"Walker, I'm so sorry you couldn't come to our party last night. It was wonderful. Let me tell you all all about it." about it."

The lavish apartment on Fifth Avenue overlooking Central Park had been a wedding present from Bratton Lauterbach. At seven o'clock that evening, Peter Jordan stood at the window. A thunderstorm had moved in over the city. Lightning flashed over the deep green treetops of the park. The wind drove rain against the glass. Peter had driven back into the city alone because Dorothy had insisted that Margaret attend a garden party at Edith Blakemore's. Margaret was being driven back into the city by Wiggins, the Lauterbachs' chauffeur. And now they were going to be caught in the bad weather.

Peter shoved out his arm and glanced at his watch for the fifth time in five minutes. He was supposed to meet the head of the Pennsylvania road and bridge commission at the Stork Club for dinner at seven thirty. Pennsylvania was accepting bids and design proposals for a new bridge over the Allegheny River. Peter's boss wanted him to lock up the deal tonight. He was often called on to entertain clients. He was young and smart, and his beautiful wife was the daughter of one of the most powerful bankers in the country. They were an impressive couple.

He thought, Where the hell is she?

He telephoned the Oyster Bay house and spoke to Dorothy.

"I don't know what to say to you, Peter. She left in plenty of time. Perhaps Wiggins was delayed by the weather. You know Wiggins--one sign of rain and he slows to a crawl."

"I'll give her another fifteen minutes. Then I have to leave."

Peter knew Dorothy wouldn't apologize, so he hung up before there could be an awkward moment of silence. He made himself a gin and tonic and drank it very fast while he waited. At seven-fifteen he took the elevator downstairs and stood in the lobby while the doorman went out into the rain and flagged down a taxi.

"When my wife arrives, ask her to come directly to the Stork Club."

"Yes, sir, Mr. Jordan."

The dinner went well, despite the fact that Peter left the table three times to telephone the apartment and the Oyster Bay house. By eight-thirty he was no longer annoyed, he was worried sick.

At eight forty-five p.m. Paul Delano, the headwaiter, presented himself at Peter's table.

"You have a telephone call at the bar, sir."

"Thanks, Paul."

Peter excused himself. At the bar he had to raise his voice above the clinking glasses and the din of conversation.

"Peter, it's Jane."

Peter heard her voice tremble. "What's wrong?"

"I'm afraid there's been an accident."

"Where are you?"

"I'm with the Nassau County Police."

"What happened?"

"A car pulled in front of them on the highway. Wiggins couldn't see it in the rain. By the time he did it was too late."

"Oh, God!"

"Wiggins is in very bad shape. The doctors aren't holding out much hope for him."

"What about Margaret, dammit!"

Lauterbachs did not cry at funerals; grieving was done in private. It was held at St. James's Episcopal Church, the same church where Peter and Margaret had been married four years earlier. President Roosevelt sent a note of condolence and expressed his disappointment that he could not attend. Most of New York society did did attend. So did most of the financial world, even though the markets were in turmoil. Germany had invaded Poland, and the world was waiting for the other shoe to drop. attend. So did most of the financial world, even though the markets were in turmoil. Germany had invaded Poland, and the world was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Billy stood next to Peter during the service. He wore short pants and a little blazer and tie. As the family filed out of the church, he reached up and tugged on the hem of his aunt Jane's black dress.

"Will Mommy ever come home?"

"No, Billy, she won't. She's left us."

Edith Blakemore overheard the child's question and burst into tears.

"What a tragedy," she gasped, sobbing. "What a needless tragedy!"

Margaret was buried under brilliant skies in the family plot on Long Island. During the Reverend Pugh's final words a murmur passed through the graveside mourners, then died away.

When it was over Peter walked back to the limousines with his best friend, Shepherd Ramsey. Shepherd had introduced Peter to Margaret. Even in his somber dark suit, he looked as though he'd just stepped off the deck of his sailboat.

"What was everyone talking about?" Peter asked. "It was damned rude."

"Someone arrived late, and they'd been listening to a bulletin on the car radio," Shepherd said. "The British and French just declared war on Germany."

3.

LONDON: MAY 1940.

Professor Alfred Vicary vanished without explanation from University College on the third Friday of May 1940. A secretary named Lillian Walford was the last member of the staff to see him before his abrupt departure. In a rare indiscretion, she revealed to the other professors that Vicary's last telephone call had been from the new prime minister. In fact, she had spoken to Mr. Churchill personally.

"Same thing happened to Masterman and Cheney at Oxford," Tom Perrington, an Egyptologist, said as he gazed at the entry in the telephone log. "Mysterious calls, men in dark suits. I suspect our dear friend Alfred has slipped behind the veil." Then he added, sotto voce, "Into the secret Acropolis."

