Текст книги "The Prodigal Spy"

Автор книги: Joseph Kanon

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“It is about them.”

“You know what I mean. They take it all personally.”

“They should.”

She glanced up at him, stubbing out the cigarette. “Oh, I can’t talk to you. Do you think you’re the only one against the war? Everybody’s against the war.”

“Not everybody.”

“Well, Larry’s trying to do something about it.” She softened. “Look, I’m not trying to tell you what to do. As if I ever could. But–well, Larry’s who he is. He’s public. And that makes you public too. They’ll use you to embarrass him.”

“Mother, nobody even knows who I am. There were thousands of people there today. Thousands.”

“But only one of them has a father going to the peace talks.”

He stopped, amused in spite of himself at the end run. “Well, I can’t argue with you there.”

She blushed, taking the salute, then said, “Oh, let’s not argue at all. I can’t bear it. Nobody talks about anything else anymore. I haven’t come all this way to argue about Vietnam.” She stopped, catching herself in the glint in Nick’s eyes, almost laughing. “Oh. Actually, I have, haven’t I? Well, Larry has. No wonder he doesn’t want me to stay. I suppose I cramp his style or something. Anyway, I just came to see you.”

“Between fittings.” He grinned.

She smiled back and came over to him. “Nick, I am on your side, you know. How do you think I felt when you went there? If anything had happened—”

“It didn’t. I was transferred out of the field, remember?” he said, a trial balloon, because he had always suspected Larry had arranged it. But if so, he could see from her expression that Larry had kept it a secret from her too.

“What difference did that make? You don’t stop worrying just because– Anyway, never mind. You’re here.”

“And now it might happen to somebody else. Lots of them.”

She took his point but ignored it, following her own thought. “I’ve never been so scared in my life. I never understood it. Everybody else got a deferment. Why didn’t you? If you feel the way you do?”

“I didn’t know I felt it then.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Something else. Proving yourself, I suppose. Men. And we’re the ones who end up worrying.”

Nick looked away, seeing himself for a minute as he had been, the blind desperation to be thought loyal, beyond reproach. Like everyone else. His friends, who were safe, without a past, could afford to be different. So he’d gone, not fighting for his country, just asking for its good opinion. Not that that was any excuse. He turned back. “You know why.”

Her eyes widened, as if they had felt the crack that opened up in her, and for a moment he thought the crack would widen, that at least she could admit this. But the lacquer worked; she came back together, sealed up. He saw that he had frightened her and he retreated, literally taking a step back.

She looked at him for a moment but didn’t answer, and then began her own retreat, walking back over to the coffee table.

“Would you do something for me? Could we just not talk about any of this at lunch? I don’t think I’m up to it. I really don’t.”

Nick spread his hands. “No politics. No religion.”

“Oh God, that reminds me. Did I tell you? Father Tim had a heart attack. You might send him a note.”

“Serious?”

“Well, he thought it was indigestion,” Larry said, coming out of the bedroom, smoothing his tie.

Nick laughed.

“You’re both terrible,” his mother said indulgently. “I don’t know why you’re so mean about him,” she said to Nick. “He’s very fond of you.”

“He means well,” Nick said, tongue-in-cheek.

“Well, he does. Anyway, at his age anything’s serious. It would be sweet if you did write.”

“I thought you were the same age,” Nick said.

“Not quite,” his mother said. But her eyes were happy again, enjoying herself.

“What gets me,” Larry said, “is how anybody dares to confess anything to him. Man’s the biggest gossip I’ve ever met.”

“That’s because you’re not a Catholic. You don’t confess to a man–a priest is someone else then. Tim takes that sort of thing very seriously, you know, whatever you might think.”

“Come on,” Larry said. “I’m starving. You two solve all the problems of the world while I was in there?”

“We left a few for you,” Nick said.

“You go ahead,” his mother said. “I just want to fix my face.”

“Should we start without you?” Larry said, implying the usual long wait.

“Don’t be fresh. Five minutes. Not everybody slept all the way over. I need a little armor.”

