. Have you seen the predictions?’
‘Not for a few hours.’ The acqua alta siren had sounded four notes, an indication that nearly 70 per cent of the city would be flooded to some degree.
‘It’s worse than we thought. Worse than anyone could have thought. They’re saying it’s going to be the worst since ’66.’
‘Bloody hell.’
‘So just stay at home, eh?’
‘Don’t worry, Dario, we’re not going anywhere. Just look after yourselves, okay?’
‘We will. Take care, vecio.’
I hung up.
Fede looked over from her computer. ‘Not good?’
‘They’re fine. But it sounds like this is going to be a bad one.’
She nodded, and tapped the screen of her laptop. ‘I know. Messages are coming in from everywhere. Basically, don’t go out.’
Her phone buzzed. She half sighed, half smiled and picked it up. ‘Ciao, Mamma. Yes, we’ve heard … no, we’re not going out … yes, I promise … yes, we’re fine. I’ll call tomorrow, of course. Sleep well. Love you. Ciao.’
She laid her phone face down on the table and shook her head. ‘Mothers, eh?’
‘Everything okay?’
She smiled. ‘Yes. Worried of course. I expect zio Giacomo will be calling next.’ Her expression changed, and became serious. ‘But this doesn’t sound good.’
‘So what do we do?’
She shrugged. ‘What is there to do? Nothing. We’re the lucky ones, I suppose. At least the power seems to be staying on.’ The lights dimmed for a moment. ‘Just about.’
I yawned and stretched. ‘I guess you’re right. Okay, I’m not in the mood for television. Shall we just have an early night?’
Fede shook her head as the windows rattled again. ‘Do you think you’ll be able to sleep through this?’
‘Maybe not. I’m pretty sure you will though.’
She smiled, weakly. ‘Maybe so. But, I don’t know, it wouldn’t seem right somehow. People, friends, all over the city are all living through this. Some worse than others. It wouldn’t seem right to sleep through it, somehow.’
I nodded. ‘You’re right.’ I yawned again. ‘Okay. Given it’s going to be a late night, shall I make us some coffee?’
‘Tea for me please, caro.’
‘Of course.’
I was on my way to the kitchen when the entryphone buzzed.
‘Chi è?’
It’s possible that someone replied, but, if so, their words were carried away by the howling wind. I opened the door, and switched the stairwell lights on.
‘Chi è?’ I shouted.
‘Nat? It’s me, Eduardo.’
I looked down over the bannister. Ed was framed in the doorway, wearing a heavy wax jacket and knee-length rubber boots. He’d only come from next door and yet he looked as if he’d swum here.
‘Ed? What the hell are you doing here?’
‘Nat, I’m sorry, man, but I need your help. I’m trying to get everything moved out of the reach of the water.’ He breathed deeply, and shook his head. ‘It’s too much for me on my own. Could you—?’
‘Of course I could, Ed. Just give me five minutes.’
‘Thanks, Nat. You’re a lifesaver. I’ll see you there, eh?’
I closed the door, and turned to Fede. ‘Ed needs a hand down in the bar. I’ll be as quick as I can.’
‘Of course.’ She got to her feet. ‘I’ll come too.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Sure I’m sure. It’ll be quicker with three of us.’ She went through to the bedroom. ‘I’ve got a waterproof jacket here. What have you got?’
‘Just my coat.’
‘That’s no good, it’s too long. Anything below your waist is going to be soaked.’
‘Guess I’m just wearing a sweater then.’
‘Are you mad? Have you seen the weather?’
‘Yeah, but what’s the alternative?’
‘You’ve got an emergency plastic mac, haven’t you?’
‘I haven’t worn that in years.’
‘Can you squeeze into it?’
‘Hopefully. I don’t think I’m going to cut a bella figura though. Okay, where are the boots?’
‘Behind the front door.’
I went to take a look. Two standard pairs of Wellington boots, perhaps knee-length at most. The Street of the Assassins rarely flooded that badly and so they were – usually – enough.
Fede came out of the bedroom, zipped up her jacket, tied her hair back and jammed a woolly hat on to her head. She threw the plastic mac to me, which I struggled into as best I could. It smelled of school trips and disappointing visits to the seaside. It would have to do.
I held up the boots. ‘Haven’t we got anything better?’
She shook her head.
‘So, what does this mean?’
‘It means, caro, that we’re going to get very wet feet.’ She patted me on the back. ‘Come on.’
