'So! The haus...o...b..lieves that it is the su!' he cried: The bellows thinks it's the fire. I couldn't believe I always put up with this. 'Please do not forget who gave you a job! Do not forget who rescued you from-'

'The CIA,' I finished for him. 'But maybe you deserve a job at that other CIA the Central Intelligence Agency? Or how could you possibly have guessed that I'd left to attend a party? Perhaps you can explain why I had to race back so fast?'

This put Rodo off balance for only an instant. He quickly recovered and, with a snort, he s.n.a.t.c.hed off his red beret and threw it dramatically onto the floor a favorite technique whenever he was at a loss for words, which wasn't often.

This was followed by a torrent in Euskera of which I could pick up just a few words. It was directed with urgency toward the dignified, silver-haired concierge Eremon, just beside me, who'd said nothing at all since we'd entered.

Eremon nodded in silence, then walked over to the stove, turned off the gas, and removed the wooden spoon that Rodo had forgotten there in the chocolate pot. It looked a mess. After carefully placing it on the spoon holder, the concierge crossed back to the French windows that led outside. There he turned, as if expecting me to follow.

'I must take you back right now for the geldo,' he said, referring to the embers, apparently to prepare them for tonight's cooking. 'Then, after the men have finished cleaning the food, Monsieur Boujaron says he himself will return with the car and bring everything so you can help for tonight's private dinner.'

'But why me?' I said, turning to my boss for an explanation. 'Who on earth are these "dignitaries" tonight, that there's all this subterfuge? Why's no one allowed even to see them except you and me?'

'No mystery,' Rodo said, evading my question. 'But you are late for the work. Eremon will explain anything you may need to know en route.' He vanished from the kitchen in a huff, shutting the inner door behind him.

My audience with the master now seemed to be at an end. So I followed the stately concierge out onto the terrace and got into the car on the pa.s.senger side, while he drove.

Perhaps it was my imagination, or only my limited knowledge of the Basque tongue, but I was fairly sure that I'd picked up two words that had run together in Rodo's recent diatribe. And if I was right, these specific words wouldn't make my mind rest any easier. Not at all.

The first was arisku, a word Rodo used all the time around the ovens: It meant 'danger.' I couldn't fail to recall that same word printed in Russian on a cardboard plaque that still lay, even now, in my pocket. But the second Basque word that had followed on its heels, zortzi, was even worse though it didn't mean 'beware the fire.'

In Euskera, zortzi means 'eight.'

As Eremon maneuvered the Touareg down River Road back into Georgetown, he never removed his eyes from the road nor his hands from the wheel, deploying the noncity dexterity of a driver who'd been negotiating hairpin mountain turns all his life as likely he had. But that fixated attentiveness wasn't going to stop me from what I knew I had to do right now: pump him for information as Rodo had evasively promised for 'anything I needed to know en route.'

I'd been acquainted with Eremon, of course, for as many years as I'd been apprenticed to Monsieur Rodolfo Boujaron. And though I knew much less of the consigliere than I knew of the don, there was one thing I did know: Eremon might play the silver-haired dignitary and chief factotum around Rodo's baronial estate. But away from his official job, Eremon was a dyed-in-the-wool Basque with all the implied traits. That is, he had an off-the-wall sense of humor, an appreciative eye for the ladies (especially Leda), and an inexplicable taste for Sagardoa that G.o.d-awful Basque apple cider that even the Spaniards can't drink.

Leda always said that Sagardoa 'reminded her of goats' p.i.s.s,' though I was never sure how she'd come to make that culinary judgment call. Nevertheless, she and I had ourselves both cultivated a taste for the cider, for an obvious reason: Drinking tumblers of bitter, sparkling fermented apple juice in Eremon's company, from time to time, was the only way we could think of to get the scoop on our mutual boss, the guy Leda liked to refer to as 'the Maestro of Menus.'

