Joe waded dutifully through the mass of information he’d been handed, his interest piqued by the difference in position between the man’s poverty-stricken beginnings and the influential place he now occupied in the government of the world’s most powerful nation. A story worthy of Mark Twain. Born in a log cabin in a remote county of Tennessee, the talented young man, with the support of an ambitious father, had gone to law school and become a Democratic party chairman at a very young age. He’d served in the United States House of Representatives but, upon the death of his father, he’d deviated from a political career and taken over Kingstone senior’s affairs, using his contacts and know-how to make millions by skilfully riding a bad economic moment. It was rumoured that, although his family was known to be republican, he had been generous in his support of the democrat Franklin D. Roosevelt who, short months ago, had been elected president.

Was Joe exchanging jokes with the éminence grise behind the American Eagle? Men wiser than himself had declared it entirely possible.

He looked back with approval at the eyes gleaming with humour and intelligence, the mouth firm but ready to twitch into a smile, and Joe hoped it was entirely probable. The man presented a more reassuring image of Uncle Sam than the gaunt and unlovable caricature they were treated to in Punch magazine. For a blinding moment, Joe had a vision of these features hewn into the side of Mount Rushmore and he smiled at the thought that the sculptors would have rather less chiselling to do than with the usual run of presidents. This man’s profile was ready-chiselled.

“Well, thank you for that, Sandilands. I’m starting to get you. Anything I can tell you about me?”

A difficult overture to respond to. He could ask a thousand things—or none. Joe opted for a single harmless but genuine enquiry. “Why the building business, sir? I’m always curious to know what gets people started. Not the sort of thing that fascinates the backroom boys who put the files together. They can tell me exactly how many dollars you paid the Internal Revenue last year, but I’m left guessing as to how you put a foot on the road to riches.”

Cornelius Kingstone relaxed, anticipating a conversation he could enjoy. “Ancestral trade. My folks come from the east of England originally. Know it? Full of oak trees. I reckon my forebears were Vikings. Saxons? Whoever—they knew how to build boats. And what do you get if you turn a boat keel up? A house. With a vaulted roof. My grandfather was a carpenter. From Suffolk. Knew all about beams and joists and kingposts. My family’s not exactly off the Mayflower—we missed that boat by a couple of centuries—but they were proud enough of their ancestry to keep a line on their pedigree.

“My grandfather emigrated as a young man when work dried up back home. He settled in an American county—small and remote—but one full of timber. Started to do what he did best and built himself a house. He began to build for others and soon he had a business going.” There was pride and affection in his voice as he added, “My father took over and I helped him as soon as I was old enough to swing an adze. I still tap on beams and run a critical eye over ceiling joists. Wouldn’t try it here, though, in all this art deco glamour.”

“Know what you mean! I keep expecting the waiter to take off and tap dance between tables,” Joe agreed. “Looks like a Hollywood set, I always think.”

“And both have their origins elsewhere. In Paris. We’re all living in the outfall of that avalanche of style … You know Paris?”

Joe nodded. “I do. I was there in nineteen twenty-five for the exhibition of Les Arts Décoratifs. ‘Not Art and certainly not decorative’ was the sniffy view of most of my compatriots. But I loved it! And here I am, nearly ten years on and still enjoying the style wherever it’s on offer.”

“How about … Milan? Vienna? Prague? Berlin?” The glorious names came at him across the table like bullets.

Again, Joe nodded, wondering why he was being taken on a tour, in memory, of Europe’s most splendid cities. And wondering what was their destination.

“I wouldn’t want to see them come to more harm than they’re in already. But you know, Sandilands, left to itself, this troublesome continent of yours could thrash itself to bits. You damn nearly managed it twenty years ago. Might go all the way next time.”

Joe stiffened. The senator had touched on a delicate subject. “Is this the moment you remind me that we would have been trampled into the mud had it not been for the intervention of the armed forces of the United States?” Joe asked, his voice taking on a light frost.

“Don’t give me any of that, Sandilands!” came the bluff response. “You’ve read my file. I was there. Argonne Forest. And for the short time we were in France, any of us who knew which way was north knew we’d been deployed in a relatively safe sector of the front. And our ‘cushy little number,’ as your field-marshal called it, came with the offer of guidance from the most battle-hardened French and British officers. Not that General Pershing took kindly to guidance from anyone.”

The words were unexpected, placatory, the eyes watchful. The intent—Joe was quite sure—was to lure him into delivering a jingoistic indiscretion. He was being invited to fly higher so that he might fall harder when shot down. Joe couldn’t be doing with word traps unless he was setting them himself. He replied with quiet honesty, “There was no such thing as a safe sector in that hellhole, sir. The Argonne Forest was a bloodbath. From the start of your war to the finish, you lost a hundred and seventeen thousand men. That’s some sacrifice from lads who weren’t sure where they were or who they were fighting for. And never—never!—think we weren’t grateful.”

Had he spoken too warmly? Probably. The senator gave him a sideways look. “You take it upon yourself to speak for your country, Sandilands?”

“Yes! I do! That’s something you’ll find with the British. We all have our views and we think we have a God-given right to air them.”

“Must make this a darned difficult country to run.”

“It always has been. Full of revolting peasants, rebellious barons, mad monarchs, and even stroppy coppers at times. But we know a common enemy when we see one. And we recognise a friend. It was the bloody assault on our ally, plucky little Belgium, that really got us started in the last lot.”

Kingstone fixed him with a cynical eye. “And you instantly sent in the traditional gunboat.”

“No, sir. We sent in the whole nation.”

Kingstone laughed. “Tell me—am I talking to Winston’s mouthpiece?”

“Far from it. I admire and would emulate—if that were possible—Churchill’s eloquence but I don’t always share his views. I’ve taken issue with him, politically speaking, on … three occasions.” He grinned. “It’s all right. He didn’t listen to me on any of them.”

“Those of us Americans who fought over there, Sandilands, may have been a little unclear as to the political imperatives, but the boys knew what they were fighting against. And perhaps that’s enough. Against militarism. Against despotism. They were fighting the men who invaded another man’s country without a by-your-leave and snatched his freedom and his land. And I hope that would always be a clear cause and a good cause.”

“There are many who’d say: ‘Those Europeans again! Serves ’em right’ and ‘They want to fight amongst themselves—let them get on with it.’ ”

“And some would even cheer,” Kingstone agreed. “Just so’s we’re clear on this—I’m not one of them.”

“Is the president aware of your views?” Joe asked, taken aback by the sudden smacking down of cards on the table. He’d expected to take a day or two getting close to Kingstone’s political stance. And here it was, out in the open, in the time it took to eat a croissant.