***
The wind caught us as soon as we stepped outside, snatching spitefully at our clothing, and we splashed our way to the Magical Brazilians as best we could. Federica had been right. Our boots might have been sufficient for normal flood levels, but were hopelessly inadequate for tonight.
Eduardo had the paratia dropped into place, but water was already slopping over the brim. A pump was labouring away uselessly, briefly pushing back outside the water that had already entered, prior to flooding in again.
He was bending over by the refrigerator, pulling out the contents and stacking them as best he could on the bar. He turned around as he heard us enter, and smiled, but exhaustion was etched on his face.
‘Thanks, guys.’
‘Ed, you should have called us earlier.’ I looked around. ‘Why were you trying to do all this on your own?’
‘I gave the other guys the night off so they could get home. And I didn’t think it was going to be this bad. But you’re here now. That’s all that matters.’ He gave me a very tired, very soggy hug. ‘Thanks again.’
‘So, what do we need to do?’
‘We need to empty the fridge. That’s probably had it, but we can at least save the contents.’
‘We’ve got space in ours if you like?’ I said.
‘Yeah, because you’re exactly the person I’d choose to look after a refrigerator full of alcohol.’ He turned to Federica. ‘Fede, can you have a look in the back? In the kitchen. Anything that’s still dry, just stick on the shelves, on top of the stove, anywhere you can find that’s out of reach of the water. Nat, give me a hand with the tables.’
‘What do we need to do?’
‘I’ve got some beer crates from the back. We turn them upside down, and stand the tables on them. Then we put the chairs and stools on the tables.’
‘No problem.’ I looked at the height of the water outside. ‘Are you sure that’s going to be enough?’
He shook his head. ‘No. I’m not sure at all. But I can’t think what else to do.’ The lights flickered and, for a moment, we were plunged into darkness.
Ed threw his hands up. ‘Ah c’mon, God, give us a break. Please?’
There was a distant rumble of thunder and the lights flickered into life again. He raised his eyes heavenwards. ‘Thanks,’ he said. Then he turned to me. ‘Okay Nat, let’s get started.’
Eduardo stood behind the bar, with his head resting on his hands. Then he straightened up, looked around, and nodded.
‘Okay. Thanks both. I think this is the best we can do.’
He was probably right. By now we were more than knee-deep in water but everything perishable had been put out of harm’s way, and the furniture had been stacked up as best as it could be.
He rubbed his face and ran his hands through his hair. Then he shivered, and pulled his coat around him.
‘Ed, you look tired. Dog tired.’
‘I feel it.’ He looked the two of us up and down. Or as best as he could, given that eighteen inches of us were under water. ‘You’re soaked.’
Fede chuckled. ‘You noticed that?’
‘I’m sorry. I’ll pay for everything to be cleaned.’
She shook her head. ‘No you won’t. We’re glad to help.’
‘Thanks.’ He yawned and stretched. ‘Well, I think we’re done. I’ll lock up and then head off home.’
‘Are you nuts?’ I said. ‘I don’t even know if any boats are running.’
‘Oh, I’ll find something. If not, I can always walk.’
‘No you can’t. Seriously. It’s dangerous out there. You can stay with us.’
He was about to protest but then tiredness overtook him and he yawned once more. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course we’re sure.’
‘He’s right, Ed,’ said Fede. ‘You can’t possibly walk in this.’
‘Well thanks. Really.’ Then he grinned, and grabbed a couple of bottles from on top of the bar. ‘Maybe we’ll be needing these after all then? Come, let’s lock up and go.’
A thought struck me. ‘I’ve never even asked you, Ed. Where do you live?’
‘Up in Cannaregio. What, did you think I slept here or something?’
‘Well, yes.’
He rolled his eyes, but grinned again. He switched off the useless pump, and stepped over the paratia into the street. We followed him outside, and I winced as the icy, filthy water washed even further up my legs. Ed pulled the door shut, struggling against the weight of the water pressure. ‘Don’t know why I’m bothering to lock up. Nobody’s going to be mad enough to try looting the place on a night like this.’
I patted him on the back. ‘Come on then. I’ve got some dry clothes you can borrow. We’ll make you up a bed on the sofa. And maybe, for once, I can make you a Negroni?’
He grinned. ‘That sounds good right now. Oh man, that sounds good.’ Then he stiffened and gripped my arm. ‘Christ, did you hear that?’
‘What?’
‘Breaking glass. Just around the corner.’
