He crossed the floor to where Tracy, a brisk and well-upholstered young woman, was on sentry duty outside the corner office. She had recently been promoted from Amis’s secretary to his personal assistant (a step up, so office rumor had it, that was the direct result of a dirty weekend with Amis in Paris). Sadly, promotion had spoiled her, making her cocky and self-important.

Max perched on the corner of her desk and nodded toward the empty office. “Are we still on for lunch, or is he busy causing havoc in the stock exchange?”

Tracy looked as though she’d like to have given him a ticket for parking in a restricted area. “Mr. Amis will meet you at the Leadenhall Cellars. Twelve-thirty sharp. You’re not to be late.”

Max raised his eyebrows. The Cellars, once a storage depot for the old Leadenhall market, had been turned into a gentrified wine bar where the young Turks of the City gathered to eat virile lunches-slabs of red meat and Stilton-drink overpriced claret, and prepare for the rigors of the afternoon with a notoriously powerful port. Despite the bare brick walls and the sawdust on the floor, it was one of the City’s most expensive restaurants.

“He’s dipping into his savings, isn’t he?” said Max. “Any idea what it’s about?”

Tracy looked down at her desk and rearranged some papers. “Not a clue,” she said. The offhand tone of her voice was unconvincing and, Max found, irritating.

“ Tracy, there’s something I’ve been dying to ask you.”