“I wish we didn’t have all this dad stuff to deal with,” he said. “Maybe then we could’ve spent the day together instead.”

Alex pretended to be watching the scenery. “I guess.”

“Hey, isn’t your dad a classic car dealer?” Clark asked.

“Yeah, he is,” she said, affecting innocence. She was getting practiced at keeping up the lie about her father’s double life. “Why do you ask?”

“What kind of business does a classic car broker have on Thanksgiving anyway?”

Alex grinned in her mind at the secret she shared with her father. “Beats me.”

6:55 a.m.

Dan Morgan walked on a patterned carpet past ornate furniture and knocked on the door to room 2722 of the Waldorf. He saw the pinpoint of light in the peephole disappear, then the deadbolt being undone. The door opened and was left ajar. Morgan took the cue to push it open and saw the back of a black silk nightgown and a long shock of blond hair. The acrid smell of smoke hit his nostrils as the figure turned around and leaned against a heavy carved wooden table, posing seductively and taking a long drag from her cigarette with full, ruby-red lips.

“I don’t think they allow smoking in here,” he said as he let himself into the foyer of the suite and scanned the room for potential threats. His trained eyes could assess a situation in seconds. Over the years, he, like many other covert operatives, had developed a sixth sense for danger. Nothing struck him as a potential threat, except the cream-skinned, hazel-eyed beauty in front of him.

Adele Sauvage, she called herself.

“But it’s so early,” she said, pouting, in a light French accent. “Can’t I have just one? Please?”

Her bathrobe was just loose enough to show a hint of a white lacy bra underneath. Her makeup was gently smudged, but Morgan could tell it had been freshly applied. Her feet arched up in black stiletto heels. Her hair was messy—not like the hair a woman who had really just woken up, but lightly tousled, as women do to give the faintest hint that they have just been having sex. The whole setup was too casual not to have been meticulously arranged. Most men wouldn’t notice, but for a woman like Adele, sex was a deadly weapon. In Morgan’s line of work, it paid to know all about deadly weapons.

“Smoke, or don’t,” he said, closing the door behind him. “I don’t care. We have business to do here.”

“Oh, but business is so boring.”

“Do you need time to make yourself decent?”

“Oh, I’m never decent,” she said with a girlish giggle, sitting down on an overstuffed loveseat. “Why don’t we do something fun? Let’s have a drink.”

“I don’t drink. And it’s seven in the morning.”

“You’re no fun,” she pouted. “I think I like your friend Peter better.”

“Peter Conley is an idiot for a skirt,” said Morgan. “But I have trouble believing even he would fall for this whole routine.” He wondered if anyone did as he caught sight of himself in the mirror. With short-cropped dark brown hair and strong, masculine features, he was tall and had a powerful body. And yet, he didn’t flatter himself to think that Adele’s behavior had anything to do with his looks.

“Routine?”

“This whole . . . Adele Sauvage persona.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.” She lifted a well-toned leg onto the sofa. “I am Adele Sauvage.”

“You are Marjorie Francis from Akron, Ohio,” said Morgan, closing the curtains in the foyer. “Your hair comes from a bottle and your accent comes from Brigitte Bardot movies.”

Adele smiled. “You’ve got the tongue of a viper.”

“I’m just not the kind of sap who makes up your clientele.”

“People fall for what they want to fall for,” said Adele, her voice now adult and self-assured. Morgan turned around to look at her. She had risen, her coquettish pose replaced by a disdainful hand on her hip. “You learn that when you trade in fantasy. But I don’t think I have to tell you that, do I, Mr. Secret Agent Man?”

“Morgan will do fine,” he said. “Now, I understand you have something for me?”

“I do,” she said, with a sly grin. “And you have something for me?”

“It’s on its way,” said Morgan. “As a matter of fact, your dear friend Peter Conley is bringing it to us.”

“Please tell me he’s not bringing cash,” she said. “I specifically asked no cash.”

“No, no money,” said Morgan. “We’re bringing a very expensive gift from an anonymous admirer. A valuable antique that we guarantee can be sold at auction for at least two hundred thousand.”

“Ooh, is it shiny?”

“Very shiny,” said Morgan. “That would be us holding up our end of the bargain. Now, where’s yours?”

“My end of the bargain is right here,” she said, reaching into her robe. Morgan’s hand went for his gun, which wasn’t there—it wouldn’t have made it past the hotel’s metal detectors. But there was no danger. She merely pulled out the stamp-sized memory card that Conley had given her two nights before and held it between her thumb and index finger. “The contents of the smart phone of Jasper Elliott.”

Morgan reached for it, but she slipped it back into her robe. “No, no, no, monsieur Morgan. Not until my payment arrives.”

Morgan threw up his hands. “Fair enough. Conley should be on his way.”

“I suppose we’ll have to stand each other’s company for a few more minutes, then.” Adele circled the table.

“Nice digs we’ve set you up with,” he said, looking around the suite. The carpet and upholstery were sky blue, offset by an off-white armchair and beige wallpaper. Altogether, the seats, the wrought iron coffee table, the Tiffany fireplace screen, the end table, and the desk gave the suite a feeling of clutter. Morgan’s wife, Jenny, the interior decorator, would have loved it. Morgan liked his spaces to be spare.

“Oh, please,” she said. “At my rates, this is on the low end for my clients. Plus, when you have lived in the palace of the Sultan of Brunei, there is little in the way of luxury that can impress you.”

Morgan raised his eyebrows in interest. “You’ll have to tell me all about that someday.”

“I really don’t,” she said.

Morgan sat back in the armchair, which was stiff and uncomfortable for all its fanciness. “I guess discretion is a big deal in your line of work.”

“Frankly, it’s more for what they say than what they do,” she said. “It’s the dirty little secret of my profession, Mr. Morgan. We spend quite a bit more time having conversations than on our backs. There’s a premium on a girl who can talk about everything from Shakespeare to Derrida to the Red Sox.”

“What’s a girl who can talk Shakespeare and Derrida doing being an escort?”

“To make the kind of money I make at my age,” she said, “the only other way is to be a different kind of whore on Wall Street.” She leaned in and whispered, “I think my kind is much more dignified.”

Morgan flashed a grin at her, and she returned it until something seemed to catch her eye though the narrow opening between the curtains. Morgan followed her gaze to see a procession of police cars.

“What the hell?” He stood up to get a clearer view. He tried to get his face flat against the window in order to see as far up Park Avenue as possible. He made out a couple of town cars bearing flags with green and red details.

He heard the beeping of his radio communicator in his ear. Conley was hailing him. “Morgan here. What’s happening? Thanksgiving Day parade come a day late?”

“It’s Ramadani,” said Conley. “The President of Iran. I just got off the phone with Bloch.”

“He was supposed to—”

“Stay at the Plaza, I know,” cut in Conley. “Change of plans, evidently. I got the package, but I’m not getting inside until this dies down.”

“All right,” said Morgan. “Keep me posted. Out.” He cut the mic and turned to Adele. “Is there any chance I could get that little piece of plastic off of you on an IOU?”