Federica shook her head. I could hear nothing over the howling of the wind. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Nat, I run a bar. I know what breaking glass sounds like.’ He jabbed a finger in the direction of Calle de la Mandola. ‘It’s over there. I’m sure of it.’
I glanced at Fede, who looked as tired as I felt. I think we’d both have been prepared to let it go, but Ed seemed to shake off his tiredness and was away, striding out down the Street of the Assassins as best he could.
We followed in his wake and I cursed under my breath as the waves he was stirring up flooded my boots yet again. The wind caught me as I rounded the corner, and I stumbled for a moment before Federica steadied me. The gale was stronger here, blowing in off Campo Sant’Angelo, and the water – instead of lying dark and stagnant – was roaring like a river in flood. Something I’d never, ever seen before.
Ed was almost up to his waist now. I turned to look at Fede. ‘You’ll have to go back,’ I said.
‘Oh, I don’t think I do.’
‘Look at it. It’ll be above your waist. It’s too dangerous.’
‘And you and Ed will be fine, I suppose?’
‘I don’t know. But we start from the advantage of not being quite as underwater as you are. Please.’
She looked again at the water sweeping along the calle. ‘All right. But I’m not leaving. I’ll wait here.’
‘Okay. Thanks.’
I splashed my way after Ed as best I could, the depth and flow of the water making it difficult to keep my balance. He’d stopped outside a shop halfway up the calle.
‘Have you got a light, Nat?’
‘Only this.’ I lit up the torch on my mobile and shone it through the window. ‘Christ, I don’t believe it.’
The window had exploded inwards, shattered by the pressure of the water.
‘I’ve never seen this happen before,’ shouted Ed over the roaring wind. ‘I didn’t even know it could happen.’
I gripped on to his arm to steady myself, as I shone the torch inside. ‘Whose place is this, Ed?’
‘Fulvio Terzi’s. The old bookshop.’
I shook my head. It was one of those places on Calle de la Mandola that I’d walked past hundreds, perhaps thousands, of times without so much as glancing inside.
‘His stock’s going to be trashed, Nat. Unless we do something.’
‘It’s hopeless, Ed. There’s nothing we can do. Not on our own.’
‘You’re crazy. How are we even going to get in there?’
Ed took a step backwards, and I reached out to steady him. He looked left and right, up and down, sizing up the window.
‘Ed, you’ll cut yourself to pieces trying to get through there.’
He reached towards the window and then thought better of it. ‘You’re right.’
‘Leave it. There’s nothing we can do.’
He nodded, and then started, gripping my arm again. ‘Nat, over there. Just shine your torch.’
I swung my phone from left to right and then back again, the feeble beam of light doing little to illuminate the blackness of the interior.
‘There. In the right-hand corner. Just there.’
The beam picked out a dark shape, floating in the water.
‘There’s someone in there!’
‘Are you sure?’
‘That’s a person, I’m sure of it. How the hell do we get in?’
‘If there’s someone in there then maybe the door isn’t locked.’ I checked the handle, noticing that the paratia had not been dropped into place. ‘It’s open.’
I pushed at the door, struggling against the water pressure until Ed added his weight to mine and we forced it open.
The interior looked as if a bomb had hit it. No, the opposite. Everything had exploded inwards, not outwards. Shards of shattered glass and loose-leaf papers swirled in a grotesque kaleidoscope in the knee-deep water.
‘Nat, give me a hand here. I’ve got his shoulders, you take his feet.’
‘Should we move him?’
‘If we don’t, he’ll drown. We’ll have to risk it.’ He nodded towards a desk in the corner of the room, the only thing that wasn’t yet underwater.
‘Okay, easy now. Let’s just take it slowly.’
Between us we half dragged, half floated the body over to the corner, and hauled it, as gently as we could, on to the table. Ed turned the head to one side, and brushed the hair away from the face.
‘It’s a woman.’
I shone the light closer. Her age was difficult to guess in the dim light from my phone. Thirty-something? There were, I thought, traces of blood on her face and hair. Hardly surprising given the amount of broken glass.
‘She’s not breathing, Ed.’
‘Christ.’ He ran a hand through his hair and took a deep breath. ‘Do you know what to do?’
I shook my head in despair. ‘Kind of. I did a course, years ago. I can try.’ I turned her head to the side, allowing water to trickle from her mouth and nose. Then I straightened it again, interlaced my fingers, and started to pump away at her chest.
