London, 10 Downing Street, the Prime Minister's office.
Sir Johnson almost dragged his feet as he entered the Prime Minister's office, looking somewhat exhausted.
Ever since returning from Bogota, he had been submerged in the disastrous news from Northern Ireland and the avalanche of parliamentary queries.
His eyes were sunken, his suit wrinkled, long gone was the composure he had at the negotiating table in Bogota.
The Prime Minister stood with his back to Johnson, gazing out at the gloomy London sky.
The atmosphere in the office was even more oppressive than the weather outside, with the desk piled high with the latest reports and casualty lists from the Northern Ireland attacks, each one weighing heavily.
No pleasantries, no formalities.
The Prime Minister, holding a cigarette, spoke the first sentence abruptly and plainly:
"Johnson, tell me the truth, do you think the Mexicans are behind this?"