“Don’t do any damage.”

“Go on. Off,” his mother said, shooing them out the door.

They passed up the elevator for the thick-carpeted stairs, Nick quickening his step to keep up.

“So how are things, Nick?” Larry said, putting a hand on his shoulder as they walked. “Do you like it here?”

“It beats law school.”

Larry stopped. “You can always go back and finish, you know,” he said seriously.

“Larry—”

Larry held up his hand. “Withdrawn,” he said, smiling, and started down the hall again. “But what are you actually doing? Except having a good time. You are, I hope. When I was your age– You seeing anybody?”

Nick shook his head. “You know, a girl tried to pick me up this morning. At least I think she did.”

Larry grinned. “If you don’t know, then it’s time to get out of the library.”

“I guess,” Nick said, returning the grin. “It suits me, though. For now,” he added, wondering if it did, if the long afternoons in the stacks were anything more than an academic time-out.

“Well, it’s your life. Sounds a little quiet to me. What do you do all day?” Larry said, his voice filled with telephones and secretaries and agendas.

Nick smiled to himself. “At the moment I’m doing some research for Aaron Wiseman.”

“So he said.” Then, catching Nick’s look, he smiled. “I ran into him when he was in the States last month.”

“Checking up?”

“Just a little. Old habits.” He brushed it aside. “What exactly are you writing?”

“He’s writing. I look things up. He says history’s like a criminal investigation. The documents are the clues.”

“And you’re the detective?”

Nick heard it, the tiny edge under the geniality. Instinctively he glanced over, but Larry was nodding to the bellman at the bottom of the stairs, ignoring him.

“So the students do the spade work,” Larry said easily. “The old fox. No wonder he keeps churning them out.” They turned into the long corridor of the lobby. “What’s this one? Something about HUAC, I gather.”

“He didn’t tell you more?” Nick said, amused at Larry’s cat-and-mouse. “One old fox to another?”

“You tell me.”

“Jacobinism,” Nick said flatly. “How the patterns never change. HUAC, the other committees. He’s got me on SISS, the Senate committee.”

“Mr McCarthy,” Larry said after a pause, as if he’d been trying to place the reference. “You know, he never really cared one way or the other,” he said, his voice oddly reminiscent.

“He did a lot of damage for not caring.”

“He didn’t, though. I think he was surprised anybody took it seriously.” They had passed the Palm Court, with its swirl of angels and gilded moldings, when Larry stopped and turned to him. “Do you think this is a good idea, Nick?” he said, still trying to be casual, but Nick was alert now.

“You don’t.”

“I’m not sure what it means to you, that’s all,” Larry said softly. In his voice Nick heard the old protection, transferring him back from the field again.

“It’s a research assignment, Larry, that’s all. There are four of us. Nothing personal,” he said. He smiled at Larry. “It’s okay.”

Larry looked at him, but apparently decided not to press the point. “Well, you know your own mind. I just don’t want you picking at scabs.” He hesitated. “Don’t mention this to your mother.” Nick nodded, wondering for a second if that had been his real point all along.

“You know, when you live through it—” Larry said suddenly, talking to himself. “Wiseman never knew them. Drunks. Opportunists. Little men who wanted to be somebody -that’s all it ever was.” He paused. “They’re not worth your time, Nick. Anyway, they’re gone.”

“Not all of them,” Nick said, looking straight at him. “Your new boss is still there.”

Larry held his eyes for a minute, then turned toward the dining room. “Let’s go in.”

The maitre d‘ recognized Larry and took them across the pink room to a table near the tall windows facing Green Park. The day was still gray and dreary, but overhead, clouds floated across the painted ceiling sky. Gold ran along the walls and hung in long swags between the bright chandeliers, giving the room the summer luster of a giant jewel box. As they opened their napkins, waiters swarmed around them, removing cover plates, dishing out butter, taking drink orders, so that finally, when they were gone, Nick smiled at the sudden peace.

“Imagine what it’s like at dinner,” he said, apologizing by moving on.