And trapped in a car for at least half an hour as I was now with Eremon I felt there was, as Key might say, no time like the present.

So imagine my surprise when it was he who broke the ice first, and in a most unexpected fashion.

'I want you to know that E.B. is not angry with you,' Eremon a.s.sured me.

Eremon always called Rodo 'E.B.,' short for 'Eredolf Boujaron,' a Basque 'in' joke that he'd shared with Leda and me on one of our very late ciderfest nights. Apparently there are no names or words in Basque that begin with R: hence Eremon's name Ramon in Spanish, Raymond in French. And Rodolfo seemed almost Italian. This linguistic flaw would seem to make Rodo something of a Basque Basqtard.

But the very fact that he could make quips about a tyrannical volcano like Rodo showed their relationship was closer than master and servant. Eremon was the only one I could think of who might have a clue as to what Rodo was up to tonight.

'So if he's not angry with me,' I pointed out, 'then why all the burnt chocolate, the beret on the floor, the snit in the Euskeran tongue, the slammed door, the instant ejector b.u.t.ton for moi?'

Eremon shrugged and smiled enigmatically. All the while, his eyes still clung to the road like Velcro.

'E.B. never knows what to do with you.' He warmed to his theme. 'You are different. He isn't used to dealing with women. At least, not professionally.'

'Leda's different, too,' I said, counterpointing with his favorite girl violincello. 'She runs the entire c.o.c.ktail operation. She works like a dog. She makes Sutalde a fortune. Surely Rodo wouldn't slight her that.'

'Ah, the swan. She is magnificent,' said Eremon, his eyes wavering just a bit. Then he laughed. 'But he always tells me, with her, I am barking on the wrong horse.'

'I think the expression is "Barking up the wrong tree."'

Eremon hit the brakes. We'd come to the stoplight at River Road and Wisconsin. He looked over at me.

'How can one "bark up a tree"?' he asked, quite sensibly. Unlike my friend Key, I'd never actually given such sayings any thought. So much for folk wisdom.

'So maybe we'd say you're barking at the wrong swan,' I agreed.

'One does not bark at swans, either,' said Eremon. 'Especially not a swan that you are in love with. And I am in love with that one, I really think.'

Oh no. This chat wasn't exactly the one I'd been hoping to have.

'I'm afraid that, when it comes to observing human nature, Rodo may be right just this once,' I told Eremon. 'The swan prefers female companions, I believe.'

'Foolishness. That is just some how do you say it? phase of a moment. Like those wheels she likes to wear on her feet. This will change this need for the success, this power over the men. She doesn't need to prove things to everyone,' he insisted.

Ah, I thought, that popular chestnut: 'She's never known a man like me.'

But at least I had Eremon talking, no matter what got him hooked. As the traffic light changed, he started paying a bit more attention to me than to the road. I knew this might be my last opportunity, in the few miles before we reached our destination, to learn what was really going on behind the scenes.

'Speaking of proving things,' I said as casually as possible, 'I wonder why Monsieur Boujaron didn't ask Leda or anyone else to work tonight's boum. After all, if these guests are so important, wouldn't he want to prove himself? To make sure things run like clockwork? We all know what a perfectionist he is. But he and I can hardly cover all the bases by ourselves, replace a full restaurant staff. If the amount of food I just hauled up to Kenwood is any indication, we must be expecting a pretty good-sized crowd.'

I'd been probing as casually as possible until I noticed that we'd just pa.s.sed the Georgetown Library to our left. We'd be arriving at Sutalde at any moment. I decided to turn up the heat. But luckily, it wasn't to be necessary.

Eremon had forked down a side street, avoiding Wisconsin traffic. He stopped at the first four-way stop sign and turned to me.

'No, at most a dozen will be there, I believe,' he told me. 'I am told that this is a command performance, that many demands were made of E.B. that the very highest level in haute cuisine was instructed, with many special dishes commanded in advance. This is why we have had to make all these preparations up at Euskal Herria under E.B.'s supervision. This is why he was so anxious to be sure you were here in time, that the fires were properly established last night so we could start the Meschoui.'

