As soon as the plane leveled, Kate pulled out her laptop and settled down to finish her report. As long as she had an appointment with the prime minister, she would bring him up to speed on the progress, or lack thereof, of the Patten Report. Damn Robbie Finnigan. Her cool disdain for the man had turned into something much more rabid. London bustled with energy. Men and women in expensive tweeds, carrying briefcases and umbrellas, their eyes fixed on a spot over one’s shoulder moved past each other, hurrying in the direction of an all important destination. Intimidated by the sheer size of the city and the grim, bland faces, she arranged her expression into one she deemed suitable and maneuvered her way through the airport crowds to the land transport queue. Inside the cab, Kate willed herself to relax and think about how best to approach the elected leader of Britain. Neil Anderson, balled fists thrust deeply into the pockets of his trousers, looked out of the exquisite bay windows of Number 10 Downing Street and swore feelingly.
