Cass and Toby and I parked the fast-food-smelling little Honda in long-term parking at Heathrow and fumbled our bags into the terminal through the muggy summer evening. We didn’t even make it to the self check-in kiosk: Sy’s security guy, Dave, stood there in his solid, expressionless professional stance, waiting for us.

“Mr. Dage is in the private lounge,” said Dave, without introduction. “He’s asked that you join him. I will take care of your tickets and check ...