But sixteen years of independence had not been kind to the once beautiful old building. The lift had stopped working some time ago – no one could remember when – and the mahogany balustrade was cracked from lack of wax. Paint peeled from the walls of the pressroom, and the windows were coated with a film of dust and cigarette smoke that hung in the air. A ginger cat sat on the windowsill watching the rain outside. Bits of paper stabbed one on top of the other with drawing pins indicated a notice board hung beneath. Wastepaper baskets overflowed. Three desks stood in the middle of the room, unoccupied, their typewriters silent. A fly buzzed around a half empty coffee cup. In a corner of the room one of the two telex machines clacked continuously. Behind cheap wooden partitions that were more symbolic than effective, bureau chief Mike Davies opened the top drawer of his desk and took out a bottle of cognac and three paper cups. He half-filled the cups, then, moving the photograph of a much younger version of himself shaking hands with Churchill to one side, placed a cup in front of Steven and Nicolette.
