The Cuban cigar smoke around their two leather armchairs almost obscures the men in grey suits, quietly whispering all around them.
"More Hors d'age?"
Says Sir Fitz, prodding a crystal decanter at the red nose of Sir "Mick" as he is affectionately known by his employees to his face.
"Is the pope a Na-err-yes thankyou."
There is a loud crash from the cheap seats outside the inner sanctum.
A man is attempting to rise from a tangle of furniture but keeps falling on an elderly lady.
"Just that oik Cumnock again."
Says Sir Mick rummaging in a large briefcase.
Sir Fitz opens the humidor on the small table between them, and takes out a Montecristo.
Sir Mick takes a paper out of the the briefcase twists it and lights it in the fire.
"Only six thousand nine hundred and ninety nine to go."
He quips, lighting the cigar.
"I'm starving, do you fancy the spatchcock?"