Translation, he was not to let me out of his sight. So now we were standing in the doorway of the NTA version of a staff restaurant. It must’ve been impressive once, a space to entertain politicians and visiting dignitaries. The style was minimalist in that classic 1960s way, with the main feature being the eight floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over Union Square. But now the place was full of worn-out furniture arranged in uneven clusters, each set screened by drooping potted palms. All sitting on a carpet that may have been a richer tint when it was first laid, but had been cleaned so many times it was now the shade of dishwater. The place was half-full of people pushing their food around their plates with a distinct lack of interest. No-one had even looked up as we entered. They were tired, stressed. ‘Well?’ Constan was persistent. ‘I told Mertling I’d go outside and talk to the media if he didn’t let me see her.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘What? I had to find a way to get access.