'The Meschoui?'

I said, amazed. It took at least twelve hours to roast a Meschoui a spitbasted, herb-stuffed goat or lamb turned on a rotisserie, a highly coveted dish in Arab lands. They could only cook something like that in the big central hearth at Sutalde. Rodo must have had a crew down there before the crack of dawn to get it going in time for tonight's dinner.

'But who are these mystery dignitaries?' I demanded once more.

'Based on the menu, I believe they must be some kind of high-level officials from the Middle East,' he told me. 'And I have heard many preparations for security. As for why you are the only staff in attendance tonight, I cannot say. But E.B. a.s.sured us that everything tonight is only what has been commanded.'

'Commanded?' I said, uneasy at the repeat of that word. 'Commanded by whom? What kind of security?'

Though I was trying to act unruffled, my heart was pounding like a steel-head drum. It was all too much. Dangerous chess games with mysterious moves, Russian a.s.sa.s.sinations and familial disappearances, mysterious Middle East dignitaries and invasions of Baghdad. And me with less than eight hours' sleep in the past forty-eight.

'I don't know for certain,' Eremon was saying. 'All the arrangements were made through E.B. alone. But with so much security above the normal, one could guess. It is my suspicion that this dinner was arranged by the Oval Office.'

A White House command performance? Not b.l.o.o.d.y likely. That really was the last straw. What further difficulties was my already difficult boss 'commanding' me into? If the idea hadn't been so absurd I might've been genuinely angry.

But as Key would say, 'If you can't take the heat, get out of the kitchen.'

I thought I was about to step into the very kitchen that I'd heated up myself, fewer than ten hours earlier. But in the foggy drizzle, as I descended the steep stone steps to the ca.n.a.l bridge, I couldn't help notice that some things had changed since my visit here earlier this morning.

A low concrete barrier was now blocking the entrance to the footbridge that crossed the ca.n.a.l, and a small wooden kiosk, no larger than a portable latrine, had been placed just beside it. As I approached, two men suddenly emerged from the booth. They were wearing dark suits and coats and (oddly, given the glowering weather) even darker sungla.s.ses.

'Please state your business,' said the first man in a flat, official voice.

'I beg your pardon?' I said, alarmed.

Security, Eremon had said. But this surprise barricade popping up like a mushroom on the deserted bridge seemed beyond the bizarre. I was becoming more nervous by the minute.

'And we need your name, birthdate, and a photo ID,' the second man requested in a duplicate monotone, holding out his hand palm-up toward me.

'I'm on my way to work; I'm a chef at Sutalde,' I explained, motioning to the stone buildings across the bridge.

I tried to look obliging as I rummaged in my crammed shoulder bag for my driver's license. But I suddenly realized how remote and inaccessible this brushy section of the towpath really was. Women had been murdered along here, one even during a morning jog. And had anyone ever reported having heard them scream?

'How do I know who you are?' I asked them. I raised my voice a bit, more to quell my fears than to solicit a.s.sistance when none seemed to exist.

Number one had reached into his breast pocket and, like lightning, he flashed his ID beneath my nose. Oh lord, the Secret Service! This did tend to suggest that Eremon's hunch about tonight might be right. Whoever was 'commanding' this boum had to be pretty high up themselves, or they could hardly commandeer the highest echelons of government security, to provide a private blockade, just to screen folks for a dinner party.

But by now, I was fuming; I was surprised they couldn't detect the smoke of indignation pouring from my ears. I was going to kill Rodo, whenever he deigned to show up, for never alerting me about this showdown at 'Checkpoint Charlie' after what I'd already been through these past forty-eight hours just to get here.