But Larry refused to be distracted. “I didn’t elect him.”

“It’s none of my business.”

“Yes, it is. I don’t want you protesting me too. You think–well, what do you think?”

“I don’t see how you can do it,” Nick said simply. “Nixon. Of all people.”

“Yes. Of all people,” Larry said slowly, looking down at the table. “Leader of the Free World. One of history’s little jokes.” He paused as the waiter filled their wineglasses, then looked up at Nick and said quietly, “He isn’t Welles, you know.”

“Was he any better?”

“Times change, Nick,” he said gently.

“You think he’s changed?”

“Dick? No. He doesn’t have an idea in his head. Never did.” He took a sip of wine. “He had instincts, though. I guess that was all he needed.”

“And now his instincts are telling him to end the war.”

“No, the polls tell him that. He just doesn’t know how.”

“So you’re going to help him.”

“I’m going to help him.” Larry nodded. “My gray hair. My years of experience,” he said sarcastically. “You can read about it in the papers. I’m going to give him—” He searched. “Credibility. Self-preservation’s a powerful instinct. You can work with somebody who’s got that. They’ll do anything, if you find them an out.”

“No matter what they said yesterday.”

“They don’t remember yesterday. They’re not stuck in the past.”

Nick took the point and looked away. “What if you’re kidding yourself?”

“Well, what if? I don’t think we can wait another four years to find out. This thing–riots, for Christ’s sake. It’s like watching somebody having convulsions. Sometimes it feels like another country to me.” His voice was almost wistful, and Nick saw suddenly that he was older, propped up by the straight shoulders of his tailored suit. “You wonder where the other one went.” Larry looked up. “Nothing’s been happening in Paris, you know. Nothing. They argue about where to sit.”

“And you’re going to change that.”

Larry said nothing, then leaned forward, a gesture at once earnest and conspiratorial. “We have to save face, Nick. We can’t get out of this otherwise. Does it really matter if it’s Nixon’s face that’s being saved?”

Nick looked away. “Why tell me, Larry? What difference does it make?”

Larry kept his eyes fixed on him. “When you lie down with dogs, you pick up a few fleas. Maybe I want you to know why I’m doing it before they start to bite. You’re my son, Nick,” he said, the words drawing Nick back. “I don’t want to be one of your bad guys.”

Nick looked at him, touched and disoriented, as if someone had tried to embrace him in this public, overdressed room. “I’d never think that,” he said.

Larry leaned back in his seat, drawing away. “I know what he is. I’m not buying a car from him. I just want him to make the peace. You don’t have to be honorable to do that. Not even a little. Not to make a deal.”

“You just need a good lawyer.”

Larry nodded, with a faint smile. “You just need a good lawyer.”

“Who knows his way around. God, how you love all this, Larry,” he said, then stopped, suddenly hearing another voice, back at the study door.

But Larry had heard only his. “That’s how it gets done, Nick. Nothing ever got decided in the streets.” He paused, letting the ball hit its court, then shifted in his chair. “Anyway, I didn’t bring you down here to argue about Nixon. I wanted to talk to you before your mother comes down. She hates this sort of thing–she thinks we’re all immortal. Of course, she may be,” he said, smiling.

“What do you mean, immortal? Is something wrong?”

“No, no, nothing like that. I’m in the pink. Twenty pounds too pink, according to my doctor, but what does he know?”

He caught Nick’s look. “I’m fine, Nick. It’s not that.” He motioned to the waiter to refill his wineglass. “But I’m not getting any younger either, so we have to think about these things.”

“What things?”

“Money.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out his wallet. Then, seeing Nick’s face, he laughed. “No, I’m not trying to give you a fiver. Here.” He handed Nick a card. “There are some papers you need to sign. Needles is sending them to that address–it’s the firm they use over here. They may already be here, for all I know. Anyway, give a call and they’ll set up a time, okay? It’s not very complicated, but they can walk you through them. Of course, you can still draw on the trust, but this will be yours outright.”

“Larry, what is all this? I don’t need any money.”

