Charles shut his eyes against the sugar-coated smile of the air hostess. He wished to God they’d leave a man alone. He didn’t need all those airborne little simpers and the swish of skirts and petticoats interrupting his work, and no, he didn’t want a cocktail, and yes, he did have a headache, but if only they’d remove themselves, he might feel slightly better. He finished his report on the prosecution, making it sound less messy than it was. His own private report, locked inside his head, was a lot more damaging. He’d been reprimanded by the judge, in open court. Thank God Oppenheimer wasn’t present at the time. But afterwards, King Heinrich had made it almost worse by being so magnanimous. That cold, well-mannered smile, that unctuous bottle of chilled Dom Pérignon, so cruelly inappropriate. It was humiliating, shameful. He heard Mr Justice Lambton’s damp-flannel voice echoing round the plane. ‘Uncooperative, evasive in his evidence, muddled in his presentation.’ He was never muddled – evasive maybe, but always clear, efficient.
