The car pulled up outside the gates. A uniformed police officer carrying an automatic 9mm machine gun came to the driver's side of the car and the driver lowered the window.

‘Deputy-minister for the minister’ - the driver said to the police officer.

The uniformed police officer looked through the rear window at the deputy-minister, and then signaled to the guard station. The gates opened at his command and the car drove through.

The minister’s country house was set behind a four-meter wall that extended all the way around the property. The grounds were extensive. The approach to the minister’s house was a long gravel road lined with beech trees. It was autumn - and the beech trees were turning a rusty brown color.

As the car made its way up the approach road, the house became visible. A magnificent Georgian manor house appeared in the distance, and as the car drove closer the full size and scale of the house became apparent. The house had 21 bedrooms, and so many reception rooms, sitting rooms, drawing rooms, hallways, landings and staircases that it was almost impossible to count them all.

The car pulled up in front of the house, and the two gray looking men wearing bright red footman livery hurried down the front steps to meet their guest followed by several German wirehaired pointer dogs, who were all barking.

The first footman rushed to the rear door and then stood, and opened the door for the deputy-minister. The second footman stood opposite the first at attention.

The gray man who opened the door for the deputy-minister said - ‘Welcome deputy-minister, the minister is expecting you.’

The second gray man said - ‘If you will follow me, deputy-minister. We will have your things brought to your room.’

The deputy-minister said nothing and followed the second gray man.

They walked up the steps of the manor house, and the gray man held the door open for the deputy-minister. He followed the deputy-minister into the grand hallway, and said - ‘If you will follow me please - to the orangery, deputy-minister.’

The deputy-minister followed the gray man through the grand interior of the house. They came to a set of French doors at the rear of the house. The gray man opened the doors and stepped to one side and put out an arm to welcome the deputy-minister into the room.

The room was a vast greenhouse that stretched off of the main house and alongside what was once the barns. The greenhouse was full of old and ancient orange trees that had been trained and twisted over the years up the sides of the barn wall and had now grown overhead in a canopy of green leafs, orange blossom, and shiny orange fruits. The greenhouse was warm, and fragrant - smelling of sweet citrus.

‘The orangery, deputy-minister’ - the gray man said, leading the way again.

The gray man continued down the long greenhouse until he stopped by a man sitting in a wooden armchair. The man was reading a book. He had white hair, and was wearing a black Zhongshan suit. On his feet he had black, polished lace-up boots.

The man sitting down did not look up as the gray man and the deputy-minister approached.

‘The deputy-minister, minister’ - the gray man said.

The minister kept on reading, too absorbed to look up. The gray man turned and walked back through the greenhouse towards the main house. There was a table next to the minister, and next to the table was another wooden armchair. On the table was a glass ashtray, a packet of American cigarettes, a gold cigarette lighter, and a half finished glass of a clear liquid.

The deputy-minister stood and waited.

The minister continued to read - and then looked up and saw the deputy-minister and jumped with surprise - ‘Fucking hell comrade - how long have you been standing there? You scared the fucking shit out of me!’

‘Good afternoon to you as well, minister’ - the deputy-minister said, smiling.

‘Jesus fucking Christ comrade - you are like a ghost on the deck of the Marie Celeste creeping around’ - the minister stood and walked over to the deputy-minister and kissed her on the cheek.

‘Good book?’ - The deputy-minister asked.

‘Animal Farm, by George Orwell - have you read it?’ - The minister showed the cover to the deputy-minister and sat back down.

‘No - I haven’t’ - said the deputy-minister, taking a seat next to the minister.

‘It’s fucking great - listen to this’ - the minister flicked through the book until he found the page he was looking for - ‘Yes, here it is, listen to this, “All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others” - that’s fucking great. In the book - the pigs run the farm and they tell all the other animals that they are all equal, but the pigs think they are more equal than the other animals. Oink fucking oink hey!’

‘Quite’ - the deputy-minister said, pulling her cigar box from her pocket and lighting a thin cigar with the minister’s lighter.

‘The fucking cunts who used to own this house thought that they were more equal than all the others, comrade’ - the minister pulled a cigarette from his packet, and the deputy-minister lit it for him - ‘but after the revolution - during the war - we strung those fucking cunts up and did away with them all. Took a leaf out of the French’s book on how to deal with an infestation of royals. The cunt that lived here - some fucking Duke. Battenberg or something he was - we fucking had him. We fucking hung him, and his Lady, and his honorable cunt kids, and all the other fucking blue bloodied pig cunts.’

