The Ottawa night was crisp and cold, with clouding skies holding promise of snow before morning. The nation's capital – so the experts said – was in for a white Christmas.

In the rear of a black, chauffeur-driven Oldsmobile, Margaret Howden, wife of the Prime Minister of Canada, touched her husband's hand. 'Jamie,' she said, 'you look tired.'

The Right Honourable James McCallum Howden, PC, LLB, QC, MP, had closed his eyes, relaxing in the car's warmth. Now he opened them. 'Not really.' He hated to admit to tiredness at any time. 'Just unwinding a little. The past forty-eight hours…' He checked himself, glancing towards the chauffeur's broad back. The glass between was raised, but even so it paid to be cautious.

A light from outside touched the glass and he could see his own reflection: the heavy, hawklike face, eagle-beak nose and jutting chin.

Beside him, his wife said amusedly, 'Stop looking at yourself or you'll develop… what's that psychiatry thing?'

'Narcissism.' Her husband smiled, his heavy-lidded eyes crinkling. 'But I've had it for years. In politics it's an occupational norm.'

There was a pause, then they were serious again.

'Something's happened, hasn't it?' Margaret said softly. 'Something important.' She had turned towards him, her face troubled, and preoccupied as he was, he could perceive the classic shapeliness of her features. Margaret was still a lovely woman, he thought, and heads had always turned when they came into a room together.

'Yes,' he acknowledged. For an instant he was tempted to confide in Margaret; to tell her everything that had occurred so swiftly, beginning with the secret telephone call from the White House, coming across the border two days earlier; the second call this afternoon. Then he decided: this was not the time.