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political hopes. He invariably turned conversation back to William, fascinated by how he had accrued his wealth.
    William had never known anyone to take such an interest in his career and enjoyed talking about his success. The first company he founded designed and developed computer chips, sold software programs, and designed and built computers. He had recently, partly out of boredom, begun manufacturing CD-ROMs, and had opened up a four-storey factory to develop computer games with experts brought in from Japan and the USA. He was selling on the Internet, and opening more factories to take over the European market. William had made his first million before he was twenty-eight.
    Maynard, however, even in the relaxed atmosphere, would never talk about his own life and William did not like to press him. In some ways, though, their relationship was moving closer, albeit at a mutual-admiration level. It was, however, a deeper friendship than he had ever shared with another man. Yet after five years, all William knew about Maynard was what every newspaper reporter knew: his age, where he was brought up, and that he had been to grammar school outside Leatherhead before winning a scholarship to Cambridge.
    At one dinner party hosted by a famous novelist and paid for by a glossy magazine, William defended Maynard when a gossip columnist, Meryl Delaware, spoke in a derogatory fashion about his lack of private life and his colourless background. ‘My dears, that young man is like one of those awful Russian dolls. You keep on opening it up and out pops another and another, and they are all as boring as each other!’
    At this point William leaned across the table and asked if perhaps she was confusing Maynard with herself: she appeared to have more in common with a rotund Russian doll than the intelligent young politician.
    She sat back and glared hard at him, her mascara-caked eyelashes like tiny spikes. He should perhaps have taken this as awarning: the tentacles of Meryl Delaware’s journalism crawled a considerable distance, and what might not do for her society magazine would perhaps find a place in a number of down-market newspapers. Now Meryl Delaware leaned closer to William. ‘Sweetie, you should be careful. Your protégé is very cagey about himself. Perhaps one of his layers will be peeled off to reveal a deep and nasty secret . . .’ William laughed dismissively, but later that evening Meryl Delaware sidled up to him: ‘I meant no offence, dahling. Perhaps the reason he’s so hush-hush about his private life is because he’s as flawed a human being as the rest of us.’
    William gave a stiff smile. ‘Speak for yourself, Miss Delaware.’
    ‘Oh, sweetie, don’t tell me you won’t admit to having flaws?’
    William shook his head. ‘I doubt my faults would be of any interest to anyone, especially your readers.’
    ‘You’d be surprised, Sir William . . .’ And with that she swanned off into a small throng of people.
    On his way out, William overheard someone say, ‘God help this country if people like that vulgar fool and his protégé can buy their way into the cabinet!’
    With clenched fists he walked out of Claridge’s into Brook Street and signalled for his chauffeur.

Chapter Two
    W illiam was always up and dressed by six, his chauffeur standing by to take him to his first appointment of the morning. Recently he had been planning a takeover of a German electronics company. It was part of a large corporation owned by Baron von Garten, whose steel empire had been in his family for generations. However, it had been hinted that they were selling off their smaller electronics bases. Three previous meetings had been cancelled so William had sent his private plane and an invitation to breakfast at the Connaught. He was determined to get his hands on the prime site, sniffing out, with his fine business acumen, that von Garten was in financial difficulties. He knew that once he had his foot in the door he could