In the center of the brilliantly polished ceramic crest, a lion reared on its hind legs. At one side of the lion was a sheaf of wheat and on the other side, a stiletto with a diamond-studded hilt. A ceramic sash looped across the bottom of the crest. It contained the single word: Wissex. There were not other paintings in the room, no photographs, no wall decorations, nothing but the crest. Around the table were placed a dozen hard-seated, straight-backed chairs. A single black telephone sat on the table. Six men were talking softly in the room, but they became silent when the door opened and Neville walked in. He wore a herringbone tweed jacket with leather elbow patches, knickers, high socks and heavy walking shoes. He gave off the scent of out-of-doors and spent shotgun shells as he breezed inside the room and walked to the head of the table. "Everyone here?" he called out, then sat down, looked around, nodded, and said, "Good. Let's get started." Wissex waited until the other men were seated, then tapped on the table with the end of a silver pen he kept in his inside jacket pocket.
