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this moment and upon this meeting. It’s no time for nostalgia.”
    The foreign secretary sighed. “At times he does seem like an old ship with the wind torn from her sails. And the truth is, I never know when his heart will rule his head.”
    “His heart always rules his head, Anthony! He has a couple of drinks and gets a little buffy, then he’s away on one of his great sentimental waves. Fine for music hall, less useful with Marshal Stalin, I fear.” The car hit one of the many hurriedly filled potholes that marked the road out of Saki and the civil servant bounced in his seat, shaking both his dignity and his natural reserve. His fingers brushed fretfully across his carefully trimmed moustache. “Frankly, Anthony, I shall be much happier when you’ve taken the reins.”
    Eden sat quietly for a moment. There was no denying his ambition, or his ability—everyone said so. But it was better in such matters not to seem too keen.
    “We’ve beaten him like a plough horse. I suppose he can’t go on for ever.”
    A pause.
    “You would be so much better, Anthony.”
    Another pause.
    “Thank you, Alec. I shant forget your devotion. We must all move on.”
    “Well, since you mention it, I suppose you’ve realized. . . ”
    “Come, Alec, you can confide in me.”
    Cadogan stared out of the window. It was many moments before the words came. “Washington. I’d like Washington.”
    “We already have an ambassador. There is no vacancy.”
    “Neither is there at Number Ten, Anthony. But time will tell. And the Americans’ intellectual grip is about as thin as restaurant coffee. All grand phrases and foggy bottoms. No denying there’s a job to be done.”
    “And you would be the man to do it.”
    “It’s my turn to thank you.”
    “All in good time, Alec. Everything in good time.”
    The car bounced on, and they fell back into silence.
    ❖ ❖ ❖
    Frank Sawyers was having a difficult day, not that there was anything unusual in this. Every day in the service of Winston Churchill was a challenge. The British war leader was a demanding and often sharp-tongued taskmaster, who worked preposterous hours, indulged in extravagant appetites, and expected everything—and everyone—to work to his whim. As his valet, Sawyers was expected not only to put him to bed but also to be there to wake him up in the morning. It was therefore fortunate that Sawyers wasn’t married and was never likely to be, and that he had a sense of the ridiculous that enabled him to laugh through his master’s excesses when others, including well-salted admirals, battle-hardened generals, and gin-sodden cabinet ministers, simply wilted.
    He wasn’t the best-looking fellow in the world, short, in his forties with a shining pink pate and a dominant lisp, but Sawyers was always meticulously turned out and set himself high standards. He also knew that Churchill couldn’t operate without him. Truth be told, he would have trouble getting dressed without him, and although Sawyers had never lifted a rifle in anger, he reckoned he’d done as much as many to win this war simply by keeping the old bugger going. He bore many scars from the Churchillian lash, but others recognized his abilities. At a dinner in the Kremlin the previous year, the Russian leader himself—Marshal Stealin’, as Sawyers liked to refer to him in his sibilant Cumberland accent—had toasted him, not once, but twice. Mind you, the Marshal had been more than halfway towards alcoholic oblivion so had probably mistaken him for a cabinet minister or, at very least, the Keeper of the King’s Closet. Now, there would be a job. . .
    Sawyers was a servant, but in his own way a bit of a snob, so it helped him along his bumpy road to know that Churchill always insisted on the best—vintage champagne, hand-rolled Havanas, silk underwear. The problem was, the master never quite found the means to pay for it all. To finance his lifestyle he would contract to a publisher to write another