Milly's sexual appetite was healthy enough but not enormous, which was sometimes, she thought, just as well. She had known a number of men since her feverish year with James Howden, but the occasions ending in her bedroom had been few and far between, reserved only for those for whom Milly felt genuine affection. She had never taken the view, as some did, that romping into bed should be a thank-you-for-the-evening gesture, and perhaps it was this hard-to-get quality which attracted men as much as her casual, sensual charm. But in any case the night with Richardson, which ended surprisingly as it had, did little to satisfy her and merely demonstrated that Brian Richardson's roughness extended to more than his tongue. Afterwards she thought of it as a mistake…

They had had no other meeting since and, in the meantime, Milly had resolved firmly that she would not fall in love, for a second time, with a married man.

Now Richardson's voice on the telephone said, 'If they were all as smart as you, doll, my life would be a dream. Some of these people think public relations is sexual intercourse between the masses. Anyway, have the chief call me as soon as his meeting's over, eh? I'll wait in the office.'

'Will do.'

'And Milly.'

'Yes.'

'How would it be if I dropped around this evening? Say sevenish?'

There was a silence. Then Milly said doubtfully, 'I don't know.'

'What don't you know?' Richardson's voice held a matter-of-factness; the tone of one not intending to be put off. 'Had you planned anything?'

'No,' Milly said, 'but…' She hesitated. 'Isn't it a tradition to spend Christmas Eve at home?'

Richardson laughed, though the laugh had a hollowness. 'H that's all that worries you – forget it. I can assure you Eloise has made her own arrangements for Christmas Eve and they don't include me. In fact she'd be grateful to you for making sure I can't intrude.'

Still Milly hesitated, remembering her own decision. But now… she wavered; it might be a long while… Stalling for rime she said, 'Is all this wise? Switchboards have ears.'

'Then let's not give 'em too much to flap about,' Richardson said crisply. 'Seven o'clock?'

Half-unwillingly, 'All right,' Milly said, and hung up. Out of habit, after phoning, she replaced her earrings.

For a moment or two she remained by the desk, one hand touching the telephone as if a thread of contact still remained. Then, her expression pensive, she moved over to the high arched window overlooking the front courtyard of the Parliament Buildings.

Since she had come in earlier, the sky had darkened and it had begun to snow. Now, in thick white flakes, the snow was blanketing the nation's capital. From the window she could see the heart of it: the Peace Tower, sheer and lean against the leaden sky, gauntly surmounting the House of Commons and Senate; the square gothic towers of the West Block and, behind, the Confederation Building, hunched hugely like some sombre fortress; the colonnaded Rideau Club nudging the white sandstone US Embassy; and Wellington Street in front, its traffic – as of habit – snarled. At times, it could be a stern, grey scene – symbolic, Milly sometimes thought, of the Canadian climate and character. Now, in the clothing of winter, its hardness and angularity were already blurring into softness. The forecasters had been right, she thought. Ottawa was in for a white Christmas.

Her earrings still hurt. For the second time she took them off.

Serious-faced, James Howden entered the high-ceilinged, beige-carpeted Privy Council chamber. The others – Cawston, Lexington, Nesbitson, Perrault, and Martening – were already seated near the head of the big oval table with its twenty-four carved-oak and red-leather chairs, scene of most decisions affecting Canadian history since Confederation. Off to one side, at a smaller table, a shorthand writer had appeared – a small, self-effacing man with pince-nez, an open notebook, and a row of sharpened pencils.

At the approach of the Prime Minister the five already in the room made to rise, but Howden waved them down, moving to the tall-backed, thronelike chair at the table's head. 'Smoke if you wish,' he said. Then pushing back the chair, he remained standing, and for a moment silent. When he began, his tone was businesslike.

'I ordered our meeting to be held in this chamber, gentlemen, for one purpose: as a reminder of the oaths of secrecy which all of you took on becoming Privy Councillors. What is to be said here is of utmost secrecy, and must remain so until the proper moment, even among our closest colleagues.' James Howden paused, glancing at the official reporter. 'I believe it might be best if we dispensed with a stenographic record.'

'Excuse me. Prime Minister.' It was Douglas Martening, his intellectual's face owlish behind big horn-rimmed spectacles. As always the Clerk of the Privy Council was respectful but definite: 'I think it might be better if we had recorded minutes. It avoids any disagreement subsequently about who said exactly what.'

Faces at the centre table turned towards the shorthand writer, who was carefully recording the discussion concerning his own presence. Martening added, 'The minutes will be safeguarded, and Mr McQuillan, as you know, has been trusted with many secrets in the past.'

'Yes, indeed.' James Howden's response was cordial with a touch of his public presence. 'Mr McQuillan is an old friend.' With a slight flush the subject of their discussion looked up, catching the Prime Minister's eye.

'Very well,' Howden conceded, 'let the meeting be recorded, but in view of the occasion I must remind the reporter of the applicability of the Official Secrets Act. I imagine you're familiar with the act, McQuillan?'

'Yes, sir.' Conscientiously the reporter recorded the query and his own response.

His glance ranging over the others, Howden brought his thoughts into focus. Last night's preparation had shown him clearly the sequence of steps he must follow in advance of the Washington meeting. One essential, to be achieved early on, was persuasion of others in Cabinet to his own views, and that was why he had brought this small group together first. If he could obtain agreement here, he would then have a hard core of support which could influence the remaining ministers to give him their endorsement. ^

James Howden hoped that the five men facing him would share his views and see the issues and alternatives clearly. It could be disastrous if the fulminations of lesser brains than his own resulted in needless delay.

'There can no longer be any doubt,' the Prime Minister said, 'of Russia's immediate intention. If there were ever any doubt, events these past few months have surely dispelled it. Last week's alliance between the Kremlin and Japan; before that, the Communist coups in India and Egypt and now the satellite regimes; our further concessions on Berlin; the Moscow-Peking axis with its threats to Australasia; the increase in missile bases aimed at North America – all these admit to only one equation. The Soviet programme of world domination is moving to its climax, not in fifty years or twenty years, as we once comfortably supposed, but now, in our generation and within this decade.

'Naturally, Russia would prefer its victory without recourse to war. But it's equally plain that the gamble of war may be undertaken if the West holds out and the Kremlin's objectives can be reached in no other way.'

There was a reluctant murmur of assent. Now he continued. 'Russian strategy has never been afraid of casualties. Historically their regard for human life is notably less than our own and they are prepared not to be afraid now. Many people, of course – in this country and elsewhere – will continue to have hope, just as there was hope that someday Hitler would stop gobbling Europe of his own accord. I do not criticize hope; it is a sentiment to be cherished. But here among us we cannot afford its luxury and must plan, unequivocally, for our defence and for survival.'