Free The Madness of July by James Naughtie

why. You need to be aware of something that I can’t yet describe to you in detail. Only half a dozen people in this whole jungle have the picture, and most of them only fragments. In all my time, I’ve never known anything like this. Deep, with not a trace on the surface.
    ‘I can tell you this much. There’s a negotiation going on with Washington right now that’s bloody sensitive beyond words.’ His face was hidden from Flemyng. ‘A big one.’
    Turning back, he said, ‘We can’t afford trouble on that front. There is no evidence that this guy is connected to it, whoever he may be, but anything’ – he was almost growling – ‘anything that upsets this apple cart could be a disaster. Not just messy, I promise you. A nightmare. But no more of this now. I’ll have a word with you after the opera.’ He sat down, resting both his elbows on the desk, and finished, ‘Believe me.’
    The exchange had swung increasingly fast between the two, the questions flowing from Flemyng and the answers from Paul. Now was the moment to switch. Flemyng wanted clarity. No misunderstanding.
    ‘I’m not going to ask, I’m going to tell. Forget the stuff about wanting my political brain. You know my past. And you know that Lucy knows, because of where she sits and the papers she sees from my old friends in the course of office business. You’re taking me back there, without telling anybody, aren’t you?’
    Paul leaned back behind his desk, perfectly relaxed.
    ‘You want me to be a spy again.’
    Paul smiled, and it was over.

5
    Francesca searched for a card to send to Lucy. Another conversation so soon after the first might raise alarms; a note should do away with any awkwardness and be a natural progress for them both. In her office, she had a stack of cards showing operatic scenes, but didn’t want an image that might be thought to carry its own message. She shuffled through and discarded the broken heroes and mad lovers, with all their tears, choosing instead a painting of an Italian garden with a still pool at its centre, the cypress trees casting long, solid shadows on the water. The scene calmed her. She turned it over, and wrote.
Lucy – let’s make that lunch next week. Wednesday? It’s a day when the diary says Will should be out of town. I was so touched by our conversation, and there’s much more to say. Let me know. I hope the office is not too wild.
Warmly,
F
    She considered what she had written, re-read it and placed the card in an envelope which she addressed to the office, confident that it wouldn’t reach her husband’s desk by accident. Everything passed Lucy first, and Francesca could be sure that it would stay with her. She took the back staircase and walked to the post box in Bow Street to catch the first afternoon collection. But she slowed down as she went, disturbed by a thought that swept over her without warning. She stopped, and after a few moments tore up the envelope and dropped the pieces in a litter bin on the corner. It took about ten minutes in the sun for her feelings to settle, then she went back to prepare alone for the evening, first to the private dining room behind the royal box near the stage.
    With a seating plan before her, she wrote names on place cards for supper in a free-flowing hand. Three to each side of the oval table and one at each end. She looked round the small, high room, saw the flowers in place beside the ormolu clock and the drinks tray ready on the table. From the opening that led from the dining room to the royal box, muffled by a curtain drawn across the door, came the sound of a single horn. A player had slipped into the pit for some private practice, the gleam of his instrument just visible in the gloom under the overhang. Above him a crew was banging around on the stage, making the last checks on a revolving set that would turn for the first time in public that night. Their voices were louder than usual, and reflected the excitement that had crept through