I finally dug out my buried driver's license and I flashed the two thugs back. Show me yours and I'll show you mine. Number one returned to the kiosk to check my name against his instructions. He nodded out the door to number two, who handed me over the concrete hurdle, vaulted after me, escorted me across the ca.n.a.l, and deposited me on my own at the far side of the bridge.

When I entered Sutalde, I was in for yet another jolt. More security guys prowled the upstairs dining room maybe half a dozen, all whispering on mouthpieces into their individual walkie-talkies. A few searched beneath the linen-draped tables, while their boss searched behind the long wall rack displaying Rodo's colorful collection of homemade Sagardoa.

The Kiosk Twins must have buzzed ahead to announce my arrival, since n.o.body in the vast dining room seemed to give me a second glance. Finally one of the plainclothesmen came over to speak to me.

'My team will be clearing out of here shortly, once we've finished sweeping the place,' he informed me curtly. 'Now that you've been processed for admission, you're not to leave these premises until you've been clearance-processed for exit at the end of the night. And we need to search your bag.'

Terrific. They went through my stuff, removed my cell phone, and told me they'd give it back later.

I knew it was senseless to argue with these guys. After all, given what I'd just learned these past four days about my own family and circle of friends, who knew when a little unexpected offer of security might come in handy? Besides, even if I wanted out now, upon whom could I call for help against the Secret Service of the United States government?

Once the boys in black had departed, I ducked behind the cider rack, made a quick trip down the spiral stone steps into the dungeon where I found myself, refreshingly, completely alone. Except, that is, for the enormous cadaver of a lamb that was silently revolving on the spit in the central hearth. I raked the hot embers into place beneath the slowly revolving Meschoui, to keep the heat steady. Then I checked the flames in all the hearths and ovens, and I brought extra wood and kindling to touch up what needed improvement. But as I placed the new logs, I realized I had a bigger problem.

The rich herbal aroma of the roasting meat wafted over me, almost reducing me to tears. How long had it been since I'd ingested anything substantial? I knew this carca.s.s couldn't be done yet and it would be ruined if I started picking at it too soon. Yet for all I knew, Rodo might not show up here for hours with the rest of the dinner fixings or anything I could nibble on. And no other potential sustenance-provider that I knew of had security clearance to get across that bridge. I cursed myself for not making Eremon stop off even at a fast-food place somewhere en route so I could get a snack.

I considered foraging in the food lockers at the back of the dungeon where we kept all our supplies, but I knew it would be pointless. Sutalde was famous for fresh homegrown produce, daily-procured seafood, and healthily raised, recently butchered viands. We mostly kept things on-site that were hard to come by in a pinch like preserved lemons, vanilla beans, and saffron stamens nothing resembling actual food that could be popped quickly from a freezer and nuked. Indeed, Rodo had banned freezers and microwaves from the premises.

By now, I could hear those tart gooseberries I'd been foolish enough to eat, already fighting for supremacy with the acids in my stomach. I knew I wouldn't last until dinnertime. I had to be fed. I had in my mind the stark, ugly image of the prisoner of Zenda, starving to death here in her very own dungeon the last vision before her eyes of delicious, savory meat rotating slowly on a spit.

I was looking at the logs I'd just placed under the Meschoui, when I caught a glimpse of something silvery and metallic back there in the ashes. I bent over and peered beneath the rotating spit. For sure, there was a tinfoil lump back behind the coals that you could barely see, half covered with ash. I got the rake and pulled it out: a large oval object I instantly recognized. I fell on my knees and started to grab it with my hands, until I realized what I was doing. I yanked on the asbestos gloves, pulled the object out, and peeled the heavy tinfoil away. I'd never been so happy to see anything or so grateful to anyone in my life.

It was a gift from Leda. I recognized not only her style but her taste.

Comfort food: a twice-baked potato stuffed with meat, spinach, and cheese.

It's hard to imagine how perfectly exquisite a stuffed potato can taste, until you're starving. I ate every bit except the tinfoil.

