“But you’ll handle that, won’t you, Adrian? You’re the one with all the money. The budget for the American intelligence community alone is far more than the budget of our entire country.”

“Have you forgotten that this operation does not exist? Besides, you’re going to walk away with a great deal of Zizi’s money.”

“Fine,” said Gabriel. “You can be the one to tell Sarah Bancroft that she’s going to spend the next ten years living on a kibbutz in the Galilee hiding from the forces of global jihad.”

“All right, we’ll pay for her resettlement.”

Carter made a series of turns. For a moment Gabriel lost track of what street they were on. They passed the façade of a large neoclassical building, then turned into an official-looking driveway. On the left was a fortified guardhouse with bulletproof glass. Carter lowered his window and handed over his badge to the guard.

“We’re expected.”

The guard consulted a clipboard, then handed back Carter’s ID.

“Pull through, then stop in front of the barricade on the left. The dogs will give the car the once-over, then you can head on in.”

Carter nodded and raised his window. Gabriel said, “Where are we?”

Carter wound his way through the barricades and stopped where he’d been told. “The back door of the White House,” he said.

“Who are we seeing?” Gabriel asked, but Carter was now speaking to another officer, this one struggling to control a large German shepherd straining at a thick leather leash. Gabriel, whose fear of dogs was legendary within the Office, sat motionless while the animal prowled the perimeter of the Volvo, searching for concealed explosives. A moment later they were directed through another security gate. Carter pulled into an empty parking space on East Executive Drive and shut down the engine.

“This is as far as I go.”

“Who am I seeing, Adrian?”

“Go through that gate over there and walk up the drive toward the house. He’ll be out in a minute.”

THE DOGS came first, two coal-black terriers that shot from the Diplomatic Entrance like bullets from a gun barrel and launched a preemptive strike on Gabriel’s trousers. The president emerged a few seconds later. He advanced on Gabriel with one hand out while the other was gesturing for the terriers to break off their onslaught. The two men shook hands briefly, then set off along the footpath that ran around the periphery of the South Lawn. The terriers launched one more sortie against Gabriel’s ankles. Carter watched as Gabriel turned and murmured something in Hebrew that sent the dogs scurrying toward the protection of a Secret Service agent.

Their conversation lasted just five minutes, and to Carter it seemed the president did most of the talking. They moved at a brisk pace, stopping only once in order to settle what appeared to be a minor disagreement. Gabriel removed his hands from his coat pockets and used them to illustrate whatever point he was trying to make. The president appeared unconvinced at first, then he nodded and clapped Gabriel hard on the shoulders.

They completed their circuit and parted at the Diplomatic Entrance. As Gabriel started back toward East Executive Drive the dogs trotted after him, then turned and darted into the White House after their master. Gabriel slipped through the open gate and climbed into Carter’s car.

“How was he?” Carter asked as they turned into 15th Street.

“Resolute.”

“It looked like you had a bit of an argument.”

“I’d characterize it as a polite disagreement.”

“About what?”

“Our conversation was private, Adrian, and it will remain so.”

“Good man,” said Carter.

18.

THE ANNOUNCEMENT THAT Isherwood Fine Arts had sold Daniel in the Lions’ Den by Peter Paul Rubens for the sum of ten million pounds came on the first Wednesday of the new year. By Friday the clamor had been eclipsed by a rumor that Isherwood was bringing aboard a partner.

It was Oliver Dimbleby, Isherwood’s tubby nemesis from King Street, who heard it first, though later even Dimbleby would be hard pressed to pin down its precise origin. To the best of his recollection the seeds were planted by Penelope, the luscious hostess from the little wine bar in Jermyn Street where Isherwood could often be seen whiling away slow afternoons. “She’s blond,” Penelope had said. “Natural blond, Oliver. Not like your girls. Pretty. American with a bit of an English accent.” At first Penelope suspected Isherwood was once again making a fool of himself with a younger woman, but she soon realized that she was witnessing a job interview. “And not just any job, Oliver. Sounded like something big.”

Dimbleby would have thought nothing of it had he not received a report of a second sighting, this one from Percy, a notorious gossip who waited tables in the breakfast room at the Dorchester Hotel. “They definitely weren’t lovers,” he told Dimbleby with the assurance of a man who knew his material. “It was all salary and benefits. There was a fair amount of haggling. She was playing hard to get.” Dimbleby slipped Percy ten quid and asked whether he’d caught the woman’s name. “Bancroft,” said Percy. “Sarah Bancroft. Stayed two nights. Bill paid in its entirety by Isherwood Fine Arts, Mason’s Yard, St. James’s.”

A third sighting, a cozy dinner at Mirabelle, confirmed to Dimbleby that something was definitely afoot. The next evening he bumped into Jeremy Crabbe, director of the Bonhams Old Masters department, at the bar in Greene’s restaurant. Crabbe was drinking a very large whiskey and still licking his wounds over Isherwood’s monumental coup. “I had that Rubens, Oliver, but Julie outfoxed me. He’s ten million richer, and I’m facing a firing squad at dawn. And now he’s expanding operations. Getting himself a flashy new front man, from what I hear. But don’t quote me, Oliver. It’s nothing but malicious talk.” When Dimbleby asked whether Isherwood’s flashy front man might in fact be an American woman named Sarah Bancroft, Crabbe gave him a sideways smile. “Anything’s possible, love. Remember, we are talking about Juicy Julie Isherwood.”

For the next forty-eight hours Oliver Dimbleby devoted his copious spare time to researching the provenance of one Sarah Bancroft. A drinking companion on the faculty of the Courtauld described her as “a meteor.” The same companion learned from an acquaintance at Harvard that her dissertation was considered required reading for anyone serious about the German Expressionists. Dimbleby then dialed up an old chum who cleaned paintings at the National Gallery of Art in Washington and asked him to poke around the Phillips for clues about her departure. It was a squabble over money, reported the chum. Two days later he called Dimbleby back and said it had something to do with an office love affair gone bad. A third call brought the news that Sarah Bancroft had parted company with the Phillips Collection on good terms and that the motive for her departure was nothing more than a desire to spread her wings. As for her personal life, meaning her marital status, she was described as single and unavailable.

Which left but one unanswered question: Why was Isherwood suddenly taking on a partner? Jeremy Crabbe heard he was ill. Roddy Hutchinson heard he had a tumor in his abdomen the size of a honeydew melon. Penelope, the girl from Isherwood’s wine bar, heard he was in love with a wealthy Greek divorcee and was planning to spend his remaining days in blessed fornication on a beach in Mykonos. Dimbleby, though he found the lavish rumors entertaining, suspected that the truth was far more prosaic. Julian was getting on. Julian was tired. Julian had just pulled off a coup. Why not bring someone on board to help lighten the load?