MICHAEL Lowry was incommunicado in a closed session of a European Telecommunications Ministers meeting in Brussels when the list of Sam Smyth's alarming questions was eventually handed to him on Thursday afternoon.
Given the potentially explosive implications of the queries, officials close to the Minister later wondered at the way he kept his head.
"His ministerial life had begun to drain away in front of his eyes but he pushed ahead with the agenda. He was under phenomenal pressure but he kept trying to hammer out a deal on postal liberalisation and he got an agreement on the Internet asking service providers to ensure that paedophile filth isn't pedalled on the web", said one source afterwards.
Meanwhile, over his home close to the picturesque village of Holycross, Co Tipperary, a helicopter was swooping low. Michael Lowry's wife, Catherine, was indoors and becoming increasingly distressed at the deafening whirring. She did not know what was happening.
Next day, aerial pictures of the impressive homestead in the Evening Herald seemed to confirm who was behind the mystery flight.
But, neither Mr Lowry, his family nor officials needed to read the story in print on Friday morning to know that he was about to face the deepest political crisis of his career. He had just entered his last 48 hours as a Government Minister.
There were no signals of the troubles ahead when he left Baldonnel for Brussels on board the Government jet on Wednesday afternoon.
Mr Lowry had asked a number of Tipperary based journalists to the EU headquarters, and had paid for the trip himself since they were, according to the invitation, his "personal guests".
The remainder of Wednesday afternoon passed in a series of preCouncil meetings about telecommunications issues. That night he went to Kitty O'Shea's pub to meet the Tipperary journalists, Ann O'Grady, Colm Kinsella and John Keating. Mr Lowry drank a couple of beers and retired for the night.
So far, so uneventful. He got up at about 7.30 am. on Thursday and had further meetings before the Council that he chaired finally sat. The Council meeting was closed so that, when the Minister's officials later tried to gain access to him with vital news of the breaking story, they were ushered away.
At 11 a.m., over in the European Parliament Building, his press adviser, Richard Moore, took a call on his mobile phone from the Department of Transport, Energy and Communications in Dublin, saying that Sam Smyth had been asking questions about an extension on the Minister's house in Holycross and who paid for it.
One source said later that Mr Moore greeted the queries with total puzzlement.
"It was a bolt from the blue," the source added.
An official in the Department wrote down the questions and faxed them to the Ireland Permanent Delegation rooms in Brussels.
It was now a question of getting them into the Minister who was sequestered in the lengthy Council deliberations. Mr Moore then briefed Pat O'Connor, the Minister's Private Secretary who had come to the Belgian capital with the party. He impressed on her the potential enormity of what was unfolding.
The questions to the Minister were simple, even if the answers might be complex. Who paid the £207,819 bill for the restoration and extension of his home in Holycross, Co Tipperary? Could the Minister say if "Dunnes Stores" was the answer. Did it constitute a gift or was it a payment in kind for services provided to Dunnes Stores by the family refrigeration firm, Streamline Enterprises Ltd?
Still the Minister had no inkling of the impending disaster. Mark Kenneally, a special adviser to Mr Lowry, then took a call on his mobile phone. A person was ringing from Ireland to tell him that there was a helicopter hovering over the Minister's house in Holycross and that Mrs Lowry was extremely distraught. Gardai in Thurles were also alerted about the unidentified helicopter.
A cold hand began to tighten around the collective heart of the Minister's entourage. Link together the journalist's questions and news of a helicopter at Mr Lowry's home and what do you get? A strange feeling that something pretty serious is afoot.
Eventually, the fateful questions reached the Minister through one of his officials. He read them but remained in the chair. Mr Moore, who had by now got in touch with Mr Smyth in Dublin, could not, however, get to talk to the Minister until the meeting concluded.
It was 7.30 pm. by the time Michael Lowry emerged from Thursday's meeting. He looked tired but was not in the state one might expect in such circumstances.
Someone suggested that he forget about the normal post meeting press conference and go at once to Zaventem airport to fly home but he stayed dead, cool.
"I've come here to do a job. I have a role to play and I'm not leaving now: I'll chair the press conference," he added.
A few Irish journalists asked questions nothing at all was raised about his house or who paid for what. Mr Lowry finished the press conference, did a radio interview and told Mr Moore to look after the three visiting Tipperary reporters.