Perrington's languid smile did little to hide his disappointment, Miss Walford would remark later. Too bad Britain wasn't at war with the ancient Egyptians--perhaps Perrington would have been chosen too.

Vicary spent his last hours in the cramped disorderly office overlooking Gordon Square putting the final touches on an article for the Sunday Times. Sunday Times. The current crisis might have been avoided, it suggested, if Britain and France had attacked Germany in 1939 while Hitler still was preoccupied with Poland. He knew it would be roundly criticized given the current climate; his last piece had been denounced as "Churchillian warmongering" by a publication of the pro-Nazi extreme right. Vicary secretly hoped his new article would be similarly received. The current crisis might have been avoided, it suggested, if Britain and France had attacked Germany in 1939 while Hitler still was preoccupied with Poland. He knew it would be roundly criticized given the current climate; his last piece had been denounced as "Churchillian warmongering" by a publication of the pro-Nazi extreme right. Vicary secretly hoped his new article would be similarly received.

It was a glorious late-spring day, bright sunshine but deceptively chilly. Vicary, an accomplished if reluctant chess player, appreciated deception. He rose, put on a cardigan sweater, and resumed his work.

The fine weather painted a false picture. Britain was a nation under siege--defenseless, frightened, reeling in utter confusion. Plans were drawn up to evacuate the Royal Family to Canada. The government asked that Britain's other national treasure, its children, be sent into the countryside where they would be safe from the Luftwaffe's bombers.

Through the use of skilled propaganda the government had made the general public extremely aware of the threat posed by spies and Fifth Columnists. It was now reaping the consequences. Constabularies were being buried by reports of strangers, odd-looking fellows, or German-looking gentlemen. Citizens were eavesdropping on conversations in pubs, hearing what they liked, then telling the police. They reported smoke signals, winking shore lights, and parachuting spies. A rumor swept the country that German agents posed as nuns during the invasion of the Low Countries; suddenly, nuns were suspect. Most left the walled sanctuary of their convents only when absolutely necessary.

One million men too young, too old, or too feeble to get into the armed forces rushed to join the Home Guard. There were no extra rifles for the Guard so they armed themselves with whatever they could: shotguns, swords, broom handles, medieval bludgeons, Gurkha knives, even golf clubs. Those who somehow couldn't find a suitable weapon were instructed to carry pepper to toss into the eyes of marauding German soldiers.

Vicary, a noted historian, watched his nation's jittery preparations for war with a mixture of enormous pride and quiet depression. Throughout the thirties his periodic newspaper articles and lectures had warned that Hitler posed a serious threat to England and the rest of the world. But Britain, exhausted from the last war with the Germans, had been in no mood to hear about another. Now the German army was driving across France with the ease of a weekend motor outing. Soon Adolf Hitler would stand atop an empire stretching from the Arctic Circle to the Mediterranean. And Britain, poorly armed and ill prepared, stood alone against him.

Vicary finished the article, set down his pencil, and read it from the beginning. Outside, the sun was setting into a sea of orange over London. The smell of the crocuses and daffodils in the gardens of Gordon Square drifted in his window. The afternoon had turned colder; the flowers were likely to set off a sneezing fit. But the breeze felt wonderful on his face and somehow made the tea taste better. He left the window open and enjoyed it.

The war--it was making him think and act differently. It was making him look more fondly upon his countrymen, whom he usually viewed with something approaching despair. He marveled at how they made jokes while filing into the shelter of the underground and at the way they sang in pubs to hide their fear. It took Vicary some time to recognize his feelings for what they were: patriotism. During his lifetime of study he had concluded it was the most destructive force on the planet. But now he felt the stirring of patriotism in his own chest and did not feel ashamed. We are good and they are evil. Our nationalism is justified.

Vicary had decided he wanted to contribute. He wanted to do something instead of watching the world through his well-guarded window.

At six o'clock Lillian Walford entered without knocking. She was tall with a shot-putter's legs and round glasses that magnified an unfaltering gaze. She began straightening papers and closing books with the quiet efficiency of a night nurse.

Nominally, Miss Walford was assigned to all the professors in the department. But she believed that God, in his infinite wisdom, entrusted each of us with one soul to look after. And if any poor soul needed looking after, it was Professor Vicary. For ten years she had overseen the details of Vicary's uncomplicated life with military precision. She made certain there was food at his house in Draycott Place in Chelsea. She saw that his shirts were delivered and contained the right amount of starch--not too much or it would irritate the soft skin of his neck. She saw to his bills and lectured him regularly about the state of his poorly managed bank account. She hired new maids with seasonal regularity because his fits of bad temper drove away the old ones. Despite the closeness of their working relationship they never referred to each other by their Christian names. She was Miss Walford and he was Professor Vicary. She preferred to be called a personal assistant and, uncharacteristically, Vicary indulged her.