I thought of phoning Leda, until I recalled that she'd worked the graveyard shift for me and was probably sleeping it off right now. But I resolved to buy her a magnum of Perrier-Jout, just as soon as I broke out of prison.

Now that I had an infusion of fodder that I could burn off, it ignited a few thoughts that had not occurred before.

For starters, Leda and Eremon each knew more than they were letting on about this dinner party, as evidence revealed. After all, one was my driver and the other my potato-provider, which meant they knew when I'd be arriving here and that I wouldn't have had time to eat. But there was more.

Last night when I was building the fires, I was too exhausted to follow up on Leda's comments about Rodo: How he'd thrown a fit when he learned I'd left town without notice. How he'd been driving the staff like a slave-master 'ever since I'd left.' How he was throwing a secret party for 'goverment muckety-mucks' and only I was to help out at the dinner. How he'd insisted that Leda was to stay on-site until I returned that night, to 'help me with the fires.'

Then this morning, practically the instant I'd arrived up there at the Kenwood estate with the food, Eremon had raced me back here to the restaurant.

What had Rodo said just after his tantrum this morning just before he slammed the door behind him? He'd said there was no mystery to worry about. That I was late for work. And that Eremon will explain anything you need to know en route.

But what had Eremon actually told me on the way? That Rodo wasn't in charge of this dinner at all lack of control being something my boss had always hated. That it might involve guests from the Middle East. That security was involved. That from square one, this boum had been arranged by the highest echelons of D.C. clout.

Oh, yes and that he himself, Eremon, was in love with Leda the swan.

Such things seemed like diversionary tactics, drawing my vision away from a sneaking lateral attack. This was not the time to miss the big picture, not the moment to succ.u.mb to chess blindness not here, locked in a dungeon, waiting for the ax to fall.

And then it struck me.

When exactly was it this morning that Rodo went into that tantrum? Exactly when did he toss his beret on the floor, lapse into Basque, eject me from his presence? Wasn't this connected with everything Leda and Eremon had hinted at, but hadn't come right out and told me?

It was not my questions about this party that had lit Rodo's fire. It was when I'd demanded to know how he'd found out about that other party. After I told him I'd driven through a blizzard to get here. After I'd demanded to know how he could possibly have known where I was.

Though I'd had the first glimmer, back in Colorado, of what might be headed my way I'd missed the main point until it reached out and bit me: Whatever might happen tonight here in this cellar, it was going to be the next move in the Game.

Tactics and Strategy.

Whereas strategy is abstract and based on long-term goals, tactics are concrete and based on finding the right move now.

Garry Kasparov, How Life Imitates Chess.

Tactics is knowing what to do when there is something to do.

Strategy is knowing what to do when there is nothing to do.

Savielly Tartakower, Polish Grandmaster.

Practice makes perfect, as Key would say.

I'd spent half a lifetime practicing cooking in my uncle's big wood-burning ovens and his open hearth out at Montauk Point on Long Island. And now I'd had another nearly four years of apprenticeship here at Sutalde, under the rigorous, if often overbearing, surveillance of the Basque Bonaparte Monsieur Boujaron.

So one would think that by now, at least when it came to cooking, I'd be able to distinguish a flame from a flimflam.

Yet until this moment it hadn't really hit me that there was something wrong with this scenario. Of course, I'd been a bit preoccupied by things like food and sleep deprivation, by tempestuous tantrums and Secret Service spies. But my first clue that something was wrong should have been the Meschoui itself.

It was obvious to the trained eye. After all, the clockwork spit was running just like clockwork; the fire I'd created was producing an even, steady heat; and the lamb itself, rotating at perfect elevation above the hearth, was trussed correctly, so as it turned all sides would be evenly exposed to heat from the firebox. But the dripping pan was missing. The liquid fat, instead of dropping into a water-filled catch-all beneath, to be recycled for basting the meat, had been splashing onto the flagstones below and baking into a black mess for hours. It would be h.e.l.l to scrub all that off.