Crowley didn’t respond; his jaw moved silently.

“Somewhat embarrassing, I’d say,” Thomas said, examining his fingernails. “Let me cut to the chase, Milton. Hunting down these bloody savages is a young man’s game, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I hadn’t given it much thought, Jillian.”

“Well,” Thomas said, forcing a smile, “I think it’s time you did. As a matter of fact, I’ve been giving it considerable thought for some time now.”

“And?”

“And, Milton, I believe it is time to relieve you of your duties in Baghdad. Collinsworth will take over for you there, effective immediately.”

“Collinsworth?”

Adrian Collinsworth, in his early forties, had been transferred to Baghdad from Cairo six months earlier as Crowley’s second in command. He was, as far as Crowley was concerned, a thoroughly dislikable man, skilled at boot-licking but lacking even rudimentary skill at intelligence analysis.

“I suppose I don’t have a say in this,” Crowley said, successfully masking a small smile behind his hand.

“Afraid not, old chap. It’s for the greater good, you understand. Nothing personal. Time marches on. A new guard is always waiting in the wings to pick up where we leave off. It’s the way of the world, Milton. Happens to the best of us. At any rate, my friend, your early retirement-I might say immediate retirement-has been arranged. No need to worry about your personal items. Your things will be shipped from Baghdad forthwith, to that cottage of yours, I assume. Where is it? The Cotswolds?”

“Wareham, Dorset.”

“Yes, Wareham. Lovely spot. I know, I know, you’ll find it an adjustment to be a gentleman of leisure after the excitement and intrigue to which you’ve been accustomed all these years. But think of it this way, Milton, you’ll now have a leg up on your golden years, enjoying the sort of civilized comfort that’s been lacking in that hellhole Baghdad. Good food, good drink, and perhaps even a good woman with whom to commune.” His laugh was annoyingly lascivious. “Well, my friend, no need to prolong this. Any questions?”

Crowley fought to keep his face from reflecting what he was thinking and feeling at that moment. He remained stoic as he said, “No, Jillian. As disappointing as this is, I must agree with you. There is a greater good to be considered. All I can say is that my years of service have been highly satisfactory, and I trust my contributions have not gone unappreciated.”

They stood. Thomas placed his arm over Crowley’s shoulder and smiled broadly, displaying a large set of dull teeth. “You’ve been a true patriot to the Crown, Milton. The nation is in your debt. Make your travel arrangements through the embassy.” His laugh was accompanied by a deep, rattling cough. “And for God’s sake, man, remember to book a flight to London, not Baghdad. Cheerio, Milton. See you back home.” A firm slap on the back ended the meeting.

Crowley left the embassy with a spring in his step that hadn’t been there in quite a while. His hip was pain-free. Had he dared, he would have attempted to leap into the air and click his heels the way Russian dancers do. He enjoyed a cigarette outside the building before hailing a passing taxi. “The National Gallery,” he told the driver. Once inside the museum, he went directly to the Italian gallery and stood before Leonardo’s Ginevra de’ Benci, a smile on his face.

“Good news, Cora, darling,” he said. “We’ll be back in Dorset before we know it.”

Annabel Lee-Smith met the Secret Service’s four-man advance team at the Brazilian Embassy at four that afternoon. They lived up to the image of Secret Service agents as depicted in motion pictures and on television-taciturn, steely-eyed, short haircuts, dressed in nondescript off-the-rack suits, and all business, but not without a smile when appropriate.

“This is where the event will take place?” one of them asked Annabel, referring to fact sheets that had been provided earlier that day.

“Yes. This is where all the guests will gather after their more intimate dinners at various embassies around the city.”

She followed as they slowly walked the interior perimeter of the huge tent that was in the process of being erected on the embassy’s grounds.

“There will be a band over there,” Annabel said, consulting a sketch she’d been provided by Nicki Frolich. “And over there, too. The bars will be in those corners, and the food services-desserts, really-will be where those tables are being set up.”

The agents said nothing as they continued their stroll, eyes taking in everything, including rooftops of nearby buildings, bushes and trees on the property, and other potential locations from which an attack could be launched.

“The president and first lady won’t be eating or drinking,” Annabel heard one say to the other.

An agent turned and asked Annabel, “What about the band? Who are they?”

“Actually, there are three bands,” she replied. “One is being booked through a talent agency here in Washington. That band will play American music. The other two are Brazilian bands.”

“Which talent agency?”

“I don’t know, but I’ll find out.”

“The Brazilian musicians. Where are they coming from?”

“Brazil,” said Annabel. “The embassy has made those arrangements.”

They proceeded to what would be the portal through which invited guests would arrive. “What do their invitations look like?” one of the agents asked Annabel.

She handed one to him.

“They’ll have to show ID besides this,” he said. “We need the guest list.”

“It’s on its way over,” another agent said.

“Will you have time to-?” Annabel started to ask.

“The boss tossed us this last-minute,” one of the agents said, flashing a grin. “He’s known for that. But we’ll manage.” Then, as though he might have told a tale out of school, he looked away from her and made a call on his radio.

Being summoned to meet with them was last-minute for Annabel, too. She’d called a number given her by Nicki Frolich and was connected to the person in the Secret Service responsible for the president’s forays outside the White House. She was also put in touch with an officer from the thousand-strong Capitol Hill police force, whose mission was to protect the foreign diplomatic corps in Washington. He made an appointment to meet her there at five that afternoon, along with the head of security for the Brazilian Embassy. According to Frolich, there were mixed emotions at the embassy about the president’s sudden decision to attend the festivities following the private dinners. The ambassador was delighted. His staff was not.

The agent with the fact sheet went over it with Annabel. They discussed the number of embassy staff that would be working the ball, as well as the outside catering services and their people.

“What about these opera performers?” he asked.

“The Washington National Opera will provide musical entertainment. Some of the students in the Domingo-Cafritz Young Artist Program will perform.”

“We’ll need their names.”

“Of course.”

“These supernumeraries?” the agent said. “What’s their role?”

“They’ll be in costume and dress up the party, give it the right opera theme.”

“Costumes?”

“Yes. From famous operas.”

“That include masks?”

“For some, I’m sure.”

He noted that on the sheet.

“The president and first lady are due here at ten sharp,” the agent said.

“Yes,” Annabel said.

“They’ll stay a half hour.”

“That’s what I’ve been told.”

“He’ll make a couple of remarks.”

“We’ll be anxious to hear them,” said Annabel.

“Well, thank you, Mrs. Lee-Smith. We appreciate the cooperation. We’ll be back tomorrow morning and probably spend most of the day here.”

“Will I be needed?” she asked.

“Not the whole time, but we will want to speak with you from time to time. May I have your cell number?”