It was the end of my first week in London, and so far, it felt like ninety percent of my job was meetings like this.Shaking hands, smiling, pretending to be fascinated by factory production lines and tariff schedules.
A week of being told the same bad jokes about unions, petrol, and Brexit.A week of nodding sagely while pretending not to notice the self-satisfied smirks of men twice my age who thought they were terribly clever.
I leaned back slightly in my chair, hands folded neatly in my lap, projecting calm authority.Inside, I was screaming.
If this was it—if this was all there was—then God help me, I’d be climbing out the window by Christmas.
Still, I reminded myself, things could be worse.Much worse.An uneventful first week was a blessing, not a curse.In my line of work, boring usually meant peaceful.And peace was good—for America, for the UK, and for my ability to sleep at night.The thought had barely settled before a knock came at my office door.
The delegation stopped mid-sentence, all turning their heads at once, as though the knock might deliver salvation.
The door cracked open, and Paula stepped inside.Blond hair smoothed back, impeccable suit in slate grey, calm smile in place—the very picture of efficient, unflappable diplomacy.
“Mr.Ambassador,” she said, inclining her head, “you’re needed on an urgent call.”
The word “urgent” might as well have been a gunshot in that room.The delegation froze, then began gathering their papers and briefcases in unison, clearly relieved to be excused.
“Well,” their chairman said, puffing himself up, “we won’t keep you from important matters.We look forward to your visit to the Rolls-Royce factory next month.”
“Yes,” I said warmly, rising to shake hands again.“I can’t wait.”Which was a lie, of course.I could wait forever and be perfectly content.
They filed out, nodding and smiling, and Paula shut the door firmly behind them.
The polite mask slipped from her face the instant we were alone.She crossed to one of the chairs opposite my desk, sank into it, and shook her head slowly.
“We’ve got a real emergency,” she said.
My pulse spiked, a rush of adrenaline I hadn’t realised I’d been craving.Finally.Something important.Something real.
“What happened?”I asked, already pushing back from my desk, half-ready to start barking orders.
Paula sighed.“At the university roundtable on international law in Edinburgh this morning, a junior officer from the consulate there—Paul Henley, you’ve met him, I think—was caught on a hot mic saying, and I quote: ‘If Scotland ever goes solo, we’ve already got a shortlist for embassy sites.That view from Calton Hill?Chef’s kiss.’”
I groaned, slumping back into my chair.“Oh no.”
“Oh yes,” Paula said grimly.“The Foreign Office is livid.And Nigel Thorne is livid-er.He’s on his way here right now.”
The mention of Nigel Thorne was enough to sour my mood completely.Though I’d only met him twice, that man had the uncanny ability to make you feel both scolded and condescended to before he even opened his mouth.
“I can’t believe Henley was so stupid,” I muttered.“What part of diplomat did he not understand?Thinking aloud is bad enough, but about Scottish independence?”
“Exactly,” Paula said.“They’ll want blood.”
Before I could reply, my intercom buzzed.My secretary’s brisk voice followed: “Ambassador, Nigel Thorne is here to see you.”
“Tell him I’ll be one minute,” I said, then turned to Paula.“Stay.Please.You’ve been here longer, you know the players better.I’ll need backup.”
“Gladly,” she said, already rising.
She crossed to the door and opened it wide, ushering in the legend in his own mind, Nigel Thorne himself.
He swept into my office like a cold front, his black suit immaculate, his silver hair gleaming under the lights.His expression was all frost and disapproval, as though someone had personally offended the Crown by existing in his presence.Behind him trailed a thin, nervous-looking young man clutching a leather folder.
“Ambassador,” Nigel said stiffly, bowing his head the barest fraction.“I trust you are aware of the unfortunate incident in Edinburgh.”
“Good afternoon, Mr.Thorne,” I said evenly, gesturing for him to sit.“Please, let’s discuss it.”
He ignored the chair and remained standing.His aide hovered behind him, pale and clammy.