The minister smoked his cigarette, and sipped the clear liquid.

‘Jenever?’ - The minister said to the deputy-minister.

‘Is it cold?’ - The deputy-minister asked.

‘Yes’ - the minister said, and then he shouted - ‘HARRIS!’

A gray looking man wearing bright red footman livery appeared.

‘Yes minister’ - the man said, bowing.

‘Get the deputy-minister a glass and bring the Jenever bottle’ - the minister ordered.

‘Yes minister’ - the man bowed again, turned and walked back to the main house.

The minister smoked his cigarette - ‘How was the train up?’

‘Lovely minister - thank you so much’ - the deputy-minister puffed her cigar, and smiled at him.

‘Did they lay on the Dover sole with that fucking sauce - what’s it called?’

‘The butter sauce?’ - The deputy-minister said.

‘Yes, the butter sauce. Moon-nery sauce. Fucking lovely with those little French roast potatoes.’

The gray man had returned with a silver tray. On the tray were a brown stone bottle of Jenever and a glass. The gray man placed the glass in front of the deputy-minister and poured her a glass of the cold Jenever.

‘Minister?’ - The gray man called, holding the bottle.

‘One more small one’ - the minister said, holding his glass out for the gray man.

The gray man filled the minister’s glass, and then placed the bottle on the table between the minister and deputy-minister.

‘Cheers comrade’ - the minister said, holding his glass out.

‘Cheers minister’ - said the deputy-minister, clinking glasses with the minister.

They both sipped their Jenever - and puffed their cigar and cigarette.

‘So how is life on the 42nd comrade?’ - The minister asked.

‘Things are going well minister - operations and the secret service are working well together. They are running a joint operation - Camelot - to track down a Unit commander. I had a call from Number Two this morning - apparently they are closing in on their man - Codename Percival - and expect to be making an arrest shortly.’

‘Impressive comrade’ - the minister sipped his Jenever, and puffed his cigarette - ‘a Unit commander would be quite a fucking catch. The sort of catch that could lead to a big promotion, comrade.’

‘Thank you minister’ - the deputy-minister blushed.

‘Talking about promotions - what are we going to do about the Commander? That old war horse is in the home straight from what I understand. I spoke to his wife last week, and she says he is not long for Valhalla.’

‘I am sorry Minister’ - said the deputy-minister.

‘The Commander is a war hero. He fucking killed and fought for us to escape from under the heel of the monarchist cunts to be this glorious People’s Republic. He isn’t going to live forever - and we should think about who gets the big office’

‘I was thinking, minister, that we should maybe bring one of our people in - should the Commander pass, as we expect’ - the deputy-minister sipped her Jenever.

‘One of our people?’ - The minister leaned backwards, and crossed his legs.

‘Yes minister. The Superintendent was, after all, one of those monarchist cunts’ - the deputy-minister puffed her thin cigar.

‘True, comrade. Very true’ - the minister puffed his cigarette, and then stubbed it out - ‘Who did you have in mind, comrade?’

The deputy-minister puffed her thin cigar, and then took a sip of the Jenever - ‘The Superintendent over at the party affairs office, he is one of ours and he fought in the war. The party affairs Commander is still young, and this will be a chance for us to make sure we keep one of ours in the big office to keep an eye on the sailors.’

‘The party affairs Superintendent - interesting comrade. I like it.’

‘Thank you minister’ - the deputy-minister finished her Jenever and puffed on the thin cigar.

‘Okay comrade - when the Commander is called to the great hall at Valhalla to join his fallen comrades, you make all necessary arrangements for his replacement.’

‘Yes minister’ - the deputy-minister stubbed out her thin cigar.

‘Alright comrade, dinner at six in the great room. Don’t dress fancy’ - the minister stood up.

The deputy-minister stood as well - ‘Yes minister.’

‘Chef is cooking duck. I shot the fuckers last week. He is doing Peking duck with all the trimmings. Fucking lovely - and I have a few cracking bottles of French wine to wash the bastards down with.’

‘That is lovely, minister.’

The minister and the deputy-minister talked as they walked through the orangery back towards the main house.