Miss Walford brushed past Vicary and closed the window, casting him a scolding look. "If you don't mind, Professor Vicary, I'll be going home for the evening."

"Of course, Miss Walford."

He looked up at her. He was a fussy, bookish little man, bald on top except for a few uncontrollable strands of gray hair. His long-suffering half-moon reading glasses rested on the end of his nose. They were smudged with fingerprints because of his habit of taking them on and off whenever he was nervous. He wore a weather-beaten tweed coat and a carelessly selected tie stained with tea. His walk was something of a joke around the university; without his knowledge some of his students had learned to imitate it perfectly. A shattered knee during the last war had left him with a stiff-jointed, mechanized limp--a toy soldier no longer in good working order, Miss Walford thought. His head tended to tilt down so he could see over his reading glasses, and he seemed forever rushing somewhere he'd rather not be.

"Mr. Ashworth delivered two nice lamb chops to your house a short time ago," Miss Walford said, frowning at a messy stack of papers as though it were an unruly child. "He said it may be the last lamb he gets for some time."

"I should think so," said Vicary. "There hasn't been meat on the menu at the Connaught in weeks."

"It's getting a little absurd, don't you think, Professor Vicary? Today, the government decreed the tops of London's buses should be painted battleship gray," Miss Walford said. "They think it will make it more difficult for the Luftwaffe to bomb them."

"The Germans are ruthless, Miss Walford, but even they won't waste their time trying to bomb passenger buses."

"They've also decreed that we should not shoot carrier pigeons. Would you please explain to me how I'm supposed to tell a carrier pigeon from a real one?"

"I can't tell you how often I'm tempted to shoot pigeons," Vicary said.

"By the way, I took the liberty of ordering you some mint sauce as well," Miss Walford said. "I know how eating lamb chops without mint sauce can destroy your week."

"Thank you, Miss Walford."

"Your publisher rang to say the proofs of the new book are ready for you to examine."

"And only four weeks late. A record for Cagley. Remind me to find a new publisher, Miss Walford."

"Yes, Professor Vicary. Miss Simpson telephoned to say she'll be unable to have dinner with you tonight. Her mother has taken ill. She asked me to tell you it's nothing serious."

"Damn," Vicary muttered. He had been looking forward to the date with Alice Simpson. It was the most serious he had been about a woman in a very long time.

"Is that all?"

"No--the prime minister telephoned."

"What! Why on earth didn't you tell me?"

"You left strict instructions not to be disturbed. When I told this to Mr. Churchill he was quite understanding. He says nothing upsets him more than being interrupted when he's writing."

Vicary frowned. "From now on, Miss Walford, you have my explicit permission to interrupt me when Mr. Churchill telephones."

"Yes, Professor Vicary," she replied, undeterred in her belief that she had acted properly.

"What did the prime minister say?"

"You're expected for lunch tomorrow at Chartwell."

Vicary varied his walks home according to his mood. Sometimes he preferred to jostle along a busy shopping street or through the buzzing crowds of Soho. Other nights he left the main thoroughfares and roamed the quiet residential streets, now pausing to gaze at a splendidly lit example of Georgian architecture, now slowing to listen to the sounds of music, laughter, and clinking glass drifting from a happy cocktail party.

Tonight he floated along a quiet street through the dying twilight.

Before the war he had spent most nights doing research at the library, wandering the stacks like a ghost late into the evening. Some nights he fell asleep. Miss Walford issued instructions to the night janitors: When they found him he was to be awakened, tucked into his mackintosh, and sent home for the night.

The blackout had changed that. Each night the city plunged into pitch darkness. Native Londoners lost their way along streets they had walked for years. For Vicary, who suffered from night blindness, the blackout made navigation next to impossible. He imagined this is what it must have been like two millennia ago, when London was a clump of log huts along the swampy banks of the River Thames. Time had dissolved, the centuries retreated, man's undeniable progress brought to a halt by the threat of Goring's bombers. Each afternoon Vicary fled the college and rushed home before becoming stranded on the darkened side streets of Chelsea. Once safely inside his home he drank his statutory two glasses of burgundy and consumed the plate of chop and peas his maid left for him in a warm oven. Had they not prepared his meals he might have starved, for he still was grappling with the complexities of the modern English kitchen.

After dinner, some music, a play on the wireless, even a detective novel, a private obsession he shared with no one. Vicary liked mysteries; he liked riddles. He liked to use his powers of reasoning and deduction to solve the cases long before the author did it for him. He also liked the character studies in mysteries and often found parallels to his own work--why good people sometimes did wicked things.

Sleep was a progressive affair. It began in his favorite chair, reading lamp still burning. Then he would move to the couch. Then, usually in the hours just before dawn, he would march upstairs to his bedroom. Sometimes the concentration required to remove his clothes would leave him too alert to fall back to sleep, so he would lie awake and think and wait for the gray dawn and the snicker of the old magpie that splashed about each morning in the birdbath outside in the garden.

