replacing it. Elizabeth was looking at him with unconcealed admiration.
'We must all make sacrifices in battle, Elizabeth.' He placed the tips of his fingers to the point of his nose. Unconsciously he was beginning to mimic the King in some of his mannerisms, Elizabeth thought. 'I'm not quite sure how to put this delicately,' he continued, 'so perhaps I shall have to crave your understanding and be blunt. It does not pay to fight a battle from within glass houses. It would be helpful if you would stop taking such an ardent interest in Italian arias. Your new-found operatic interests could be so easily . . . misconstrued. It might confuse the troops.'
Elizabeth, who had been sipping a glass of wine, replaced the glass gently on the table.
'Government drivers are such a gossipy bunch,' he added, as if by way of explanation and excuse.
'I see.'
'No hard feelings?'
'After all these years?' She inclined her head. 'Of course not.'
'You are very understanding, my dear.'
'I have to be.' She reached for her purse and extracted an earring. It was bold, fashionable, enamelled, costume jewellery from Butler & Wilson in the Fulham Road. One of Sally's. 'The cleaner gave me this the other day. Found it jammed down the side of the Chesterfield. Thought it was one of mine. I'm not sure how to put this delicately, Francis . . .'
He flushed, lowered his eyes, said nothing.
'Sauce for the goose? Even a Canadian goose?'
'She's . . . American,' he responded haltingly.
'Nevertheless.'
'Elizabeth, she is important to me; she has more vital work to do.'
'But not on her back, Francis. Not in a glass house.'
He looked directly at his wife. It had been a long time since anyone had put him in such a corner. He wasn't used to it. He sighed, he had no choice.
'All you have to do, Elizabeth, is to say please. You remember how to say please, don't you?'
'It's getting very messy.' 'It'll get worse.' 'You sure?'
'Never been more certain.' 'How so?'
'Because he can't yet be certain about winning an election; there's more to be done. He needs a few more points on the polls. He can't stop now. Risk a Royal comeback. And . . .' She hesitated. 'And because he's an axeman. His target isn't the Princess, it's the King himself. I'm not sure if he knows any longer when to stop hacking.'
He was silent, pondering. 'Sally, you're absolutely certain about this?'
'About his plans? Yes. About him . . . ?' She could still feel the mangled flesh of her buttocks where his finger nails had dug deep. 'I'm certain.'
Then I have work to do.'
He rolled out of bed and reached for his trousers. Moments later he was gone.
The currency dealer turned over and lay in the luminous blue glow of his digital alarm. Four thirteen a.m. Crap. He wouldn't get back to sleep again now. He'd been unsettled all night, his thoughts jarring between the yacht and the young nurse he'd tried and failed to pull a few hours previously. They had shared a ludicrously indulgent meal at Nikita's; she'd drunk too much cherry vodka and been sick. Tant pis.
He flicked on his palm-sized Pocketwatch and checked the miniature screen for the latest state of the markets. Perhaps that's what had been eating away at him. Christ! Sterling was down almost another two hundred points in the Far East and he was beginning to wish he, too, had drunk a little less vodka. He was holding twenty million pounds overnight, and he suddenly felt very exposed. He punched one of the memory buttons on his bedside phone which connected with his branch in Singapore, eight hours ahead. 'What's up?'
'Negara's been selling steadily since the market opened,' an accented voice told him. So the Malaysian central bank was in on the act . . .
'What's Cable in forty?' he demanded.
'Sixty-five seventy.'
Selling at sixty-five, buying at seventy. But no one was buying. Time to join the herd. 'Shit, let's move it. At sixty-five.' He put the phone down, having just sold forty million pounds sterling in the belief the price would continue falling. If it did he would have covered his overnight position, and more. He'd better get into the office early, in case the entire bloody world woke up with a headache and the herd started to stampede. And maybe he would call that very special client who helped with all those unofficial deals on the side. The client wouldn't mind being woken at this hour, not for the size