He was driven to the airport, boarded the Government jet, headed for home and the flames of political controversy that were about to engulf him.
On arriving in Dublin, he rang the Tanaiste, Mr Spring and the leader of Democratic Left, Mr De Rossa to inform them of the newspaper report that would soon be in print. He would be able to deal with it, he had done nothing improper. He did not speak to the Taoiseach, Mr Bruton, who was engaged in Northern issues.
Members of his official party who remained behind in Brussels took a call from Dublin at 2 a.m.
The Irish Independent was on the streets and things looked bad for their boss.
"One minute Richard Moore and Mark Kenneally were enjoying a quiet pint in the pub. The next minute the phone rang and they shot out of the premises without even a goodbye. Those left behind had not a notion what was going on," one source who was present in the bar explained.
Meanwhile, back in Dublin, the Minister's phone was hopping. He had the paper by now and was talking to his advisers. Sleep was the last thing on his mind.
Later in the day, Mr Lowry went into a lengthy session with his financial and legal advisers. He remained with them most of the day, going through a mountain of paperwork relating to his refrigeration business.
The State was reading and rereading what amounted to his political death notice and an explanation was awaited. Silence would be interpreted as guilt; he would have to speak sooner rather than later.
His personal situation was complicated by the death in Tipperary of his godmother and he would have to attend the removal that evening in Drumbane church a few miles from his home in Tipperary.
Sam Smyth went on radio to discuss the sensational story with Pat Kenny and the day dragged on without any word from the Minister. When the Taoiseach was inevitably "door stepped" by journalists, he suggested a basis existed for differentiating between Mr Lowry the Minister and Mr Lowry the backbench TD in the way he did business.
RTE's Charlie Bird was calling for an interview with the Minister. Darkness was falling and Mr Lowry would soon have to leave for the funeral. It was decided that he should do the RTE interview in the car park of the Green Isle Hotel, in Clondalkin, en route to Tipperary.
It was freezing cold; the Minister was playing for time; he sounded defiant but looked hunted and edgy. He echoed what the Taoiseach had said but, crucially, he did not deny the contents of the Irish Independent story.
In Tipperary he helped to early: the coffin into the church at Drumbane. Reporters and photographers had earlier hurried to the little village to meet him and he agreed, after the ceremony, to say a few words. He looked tired now, and everyone around him knew that the net was closing. He went home to Holycross for a night with his family who were said to be extremely upset".
The next morning, Saturday, the priest at the obsequies told mourners that Mr Lowry could not be among them. He had left for Dublin and his Department. His new programme manager, Angela Edghill, barely seven weeks in the job, went to his offices, as did Mr Moore. The Taoiseach's special adviser, Sean Donlon came in; he and Mr Lowry talked awhile.
"It looked pretty bleak at that stage. We all knew he could not be saved. He was politically realistic enough to know himself. Maybe he felt earlier he could hang on but it was clear that was not possible now," one source said yesterday.
Over in Government Buildings, the Secretary to the Cabinet Frank Murray and the Attorney General, Dermot Gleeson, gathered to assess the crisis. Mr Donlon arrived, too, as did Greg Sparks, the Tanaiste's programme manager.
The Taoiseach was in touch by telephone and, at 4.30 p.m., he drove from his Dunboyne home into Dublin. Mr Lowry, meanwhile, got ready to leave his Department with Mr Kenneally; he arrived at Government Buildings at 5.30 pm., his thumbs up as if he had a snowball's chance in hell of surviving. All the protagonists were in place.
Inside, proceedings took on the air of a political wake as the contents of Mr Lowry's resignation statement were appraised. No reporters would be allowed witness the scene but photographers were permitted to capture the final moments of Michael Lowry's meteoric Ministry.
The Taoiseach embraced him in a highly charged show of emotion. "My friend," Mr Lowry said, "My best friend forever!"
All Michael Lowry's defiance flowed away and then it was time to march down the great staircase of Government Buildings. He recovered his composure and went to meet the press.
There was no vitality in the hastily pasted on smile. Then he was away, back to his Department to tidy up a few bits and pieces and to say farewell to officials who had gathered there.
Then, off through the night his final journey in the State car. Forty eight hours can be a lifetime in, politics.