I opened her mouth and pressed my lips to hers. They were cold and the stink of the foul water on her made me want to gag. I breathed into her lungs, then paused, and then pumped away at her chest again, all the time praying that I was doing more good than harm.
I kept it up for about ten minutes and then slumped, exhausted, over her body. We stood there for a moment, listening to the wind howling through the streets outside.
I raised my head. ‘It’s no good Ed. She’s dead.’
CPSM 23:35 La marea ha raggiunto i 187 cm alle 22:50. Nei prossimi giorni la marea si manterrà su valori eccezionale. Aggiornamenti su Telegram e Internet.
CPSM 23:35 The tide reached 187 cm at 22:50. In the coming days the tide will remain at exceptional levels. Updates on Telegram and Internet.
– Message from the Centro Previsioni e Segnalazioni Marea, Venice, on the night of 12 November 2019.
Eduardo and I stayed with the body for nearly three hours, waiting for help to arrive. It didn’t seem right to just leave her there. Eventually, two exhausted paramedics arrived, and took her away on a stretcher to the water ambulance that was waiting by the nearby Ponte de la Cortesia. It had been a brutal, punishing night for them and for all the emergency services. Calls had been coming in constantly from desperate, frightened people in all parts of the city, some areas of which were almost unreachable and many of which were without power. The Giudecca Canal was judged to be almost unnavigable, likewise the area around the Bacino of San Marco and most of the northern lagoon.
Fede had wanted to stay with us, but I’d managed to persuade her that there was nothing to be done except wait. One of us, at least, deserved a proper night’s sleep. Ed looked as tired as I’d ever seen him and I was aware that I probably didn’t look much better. He splashed his way into the middle of the shop and turned around, looking at the books and prints that were displayed on the higher shelves and at the ones spiralling in the filthy water.
‘This is a disaster, Nat. Not just for this poor guy. For the city. I don’t know how we’re going to come back from this.’ He went back to the desk and started opening drawers.
‘What are you up to?’
‘Trying to find a key. At least if we could do that we could lock the place up. Make it secure.’
‘Ed. There’s no window left. There’s nothing to be done.’
‘I know. Doesn’t seem right though.’
‘It isn’t. But we’ve done what we can.’ I patted him on the shoulder. ‘Come on. Let’s go home.’
Bed was warm, toasty and cosy and I had no intention of leaving it ever, but Federica was slowly and insistently prodding my shoulder.
‘Am I snoring again?’ I mumbled, my voice thick with sleep.
‘No. But I think you ought to get up.’
‘What time is it?’
‘About six-thirty.’
‘Half past six?’ I pulled a pillow over my head. ‘Give me a call in a couple of hours.’
I’d almost drifted off again when she gently, but firmly, pulled the pillow away. ‘I’m sorry, caro, but I think you need to get up.’
‘I didn’t get to bed until – when was it – the back of two? And I don’t have a surgery today.’
‘I don’t think that’s going to matter. It’s going to be a busy day. For both of us, I think.’ She stroked my hair, and kissed my shoulder. ‘Come on. Up you get. I’ll make you a coffee.’
Ed sat on the sofa, wearing an old Hawkwind T-shirt of mine that hung rather more loosely on him than it did on me. He hunched over his cup of coffee, unshaven and bleary-eyed.
‘Is this a good time to say “You look like I feel?”’ I said.
He looked me up and down. ‘Funny, that’s just what I was thinking.’
‘More coffee?’
He shook his head, then got to his feet and yawned and stretched. ‘I’d better go and look at the bar. Make a start on cleaning up.’
‘Do you want a hand?’
‘Nah, you’ve done enough already. I’d say stop by later and I’ll stand you a drink but,’ he sighed, ‘I don’t know when we’ll be open again. I’ll see you whenever, eh?’
‘Okay, Ed. Mind how you go.’
He stretched again, wincing slightly and made his way downstairs, waving to Federica, who was talking animatedly on the phone.
I made myself another coffee and promised myself it would be the last. I was waiting for the Moka to stop bubbling, when Fede kissed me on the back of the neck and slipped her arms around my waist.
‘How’s it going?’
‘Not good. I’ve been on the phone to the Querini Stampalia. They asked if I could come in.’
‘Why?’
She shook her head. ‘No idea. They just need volunteers. To do what, I don’t know.’
‘Are the boats running? I mean, are they running as normal?’
‘No idea.’ She yawned and stretched, and then started to pull on her boots and waterproof jacket. ‘I’ll see you later, okay?’
