Marganin shook his head no, and went back to his reading.

    The man shrugged and seemed to bite off a piece of the bread. He began chewing vigorously, but it was an act; his mouth was empty.

    "What have you got for me?" he murmured between jaw movements.

    Marganin stared into his book, raising it slightly to cover his lips. "Prevlov is having an affair with a woman who has black hair, shortly cropped, wears expensive, size six low-heeled shoes, and is partial to Chartreuse liqueur. She drives an American embassy car, license number USA-one-four-six."

    "Are you sure of your facts?"

    "I don't create fiction," Marganin muttered while nonchalantly turning a page. "I suggest you act on my information immediately. It may be the wedge we have been looking for."

    "I will have her identified before sunset." The stranger began slurping his soup noisily. "Anything else?"

    "I need data on the Sicilian Project."

    "I never heard of it."

    Marganin lowered the book and rubbed his eyes, keeping a hand in front of his lips. "It's a defense project connected somehow with the National Underwater and Marine Agency."

    "They may prove fussy about leaks on defense projects."

    "Tell them not to worry. It will be handled discreetly."

    "Six days from now. The men's toilet of the Borodino Restaurant. Six-forty in the evening." Marganin closed his book and stretched.

    The stranger slurped another spoonful of soup in acknowledgment and totally ignored Marganin, who rose and strolled off in the direction of the Soviet Naval Building.

19

    The President's secretary smiled courteously and got up from behind his desk. He was tall and young, and had a friendly, eager face.

    "Mrs. Seagram, of course. Please step this way."

    He led Dana to the White House elevator and stood aside for her to enter. She put on a show of indifference, staring straight ahead. If he knew or suspected anything, he'd be mentally stripping her to the skin. She sneaked a quick glance at the secretary's face; his eyes remained inscrutably locked on the blinking floorlights.

    The doors opened and she followed him down the hall and into one of the third-floor bedrooms.

    "There it is on the mantel," the secretary said. "We found it in the basement in an unmarked crate. A beautiful piece of work. The President insisted we bring it up where it can be admired."

    Dana's eyes narrowed as she found herself looking at the model of a sailing ship that rested in a glass case above the fireplace.

    "He was hoping you might be able to shed some light on its history," the secretary continued. "As you can see, there is no indication of a name either on the hull or the dust case."

    She moved uncertainly toward the fireplace for a closer look. She was confused; this was hardly what she had expected. Over the telephone earlier that morning, the secretary had simply said, "The President wonders if it would be convenient for you to drop by the White House about two o'clock?" A strange sensation passed through her body. She wasn't sure if it was a feeling of letdown or relief.

    "Early-eighteenth-century merchantman by the look of her," she said. "I'd have to make some sketches and compare them with old records, in the Naval Archives."

    "Admiral Sandecker said if anybody could identify her, you could."

    "Admiral Sandecker?"

    "Yes, it was he who recommended you to the President." The secretary, moved toward the doorway. "There is a pad and pencil on the nightstand beside the bed. I have to get back to my desk. Please feel free to take as much time as you need."

    "But won't the President? . . ."

    "He's playing golf this afternoon. You won't be bothered. Just take the elevator down to the main floor when you're finished." Then, before Dana could reply, the secretary turned and left.

    Dana sat heavily on the bed and sighed. She had rushed home after the phone call, taken a perfumed bath, and carefully donned a girlish, virginal white dress over black lingerie. And it had all been for nothing. The President didn't want sex; he simply wanted her to put the make on some damned old ship's model.

    Utterly defeated, she went into the bathroom and checked her face. When she came out, the bedroom door was closed and the President was standing by the fireplace, looking tanned and youthful in a polo shirt and slacks.

    Dana's eyes flew wide. For a moment she couldn't think of anything to say. "You're supposed to be golfing," she finally said stupidly.

    "That's what it says in my appointment book."

    "Then this model ship business . . ."

    "The brig Roanoke out of Virginia," he said, nodding at the model. "Her keel was laid in 1728, and she went on the rocks off Nova Scotia in 1743. My father built the model from scratch about forty years ago."

    "You went to all this trouble just to get me alone?" she said dazedly.

    "That's obvious, isn't it?"

    She stared at him. He met her eyes steadily and she blushed.

    "You see," he went on, "I wanted to have a little informal chat, just the two of us, without interference or interruption from the hassles of my office."

    The room reeled about her. "You . . . you just want to talk?"

    He looked at her curiously for a moment and then he began to chuckle. "You flatter me, Mrs. Seagram. It was never my intent to seduce you. I fear my reputation as a ladies' man is somewhat exaggerated."

    "But at the party-"

    "I think I understand." He took her by the hand and led her to a chair. "When I whispered, 'I must meet you alone,' you took it as a proposition from a lecherous old man. Forgive me, that was not my intent."

    Dana sighed. "I wondered what a man who could have any one of a hundred million women just by snapping his fingers could possibly see in a drab, married, thirty-one year old marine archaeologist."

    "You don't do yourself justice," he said, suddenly serious. "You are really quite lovely."

    Again she found herself blushing. "No man has made a pass at me in years."

    "Perhaps it is because most honorable men do not make passes at married women."

    "I'd like to think so."

    He pulled up a chair and sat opposite her. She sat primly, her knees pressed together, hands in lap. The question, when it came, caught her totally unprepared.

    "Tell me, Mrs. Seagram, are you still in love with him?"

    She stared at him, incomprehension written in her eyes. "Who?"

    "Your husband, of course."

    "Gene?"

    "Yes, Gene," he said, smiling. "Unless you have another spouse hidden away somewhere."

    "Why must you ask that?" she said.

    "Gene is cracking at the seams."

    Dana looked puzzled. "He works hard, but I can't believe he is on the verge of a mental breakdown."

    "Not in the strict clinical sense, no." The President's expression was grim. "He is, however, under enormous pressure. If he is faced with serious marital problems on top of his workload, he might fall over the brink. I cannot allow that to happen, not yet, not until he completes a highly secret project that is vital to the nation."