“It’ll all be yours one day, Nick. Unless your mother runs through it first. Which she’s capable of doing,” he said, a verbal wink. “Anyway, it’s taxes. Needles says if I don’t start signing some of it over now, the Government will get it later. I’ve given Uncle Sam the best years of my life. I don’t have to give him all my money too. So why wait?”

Nick looked at the card, too surprised to respond. Larry’s heir. He ran his finger along the edge. It was just a card, a harmless token of this easy generosity, yet he felt that merely putting it in his pocket would mark a turning, make what had been provisional something permanent, a formal acceptance.

“You don’t have to give me anything, Larry,” he said quietly. “I never expected—”

Who else?“

“What about your family?”

“Who? My sister? I wouldn’t give Phyllis the time of day. Besides, she’s got her own money.” He leaned forward again.

“Nick, you’re my family. Legally you’re my son. I’m not likely to have another one.” He covered Nick’s hand with his own. “Anyway, I’m happy with the one I’ve got.”

Nick looked up from the card. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Well, ‘thank you’ is always appropriate.”

Nick nodded slowly. “Thank you,” he said, then pocketed the card, feeling a lightheaded letting-go. He took in the jewel-case room and grinned. “Does this mean I’m rich?”

“Comfortable. You don’t have to vote Republican yet.”

Nick smiled. “No strings?”

“No strings. Of course, you have to take care of it if you want to keep it. There’s always that string. But talk to Needles when you get back. He never loses a dime.”

“Am I coming home?”

“When you do,” Larry said, maneuvering. “You don’t want to stay away too long.”

“What’s wrong with London?” Nick said lightly. “I’m having a great time. Girls try to pick me up in the street. People take me to lunch and give me money. I’d be crazy to leave.”

“Just don’t let Wiseman talk you into another year. You’re not getting any younger either.”

“And now I have–responsibilities,” Nick said, toying with it. “All those money strings reeling me back in. Was that the idea?” He smiled. “You’re an operator, Larry, I have to hand it to you.”

“You haven’t got it yet,” Larry said, playing along. “It has the opposite effect on most people. Maybe you’ll go wild instead.”

“No. You know me. I was Eagle Scout, remember? Look,” he said, leaning forward. “I know what you’re worrying about. I haven’t gone AWOL. This is‘–he waved his hand–’I don’t know. R and R, I guess. I’ll finish the degree. Then after, I’ll go home and put on a suit and everything’ll work out just the way you want it to. You don’t have to buy my way back.”

Larry looked at him and smiled. “Then there’s nothing more I could ask,” he said, and for an instant Nick thought he would actually reach over and shake hands.

“You’ll think of something,” Nick said, teasing.

“Well, don’t tell the ambassador where you were this morning. Ah, here’s your mother.” He glanced toward the entrance. Two maitre d’s were leading her across the room, a liner guided by tugboats, and Nick watched, amused, as heads bobbed up in the wake.

“They’ll take you at two-thirty,” she said, touching the back of Nick’s neck as she took her seat. “Downstairs. Evangeline’s thrilled you’re coming.”

“I’ll bet.”

“Well, she is. You know how she loves a party. Sad, really, their having to leave. She’ll miss all this,” she said, waving her hand, as if the room were an extension of the ambassador’s residence. “Have you ordered? They’ve got five hundred coming for drinks, if you can believe it. Sort of a last hurrah, I suppose. I wonder who they’ll send.”

“They’re talking about Annenberg,” Larry said.

“Who?” Nick’s mother said, reaching for the menu.

“TV Guide,” Larry said, smiling. “Campaign contributor. Generous.”

“It’s too bad,” his mother said. “They love David here. Which Annenberg? Philadelphia?”

Larry nodded. “Remember Moses? Nailed before your time,” he said to Nick, “for income tax evasion. Eight million penalty–in 1940 dollars. Makes you wonder what he really did. Now the son’s on his way to the Court of St James’s.” He shook his head. “It’s a wonderful country. Nobody remembers anything.”

