Chapter One

We have just emerged from a twenty-minute session in the local Starbucks, Patrick, over two light grandes, telling me his woes. Now he considers the thickening crowd on the sidewalk before veering right, wiping the last muffin crumbs from his mouth with a handkerchief as I fall into step beside him.

"You know," he says, continuing his complaint as we walk, "it's unbelievable. This thing's been on the cards how long? Years. And here we are, the whole jamboree set to start - for chrissake, they'll be voting on it in two days - and still no one knows the numbers. Tell me, Sam. Really. What kind of cockass thing is that?"

This question, in variations, is one I have been listening to every day now for at least a month. So I incline my head but offer no comment, and as we push our way through the sightseers, Patrick goes on delivering his latest thoughts on the subject, the main matter of debate at Turtle Bay, in fact, for over a year: the elevation of the Japanese to a place at the top table of international diplomacy, a permanent UN Security Council seat. What Patrick refers to in private moments, in his inimitable Australian way, as the Nip Question.

"Every tinpot bozo lining up for his say, and the Japs still walking around like a buncha zombies, like it's in the bag, as if it'll all go through on a nod from Uncle Sam." He shakes his head, disconsolate. He swears.

And then, mercifully, he lapses into a thoughtful silence. He is not a tall man, and is in his late fifties, but as he barrels forward, the crowd parts around him like water around a stone