He didn’t, but the next two hours had all the brio of a light opera in which every aria was his, and in which a shifting chorus of mixed voices both praised him and harmoniously echoed his thoughts. Then it was eleven o’clock, and far more than the usual number were cramming into Vernon’s office for the morning conference. Editors and their deputies and assistants and journalists were crammed into every chair, slouched against every inch of wall space, and perched along the windowsills and on the radiators. People who could not squeeze into the room were bunched around the open doorway. Conversation stopped as the editor edged himself into his chair. It was positively raffish, the way he started without preamble, as always, and stuck to the routine—a few minutes’ postmortem, then a run through the lists. Today, of course, there would be no bids for the front page. Vernon’s one concession was to reverse the usual order so that home news and politics would be last. The sports editor had a background piece on the Atlanta Olympics and a why-oh-why on the state of English table-tennis doubles. The literary editor, who had never before been in early enough to attend a morning conference, gave a somnolent account of a novel about food that sounded so pretentious Vernon had to cut him off. From arts there was a funding crisis, and Lettice O’Hara in features was at last ready to run her piece on the Dutch medical scandal, and also—to honor the occasion—was offering a feature on how industrial pollution was turning male fish into females.

When the foreign editor spoke, attention in the room began to focus. There was a meeting of European foreign ministers and Garmony would be attending, unless he resigned straight away. With this possibility floated, a murmur of excitement spread through the room. Vernon brought in the political editor, Harvey Straw, who dilated on the history of political resignations. There hadn’t been many lately and it clearly was a dying art. The prime minister, well known to be strong on personal friendship and loyalty, weak on political instinct, was likely to hang on to Garmony until he was forced out. This would prolong the affair, which could only help the Judge.

At Vernon’s invitation, the circulation manager confirmed the latest figures, which were the best in seventeen years. At this, the murmur swelled to a clamor and there was some swaying and stumbling around the doorway as frustrated journalists standing in Jean’s outer office decided to push against a wall of bodies. Vernon slapped the table to bring the room to order. They had still to hear from Jeremy Ball, the home editor, who was obliged to raise his voice; a ten-year-old boy was going on trial today accused of murder, the Lakeland rapist had struck for a second time in a week and a man had been arrested last night, and there was an oil spill off the coast of Cornwall. But no one was really interested, for there was only one subject that would quieten this crowd, and finally Ball obliged: a letter to the Church Times from a bishop attacking the Judge over the Garmony affair ought to be dealt with in today’s leader; a meeting of the government’s back-bench committee this afternoon should be covered; a brick had been thrown through the window of Garmony’s constituency headquarters in Wiltshire. Ragged applause followed this news, and then silence as Grant McDonald, Vernon’s deputy, started in on his few words.

He was an old-timer on the Judge., a large man whose face was almost lost inside a ridiculous red beard he never trimmed. He liked to make great play of being a Scot, wearing a kilt to the Burns night he organized for the paper and honking on bagpipes at the New Year’s office party. Vernon suspected McDonald had never been farther north than Muswell Hill. In public he had given due support to his editor, and in private, with Vernon, he had been skeptical of the whole affair. Somehow the entire building seemed to know about his skepticism, which was why he was listened to so eagerly now. He started at a low growl, which intensified the silence around him.

“I can say this now and it’ll come as a surprise to you, but I’ve had my wee doubts about this right from the start…”

This disingenuous opener earned him a manly round of laughter. Vernon thrilled to the dishonesty of it; the matter was rich, complex, byzantine. There came to his mind an image of a burnished plate of beaten gold inscribed with faded hieroglyphs.

McDonald went on to describe his doubts-personal privacy, tabloid methods, hidden agendas, and so on. Then he came to the hinge of his speech and raised his voice. Frank’s briefing had been accurate.

“But I’ve learned over the years that there are times in this business—not many, mind—when your own opinions have to take a back seat. Vernon’s made his case with a passion and a deadly journalistic instinct, and there’s a feeling in this building, an urgency on this paper now, that takes me back to the good old times of the three-day week when we really knew how to tell it. Today the circulation figures speak for themselves—we’ve tapped the public mood. So…” Grant turned to the editor and beamed. “We’re riding high again, and it’s all down to you. Vernon, a thousand thanks!”

After the loud applause, others chimed in with brief messages of congratulation. Vernon sat with folded arms, his face solemn, his gaze fixed on the grain in the table’s veneer. He wanted to smile, but it wouldn’t seem right. He observed with satisfaction that the managing director, Tony Montano, was discreetly taking notes of who was saying what. Who was on board. He would have to be taken aside and reassured about Dib-ben, who had slumped down in his chair, hands deep in his pockets, frowning and shaking his head.

Now Vernon stood for the benefit of those at the back of the room and returned the thanks. He knew, he said, that most people in the room had been against publication at one time or another. But he was grateful for this, because in some respects journalism resembled science; the best ideas were the ones that survived and were strengthened by intelligent opposition. This fragile conceit prompted a hearty round of applause; no need for shame, then, or retribution from on high. By the time the clapping faded, Vernon had squeezed through the crowd to a whiteboard mounted on the wall. He peeled away the masking tape that held in place a large sheet of blank paper and revealed a double-size blowup of the next day’s front page.

The photograph filled the entire width of eight columns and ran from under the masthead three quarters of the way down the page. The silent room took in the simply cut dress, the catwalk fantasy, the sassy pose that playfully, enticingly, pretended to repel the camera’s gaze, the tiny breasts and artfully revealed bra strap, the faint blush of makeup on the cheekbones, the lipstick’s caress that molded the swell and semipout of the mouth, the intimate, yearning look of an altered but easily recognizable public face. Centered below, in thirty-two-point lower-case bold, was a single line: “Julian Garmony, Foreign Secretary.” There was nothing else on the page.

The crowd that had been so boisterous was completely subdued now, and the silence lasted for over half a minute. Then Vernon cleared his throat and began to describe the strategy for Saturday and Monday. As one young journalist would remark to another later in the canteen, it was like seeing someone you know stripped in public and flogged. Unmasked and punished. Despite this, the general view that took hold as people dispersed and returned to their desks, and that consolidated in the early afternoon, was that this was work of the highest professional standards. As a front page, it would surely become a classic that one day would be taught in journalism school. The visual impact was unforgettable, as was the simplicity, the stark-ness, the power. McDonald was right—Vernon’s instinct was unerring. He was thinking only of the jugular when he pushed all the copy on to page two and resisted the temptation of a screaming headline or a wordy caption. He knew the strength of what he had. He let the picture tell the story.