And for a moment, in the pink Watteau room, it seemed nobody did. Water over the dam, the merciful absolution of time. Larry, grinning and casual, was on his way to Paris, and Nick’s mother, studying the menu, hadn’t heard a thing.

“Maybe he’ll be better than you think,” Nick said.

“I’ll tell you one thing,” his mother said. “The parties will never be the same. Never.”

Chapter 4

THE CARS WERE backed up to the gate at Winfield House, so Nick paid off the taxi and walked the length of the driveway. Behind the hundred lighted windows Regent’s Park stretched for miles, as dark as the night sky, so that the party seemed at first like a country-house ball, with Marine guards instead of livery men and Daimlers and Bentleys rolling up like coaches. Nick had come late to avoid the crush, but there was still a line on the steps, another for the coats, then a final clot at the entrance to the big room where the Bruces were receiving the guests. Nick worked his way around the edge, sure that the Bruces wouldn’t recognize him anyway, and grabbed a glass from a passing tray. The room was pretty, but so crowded that the walls and furniture receded into a flat backdrop, blocked out by all the people onstage. There was a room beyond, and presumably another beyond that, bright and noisy, and waiters moved between them, their plates of canapés emptying and reappearing with the magic of the loaves and the fishes. Nick passed one of the makeshift bars covered with flutes of champagne and kept moving. There was nothing as anonymous as a big party, so long as you pretended you were on your way to something and didn’t stand against the wall.

The crowd was hard to read, a hodgepodge of English and American voices, and Nick guessed that it was a general payback party–embassy workers, F.O. civil servants, transatlantic businessmen. They talked shop and the weather, polite and innocuous. Somebody’s new posting. A skiing holiday. No one mentioned the demonstration. In the next room he spied Davey, the journalist who’d tried to interview Redgrave, but he had moved on too; his hair was slicked back now, part of the pinstriped crowd. Nick wondered if he was working, finding an item for tomorrow’s chat columns, or just enjoying a perk. He was staring over his wineglass, his eyes fixed, and Nick followed the gaze to see what had caught his attention.

She was standing at the edge of a small group, her back to Davey, wrapped in a sleeveless red dress whose skirt, hugging her, ended somewhere on her upper thighs. When the man behind her moved, the full length of her legs sprang into view, a jolt of flesh in the crowded room, and Nick’s eyes followed them down to her high heels. He glanced back at Davey, who had tilted his head for a better view, and grinned in spite of himself. Only a crowd this polite or self-absorbed would miss the only thing worth noticing. Davey, all bad manners and frank appraisal, had her to himself. Nick watched, fascinated, to see if he would make his move. But the wonderful legs seemed wasted on him too -he took another drink, then looked away, back on the job.

Nick walked over to her. It was an outrageous dress for a reception, about six inches short of propriety, a Chelsea skirt. She was probably one of the English secretaries at the embassy, who had dressed for a real party and ended up here instead. Her hair was piled on top of her head, swept up tightly in her one concession to formality, but a few strands dangled to the side like loose promises. When she turned toward him, he stopped. He saw the freckles across the bridge of her nose, then the eyes, as surprised as his.

“Flaxman, double-oh two nine,” he said, smiling.

“What are you doing here?” she said, too surprised to stop the question.

He laughed. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, I was brought,” she said, waving her hand and the small silver purse that hung from her wrist. “But really, what are you doing here?”

“I was brought too. Don’t worry, I’m not following you,” he said, stepping closer.

“You look different,” she said, nodding at his suit.

“So do you. I like your dress.”

She blushed. “I didn’t know. I’ve never been to an open house before. I thought—” She stopped. “It’s not just the suit, it’s the hair. You cut your hair.”

He shrugged. “Part of the dress code. It’ll grow back. Who brought you?”

“What? Oh, nobody. I mean–God, that sounds terrible. A friend of mine at the Observer. He thought I’d like to see the other half.”

“Well, here they are. You’re a journalist?”

“Just freelance. I had some stuff in Rolling Stone last year, though. A few other places.”

