“Okay.” He mused before going on. “This one changes from time to time, depending on whose biography I’m reading. Usually, it’s the Duke of Wellington. Great military strategist-genius in planning Waterloo. Some days, though, it’s Napoleon. Before Waterloo. That’s when I get fickle-right around 1815. Sometimes it’s even Hannibal, taking those elephants over the Alps. You get the point-a great general, leading his troops into battle. Die with my boots on and all that. Who else for you?”

“No surprise. A ballet dancer.” I looked at my watch. “Right now, someone is sitting inmy seats at American Ballet Theater sighing over Kathleen Moore’s performance. It’s an art that allows no imperfection-the audience can see every slip and misstep and off-balance move. I’d love to have that grace and elegance. Natalia Makarova-she’s the one I’d most like to be. But I’m fickle, too. I could be Ferri or Kent or Moore. Dance like a dream and lose myself in the music.

“You know, even in ballet I like the tragedies best. Should I be worried?”

“Too late for that. D’you ever dance leading roles, I mean, when you were in ballet school?”

“Queen of the Wilis. That’s my fate. Never Odile, not Coppelia, no Princess Aurora for me.”

“What are the Wilis? Never heard of ‘em.”

“They’re the maidens who died of unrequited love, in Giselle. Lines and lines of ‘em, in long white tulle skirts, flitting all over the stage. They spend most of the second act dancing you heartbreakers to death. I’ll take you to see it sometime. Suits my personality to a tee. And your next?”

“Joe DiMaggio. I sometimes think Babe Ruth or The Mick, but, then, Joe had all the great baseball moments plus Marilyn Monroe. He’s still such a classy guy. Heroes of the All-American sport, ‘til the strike screwed it up. Actually, I was there at the Stadium for Game Six of the Series when the Yankees won it. I would have jumped into the shoes of any one of them-Bernie Williams, Derek Jeter. I’d have sold my soul to the devil to have been Wade Boggs circling the stadium on the rear of that horse after all the years he waited just to get to a Series. What a moment.”

“Don’t forget Andy Pettitte. Now, that is a fox. You turn yourself into Andy Pettitte or Derek Jeter and I could get very interested.”

“Last call. Ultimate fantasy. Who’ll it be?”

“No contest for me. Tina Turner.After Ike, let me make that part of it perfectly clear.”

“Now you’re talking, Blondie. Great casting.”

“Remember the Private Dancer Tour-‘85? Tina coming down that staircase suspended from the ceiling in Madison Square Garden? A mane of hair, an endless stretch of legs, a microskirt, and four-inch heels-strutting to the tune of ’What’s Love Got to Do with It?‘ Not holding on to anything for a hundred steps or more on her way down, never missing a beat. I would have killed just to be one of her backups that night. Nina sent me a tape of the concert and I just pop it in the VCR to watch that one number whenever I think I need an antidepressant. Three minutes and I’m cured. I wanna be Tina.”

“You did a damn good imitation of her-for a white girl-the evening of Battaglia’s roast. I thought he was gonna lose it when he saw you prancing down the staircase from the private dining room into the lobby at ‘21.’ ”

“Jeez, remember that? I thought he had left already. I never dreamed he’d see me.”

“You may have a shot at this one, Coop. The only broad in the world with legs as good as Tina’s is your old lady. All we gotta do is work on your voice.”

“And your third?” I asked, smiling.

“A great director, movies. Probably Hitchcock, Spielberg, Truffaut. That’s the kind of creative talent I’d like to have. Bring stories to the screen and give them life-entertain billions of people forever and forever. Sagas, epics, plots with imaginary creatures or escapist themes. Maybe I could be Carlo Ponti.”

“He directs? I thought he’s a producer.”

“Whatever. At the end of the day, he still gets to crawl into bed with Sophia Loren, which wouldn’t be a bad part of the deal.”

“Predictable. Why did I think there’d be anything unusual about any of your fantasies? These are actually more tasteful than I expected any of them to be.”

Mike and I had taken each other’s minds off our respective concerns for a little while. We were farther away from home than either of us cared to be during an ongoing investigation and no closer to answers than we had been from the start. Sheep never worked for me, so I closed my eyes and tried to count Wilis until I drifted off to sleep.

ONCE WE HAD CLEARED IMMIGRATION AT Heathrow, we searched the signs held by gray-uniformed drivers waiting near the doors until we found a printed plaque marked CLIVEDEN. Mike waved to the gentleman holding it in the air, who moved toward us to introduce himself and take the luggage we were carrying. He quickly escorted us out to the roadway where a sleek black Jaguar sedan was parked on the far side of the passenger drop-off area.

Arthur, as he was called, placed the bags in the car’s trunk, then opened the rear doors for Mike and me.

“Not too shabby, Coop. I think I’m gonna like it here. Your car, Arthur?” Mike asked, as the driver settled himself behind the wheel.

“Hardly, sir. It’s all we have at Cliveden, sir. Jaguars.” Pronouncing the name, as the Brits do, with three distinct syllables.

It was daybreak as we started the half-hour ride to the hotel, the only one in Britain that is also a Stately Home. Rush-hour traffic heading into London surrounded us on the A4. But when we turned off the motorway as we neared Buckinghamshire, the fields, woods, and slate roofs of the countryside and villages gave us the sense that we had gone back a century or two in time.

Arthur was giving us a history of the estate as he cruised the Jag around narrow curves on ancient lanes barely wide enough to let another car pass. Cliveden, he told us, was built in 1666 by the Duke of Buckingham. Almost four hundred acres of land-housing the main buildings, composed of bedroom suites, dining rooms, and newly added meeting rooms, plus exquisite formal gardens and natural parklands-perch above the Thames in splendid style. The property remained at the center of Britain ’s political and social intrigue as its ownership passed through several dukes, one Prince of Wales, and then on to the Astor family before its acquisition by the National Trust in the 1980s.

“Pretty fancy place for a conference center,” Chapman said.

Arthur grimaced into the rearview mirror. “We’re a hotel, sir. And a very special one at that. Once a year the Home Secretary takes it over for this do. Sometimes the Prime Minister comes and a few nobs from abroad. Hardly worth our while, sir.” Arthur looked again, just to reassure himself that we were not in that exalted category. “We’ll get a few of our regulars after you go. End of the month we’ve got a wedding-one of the royals. Then the season gets going with Ascot and Wimbledon and all that.”

“If you decide you want to stay on, let me know. I’m sure Battaglia’d find room in the budget,” I said to Mike as Arthur slowed the car to turn in through the colossal double gate that marked the entrance. We circled the large sculpted scallop shell ringed by cherubs that stood at the start of the tree-lined drive and rode the last stretch of graveled path up to the majestic main building of Cliveden.

Several footmen appeared at the sound of the car crunching on the stones and coming to a stop-each one dressed in striped trousers, a morning coat, and white gloves. We had pulled in under the porte-cochère and our doors were opened by two of the eager staff.

The third young man, bespectacled and shorter than I by a head, bowed in my direction and shook Mike’s hand as he welcomed us to Cliveden and told us his name was Graham. He gave us a brisk introduction to the hotel, explaining that the Cliveden tradition was to treat us all as “house guests” rather than customers. No registration, no signing for meals or services, no keys for the rooms or locks on the doors.