I heard my own phone starting to ring. A British mobile number, and one, I suspected, that belonged to one of the numerous expats in Venice. Surgery or not, it was, I suspected, going to be a long morning.
I lost count of the phone calls. Desperate people whose lives, up until now, had been comfortable ones, suddenly finding themselves in need of somewhere to stay because their apartment was uninhabitable. Or wondering who to contact to get their electricity back on. Or wondering why their boats had vanished from their moorings overnight. Or who had worried relatives back in the UK trying to get hold of their loved ones.
And, of course, the press were there; with requests for radio interviews, articles for newspapers, even television. Usually, I’d have been flattered. But right now all I really wanted was for the telephone to stop ringing.
Federica had called as well. Or, at least, she’d left a message for me, her voice sounding tired and shaky. Things were bad at the Querini Stampalia, she’d told me. The archive on the ground floor had completely flooded. She wasn’t sure quite what she could do to help but neither did she feel like coming home just yet.
I sat behind my desk, with my phone in front of me, and stared at it, daring it to ring. Gramsci hopped up and gave it a swat with his paw, sending it spinning, propellor-like.
‘Hello puss.’
He miaowed.
‘Haven’t seen you for a while. Were you under that sofa all night?’
He miaowed again.
‘That’s not like you.’ A thought struck me. ‘You didn’t even come out for breakfast, did you?’
He’d missed a meal for the first time since he’d moved in. He must have been genuinely scared. Snowflakes were one thing but storms, being something that couldn’t be physically attacked, were another.
‘Come on then, eh? I’ll make myself another coffee and then I’ll get you breakfast.’ I reached out to stroke him but he snatched at my hand. He was, evidently, feeling better. ‘Or, and here’s another idea, I’ll get your breakfast and then I’ll make my coffee?’
I flicked through the pages of notes on my desk. An unfortunate number of the expat community had next to no Italian and so I’d promised them that I’d make some phone calls on their behalf to try and get their power back on, or at least find them a hotel room. It wasn’t going to be easy and was likely to take me the rest of the morning. But it would all seem that little bit more manageable after yet more caffeine.
I yawned and got to my feet. ‘Come on then, Gramsci.’
Inevitably, the phone chose that moment in which to ring. I looked at the screen, thinking I’d call them back, and cursed. A Rome number. One that I recognised. A call that couldn’t be put off.
‘Mr Ambassador, buongiorno.’
‘Naaathan, good morning.’ William Maxwell, a man who would never use one syllable if two were available, stretched out my name to its maximum possible length. ‘How are you?’
He sounded friendly. Did that mean it was an ‘Excellency’ day or merely a ‘Mr Ambassador’ day? Would there ever be a ‘William’ day?
‘I’m not so good,’ I paused, ‘Ambassador Maxwell.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that, Naaathan. Things sound a bit grim up there. What’s the situation on the street?’
‘No idea,’ I said, without thinking.
‘I’m sorry? You what?’
I held the phone away from me and gently banged my head on the table, under the eyes of a watchful Gramsci.
‘In all honesty, Ambassador, I haven’t been outside the apartment this morning. I’ve been on the phone constantly, fielding queries from what seems like every British resident in the city.’
‘Oh. Well, yes, I can imagine that. I’m told the phones have been ringing quite a bit in the office here.’
‘I imagine they have.’
‘I don’t understand though. Aren’t the telephones out?’
‘No. Just the electricity, in some areas. But most of the Brits here are only resident for a few months of the year. Which means most of them don’t have landlines. Which means, if there’s no electricity, you find yourself watching the charge on your phone go down and wondering if it’s more important to call an electrician, a hotel or your kids back in the UK.’
‘I see. Well, I’m sorry, Nathan, but we’ve been telling everyone to contact you for the most up-to-date information. Is there anything we can help you with? Share the burden a bit, you know?’
‘I don’t think so, Ambassador.’
‘Anything at all,’ he paused, ‘press, that sort of thing?’
I leafed through my notes again. ‘Depends. Do you feel like a video-link interview with Sky News?’
‘Oh. Well, I hadn’t really thought. I suppose I could. If it would help at all.’
I smiled to myself. ‘Oh, I think it would, Excellency. BBC “World at One” okay?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘“This Morning with Richard and Judy”?’
‘Good heavens. Really?’
‘No, I made that one up.’ I yawned. ‘Sorry.’
Maxwell wasn’t a man entirely without a sense of humour, and he chuckled, gently. ‘Yo. . .
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