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onto an enormous oak at the top of VictoriaStreet. A large map of the world was open on a wooden stand at the head of a boardroom table, around which sat half a dozen men of a similar ilk to Henderson, though probably not as well-heeled.
    Very few New Zealanders were.
    Walsh was one of them.
    “Gentlemen,” said Henderson. “Allow me to present Fintan Patrick Walsh. The face of responsible unionism in this country.” He smiled. “I think we’re all agreed. If there have to be unions, they might as well be responsible.”
    “Well said!” said one of the men to general laughter.
    “Right-o,” said Henderson. “Introductions. How do you like to be known? Fintan? Pat? Jack? Quite a choice.”
    “Walsh. Or Mr Walsh. I’m not bothered.”
    “Walsh it is,” said Henderson. “Good Irish name.”
    Good Taig name you mean, you bowler-hatted bastard, thought Walsh.
    “Over there, Stuart Hoar,” said Henderson. “The Pacific Steamship Company.”
    Hoar nodded graciously.
    “To his right, in more ways than one, Sir John Newton. Federated Farmers.”
    Newton acknowledged the laughter.
    “S.T. Marsh. City Council.”
    “We met during the war when I was on the Stabilisation Commission,” said Marsh.
    Walsh nodded.
    “Bruce Solomon. South British Insurance.”
    “D’you do,” said Solomon, scraping the bowl of his pipe with a penknife.
    “Keith Petrie. Dominion Brewing.”
    “Pleased to meet you,” said Petrie.
    “Last but not least, Roger Hall. A working stiff, much like yourself.” Henderson paused. “Bank of New South Wales.”
    The banker coughed out a polite laugh.
    “Gents,” said Walsh, taking a seat. He nodded towards a young man in a navy blue suit, one arm resting on the mantelpiece. “And who’s the sharp-looking fella holding up the fireplace?” he said. “The butler?”
    “That’s Olivier,” said Henderson. “He’s with the Prime Minister’s Department. Reason I asked you to join us. He addressed a small gathering last night regarding the present trouble on the waterfront. He was decent enough to delay his return to Wellington to talk to us here today.”
    “The trouble on the waterfront,” said Walsh. “That’s a grave topic. Is there whisky in the room?”
    “You know, I think there is,” said Henderson, looking at his wristwatch. “Keith?”
    Petrie got a decanter and glasses from a cabinet.
    “Right-o,” said Henderson. “This is an informal meeting, no minutes, myself as chairman. Any objections?” There were none. “Carried. Now, I hardly need to tell you chaps that we have a very dangerous situation brewing on the wharves. Tons of goods piling up, mutton and butter and God knows what else, food for Britain—”
    “Poor beggars,” said Hoar.
    “—and Jock Barnes and his cobbers threatening to shut down the whole show.” Henderson glared. “Over my dead body.”
    “Hear, hear,” said Marsh.
    “Which is the ideal point to hand the floor to Olivier.” Henderson leaned back in his seat. “Over to you, son.”
    Olivier straightened up and walked over to the map, buttoning his suit coat. Here he was, in the sanctum sanctorum, the library of the Northern Club, with the fabled Kelly Gang itself. A good performance in front of these fellows, a word from them in the right ear? My God, the possibilities. He wondered what his old Collegiate Housemaster would say if he could see him. Not such a ding-dong after all, eh, sir?
    He placed his briefcase by the table, squared his glasses, picked up a wooden pointer, turned to the map, and tapped China.

CHAPTER SIX
    “Gentlemen,” said Olivier. “Last week I had the honour of attending a meeting in Wellington at which President Truman’s personal representative, Mr John Foster Dulles, addressed the Cabinet on matters concerning the conflict in Korea and its links to the spread of Communism in the Free World.”
    He paused, and gave his audience what he hoped was a charming and self-deprecating smile. “Sitting quietly at