His personal detective was behind him and waited by the entrance. The prime minister was in evening dress and smiled as he came forward and held out his hand.

“Good to see you, Paul.”

Williams withdrew discreetly and Chavasse said, “Thank God you didn’t say Sir Paul. I’m damned if I can get used to it.”

John Major sat down. “You got used to being called the Chief for the past twenty years.”

“Yes, well that was carrying on a Bureau tradition set up by my predecessor,” Chavasse told him. “Can I offer you a glass of champagne?”

“No thanks. The reason for my rather glamourous appearance is that I’m on my way to a fund-raising affair at the Dorchester and they’ll try and thrust enough glasses of champagne on to me there.”

Chavasse raised his glass and toasted him. “Congratulations on your leadership victory, Prime Minister.”

“Yes, I’m still here,” Major said. “Both of us are.”

“Not me,” Chavasse reminded him. “Last day tomorrow.”

“Yes, well that’s what I wanted to speak to you about. How long have you been with the Bureau, Paul?” He smiled. “Don’t answer, I’ve been through your record. Twenty years as a field agent, shot three times, knifed twice. You’ve had as many injuries as a National Hunt jockey.”

Chavasse smiled. “Just about.”

“Then twenty as Chief and thanks to the Irish situation, leading just as hazardous a life as when you were a field agent.” The prime minister shook his head. “I don’t think we can let all that experience go.”

“But my knighthood,” Chavasse said, “the ritual pat on the head on the way out. I must remind you, Prime Minister, that I’m sixty-five years of age.”

“Nonsense,” John Major told him. “Sixty-five going on fifty.” He leaned forward. “All this trouble in what used to be Yugoslavia and Ireland is not proving as easy as we’d hoped.” He shook his head. “No, Paul, we need you. I need you. Frankly, I haven’t even considered a successor.”