EPILOGUE
London, just off Pall Mall, one of the classical white stucco, terrace buildings, appearing from the outside as it has done since Georgian times, but inside, stripped out and modern.
Silence, just after midnight, the House rarely sat late these days, so the MP could be there, along with the PM’s Cabinet Secretary, Head of Armed Forces, and a man known only as Pomerol, as in the ruby red wine he brought to these meetings. As tradition dictated, they sipped the robust wine from crystal goblets, sat around the large conference table, a single central, powerful light, punching a glare onto the highly polished surface, distant walls lost in the peripheral darkness.
The light on the table surface flared and reflected onto the faces of men, silent, driven politically and idealisticall