“Is that what you were doing this morning?”

“No, that was me.”

“You know, I’ve been wondering all day–what happened there? Did we just meet or what?”

She smiled. “They said at your flat that you were there. I was going anyway, so—”

“But—”

“Look, it’s no big mystery. Somebody told me to look you up and I thought I’d check it out first, that’s all.”

“And?”

“I’m still checking.”

He held her eyes for a moment. “Come to any decision yet?”

“About what?”

“About whether we’re going to go out.”

“Is that what goes on at these parties?”

“If you wear a dress like that.”

She looked away. “Look, let me ex—”

“Nick, there you are,” Larry said, coming up to them. “Having a good time?”

“Hi, Larry. Larry, Molly Chisholm,” he said, “an old friend. My father, Larry Warren.”

She looked rattled, either at the introduction or at Larry’s appreciative look, but managed to shake hands.

“I told you you’d find someone you knew,” Larry said to Nick, still looking at her. “It’s a Bruce specialty. I don’t suppose you’ve seen your mother anywhere?”

Nick shook his head.

“Then she’s probably looking for me. I’ll see you later. Nice to meet you,” he said to Molly, nodding. “You’re joining us later, I hope?”

“That’s just what we were talking about,” Nick said.

“Good, good. I look forward,” Larry said, moving off.

“You will, won’t you?” Nick said, but she was watching Larry slipping into another group, his hand already on someone’s shoulder.

“You remembered my name,” she said, turning back to him.

“Seems only fair. You already knew mine. How did you, by the way?”

“I told you, a friend—” She stopped, putting something together. “You’re that Warren? I didn’t know.”

Nick smiled. “That Warren. He’s my father. Come and have dinner anyway. You can see what it’s like in the enemy camp.”

“I had no idea,” she said, suddenly nervous. “God, this is all mixed up. I never expected—”

“They’re friends of the Bruces‘. That’s why we’re here. You all right?”

“It just threw me for a loop, that’s all. You throw me for a loop.” She glanced around her, as if looking for an escape hatch.

“Is that good?”

She looked back and then laughed. “I guess so. I’m not making any sense, am I? Oh, this place,” she said, then looked up at him with a grin. “Hey.”

“What?”

“Want to do a joint?”

“Here?” he said.

“The Beatles did one at Buckingham Palace.”

“Are you serious?” he said, intrigued by the daring, as if she’d proposed having sex.

“Come on, we can go out there,” she said, gesturing toward the French windows.

“You’ll freeze.”

“Come on.”

He followed her out onto the shallow terrace, avoiding the look of a waiter who clearly thought they were ducking out to make love. At one end of the terrace two men smoking cigars near a giant potted plant looked up, then turned away discreetly. She fished an already rolled joint from her silver bag and handed him the box of matches. When he struck a match, her face glowed in the tiny flare.

“Light a cigarette just in case,” she said, drawing in deeply. “No one will know the difference.”

The sweet, pungent smoke, a smell of Vietnam, hung in the damp air.

“You like taking chances,” he said.

“It’s not much of a chance. I don’t think anybody in there even knows what it is.” She took another drag. “That’s nice. Clears the head.”

“Sometimes,” he said, exchanging the cigarette for the joint and drawing on it.

“Who are these people anyway? This man I was talking to–agricultural development in the Third World. What does that mean?”

“It means he’s a spook.”

“Really?”

“Guaranteed,” he said, smiling again. “The room’s full of them.”

“Can you always tell?”

“Agricultural development, for sure. Otherwise you have to look for signs. Journalist is usually pretty good.”

“Oh, really,” she said, playing. “You think I’m one?”

“Are you?”

She took the joint back. “We’re not supposed to tell. What made you suspect?”

“You keep popping up in unlikely places,” he said, spreading his hand toward the house.

“You know, I really didn’t expect to see you here. I don’t believe it now. I never thought–it’s funny, isn’t it?”

“What? You being here or my being here?”

“You. Maybe you’re the spook.” She glanced up at him quickly. “No.”

