Jeremy Brinkman entered the Foreign Office from Parliament Square, guessing this, the final meeting before the Moscow posting, would be the waste of time the others had been, self-important officials in mahogany chambers lecturing about dos and don’ts and what was expected and what was not expected. Brinkman knew all about self-important officials who disparaged changing governments and considered themselves – perhaps rightly – the true governors of the country. His father, who was one, had been a good teacher – in all things. But particularly about what was expected from the son of a Permanent Under Secretary whose father before him had been Permanent Under Secretary and whose father before him had been Permanent Under Secretary and whose family service to the country – to the country and to the king and to the queen, not some passing political fancy with its cant and hollow propaganda – stretched back earlier than that. Brinkman knew, too, that he could fulfil the expectation. But his way. Proving that he didn’t need to rely upon family connections – not unless there wasn’t any other way, in which case it would have been stupid to ignore the advantage – but was able to open his own doors and to achieve his own successes. He’d proved it by getting to Cambridge on a scholarship, so that the family money was unnecessary. And by getting his rowing blue, something else they couldn’t use their influence to obtain. Any more than they could have bought or arranged his Double First in history or the 98% passmark for the required Foreign Office entry examination, although his father had hinted that help was available if the mark were border-line, still not properly aware of his son’s unshakeable intention never to do anything border-line in his entire life. But on his own; his way.