“You sure?”

“I’d recognize you, wouldn’t I? Here,” she said, handing him the joint, “finish it. I’m on duty.” She laughed to herself. “I interviewed a Hell’s Angel once. I asked him how they picked an Angel and he said, ”We don’t pick ‘em, we recognize ’em.“ So I guess I’d know.”

Nick smiled, feeling a buzz. “Where was this?”

“California. A while ago.”

“The summer of love,” Nick said idly.

“Well, it was for the guys.”

Nick flicked the roach out into the night and lit a cigarette, leaning against the building. The tall shrubs had taken on some definition in the misty air. In a few months it would be light all evening, England wide awake in the late northern light.

“What brought you over here?” he said.

“I don’t know. Last year, after the assassinations, I just thought, enough, you know? I mean, all you could do was watch the news. So I thought, well, Europe. I had a friend in Paris, and of course just as I get there they start tearing up the streets, so it was all the same anyway. Les evenements,” she said wryly, her accent deliberately broad. “So I just kept going.”

She turned so that her face came into the light from the windows. Nick watched her, unaware that he was staring until she raised her eyebrows. Then she reached over and took his cigarette. “Let me have one of these,” she said, putting it in her mouth with a casual intimacy. “What?”

“You’re a quicksilver girl,” Nick said, still watching her.

“Steve Miller Band,” she said, placing the phrase. “I actually met a guy in that band.” She handed back the cigarette, touching his fingers. “Like a chameleon, you mean.”

“No, like quicksilver. Whenever I look, you go somewhere else.”

She met his gaze and then, as if to demonstrate his point, looked away and leaned back against a potted plant. “Well, I’m here now. Where is here, anyway? I thought this would be at the embassy. Like this morning.”

“It’s the residence. Used to belong to Barbara Mutton.”

“Who?”

Nick smiled. Maybe Larry was right–nobody remembered anything. “Woolworth heiress. She was married to Gary Grant. This used to be her house.”

She looked up and down the terrace, then back through the windows at the party, a realtor’s gaze. “Do you think he used to come out here to smoke too?”

“I don’t think they were here together. Later. Maybe she bought it to get over him.”

“Instead of a good cry,” she said, looking at the house again. “What’s it like to be that rich?” Then she glanced back at him. “Are you rich? I mean, Warren—”

“No. It’s his money, not mine.” He nodded at the house. “Nobody’s this rich anymore.”

“Who owns it now?”

“You do. Taxpayers.”

“So that’s where it goes.” She giggled. “Makes me feel better about crashing.”

“Come to dinner. You paid for that too.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.”

She looked at him, not saying anything, reading his face.

“Who’s the friend?” Nick said.

“It’s not that. I just can’t.” She paused. “Maybe I can join you later,” she said, a polite dodge. “Where is it?”

“Here.”

“Here?”

“Hmm. As soon as the taxpayers clear out.”

She laughed. “You’re crazy. I can’t do that. What would they think?”

“The Braces? They’re used to it. All she has to do is rearrange the plates. It’s her idea of a good time.”

“Just like that.”

Nick nodded. “If I ask her. I thought you wanted to see the other half.”

“Not that close up. Look, it’s nice of you—”

“Stay,” Nick said, putting his hand on her arm. “I’d like you to.”

She looked down at the hand, then smiled. “Don’t you think it’s a little soon for a family dinner?”

“I may not keep running into you. Maybe I won’t get another chance.”

“You could call.”

“And then what?”

She grinned. “I guess you’d ask me to dinner.”

He spread his hands, palms up, resting a case.

“God, what am I going to tell Brian?”

“Tell him you have an interview with the ambassador.”

“Why am I doing this?” she said, laughing to herself. Then she looked up at him. “You’re not what I expected,” she said.

“What did you expect?”

But she let it go, making a joke of it. “I don’t know. Somebody in agricultural development, I guess. I better find Brian.” She held herself by the arms. “It’s cold. No wonder Barbara what’s-her-name sold it. You’re sure?” She said, looking up again.