He doubted he would sleep much tonight--not after the summons from Churchill.

It was not unusual for Churchill to ring him at the office, it was just the timing. Vicary and Churchill had been friends since the autumn of 1935, when Vicary attended a lecture delivered by Churchill in London. Churchill, confined to the wilderness of the backbench, was one of the few voices in Britain warning of the threat posed by the Nazis. That night he claimed Germany was rearming herself at a feverish pace, that Hitler intended to fight as soon as he was capable. England must rearm at once, he argued, or face enslavement by the Nazis. The audience thought Churchill had lost his mind and heckled him mercilessly. Churchill had cut short his remarks and returned to Chartwell, mortified.

Vicary stood at the back of the lecture hall that night, watching the spectacle. He too had been observing Germany carefully since Hitler's rise to power. He had quietly predicted to his colleagues that England and Germany would soon be at war, perhaps before the end of the decade. No one listened. Many people thought Hitler was a fine counterbalance to the Soviet Union and should be supported. Vicary thought that utter nonsense. Like the rest of the country he considered Churchill a bit of an adventurer, a bit too bellicose. But when it came to the Nazis, Vicary believed Churchill was dead on target.

Returning home, Vicary sat at his desk and jotted him a one-sentence note: I attended your lecture in London and agree with every word you uttered. I attended your lecture in London and agree with every word you uttered. Five days later a note from Churchill arrived at Vicary's home: Five days later a note from Churchill arrived at Vicary's home: My God, I am not alone after all. The great Vicary is at my side! Please do me the honor of coming to Chartwell for lunch this Sunday. My God, I am not alone after all. The great Vicary is at my side! Please do me the honor of coming to Chartwell for lunch this Sunday.

Their first meeting was a success. Vicary was immediately absorbed into the ring of academics, journalists, civil servants, and military officers who would give Churchill advice and intelligence on Germany for the rest of the decade. Winston forced Vicary to listen while he paced the ancient wooden floor of his library and explained his theories about German intentions. Sometimes Vicary disagreed, forcing Churchill to clarify his positions. Sometimes Churchill lost his temper and refused to back down. Vicary would hold his ground. Their friendship was cemented in this manner.

Now, walking through the gathering dusk, Vicary thought of Churchill's summons to Chartwell. It certainly wasn't just to have a friendly chat.

Vicary turned onto a street lined with white Georgian terraces, painted rose by the last minutes of the spring twilight. He walked slowly, as if lost, one hand clutching his leaden briefcase, the other rammed into his mackintosh pocket. An attractive woman, roughly his age, emerged from a doorway. A handsome man with a bored face followed her. Even from a distance--even with his dreadful eyesight--he could see it was Helen. He would recognize her anywhere: the erect carriage, the long neck, the disdainful walk, as if she were always about to step into something disagreeable. Vicary watched them climb into the back of the chauffeur-driven car. It drew away from the curb and headed in his direction. Turn away, you damned fool! Don't look at her! Turn away, you damned fool! Don't look at her! But he was incapable of heeding his own advice. As the car passed he turned his head and looked into the rear seat. She saw him--just for an instant--but it was long enough. Embarrassed, she looked quickly down. Vicary, through the rear window of the car, watched her turn and murmur something to her husband that made his head snap back with laughter. But he was incapable of heeding his own advice. As the car passed he turned his head and looked into the rear seat. She saw him--just for an instant--but it was long enough. Embarrassed, she looked quickly down. Vicary, through the rear window of the car, watched her turn and murmur something to her husband that made his head snap back with laughter.

Idiot! Bloody damned idiot!

Vicary started walking again. He looked up and watched the car vanish around a corner. He wondered where they were headed--off to another party, the theater maybe. Why can't I just let her go? It's been twenty-five years, for God's sake! And then he thought, And why is your heart beating like it was the first time you saw her face?

He walked as fast as he could until he grew tired and out of breath. He thought of anything that came into his mind--anything but her. He came to a playground and stood at the wrought-iron gate, staring through the bars at the children. They were overdressed for May, bumping around like tiny plump penguins. Any German spy lurking about would surely realize many Londoners had discounted the government's warning and kept their children with them in the city. Vicary, normally indifferent to children, stood at the gate and listened, mesmerized, thinking there was nothing quite so comforting as the sound of little ones at play.

Churchill's car was waiting for him at the station. It sped, top down, through the rolling green countryside of southeast England. The day was cool and breezy, and it seemed everything was in bloom. Vicary sat in back, one hand holding his coat closed, the other pressing his hat to his head. Wind blew over the open car like a gale over the prow of a ship. He debated whether he should ask the driver to stop and put up the top. Then the inevitable sneezing fit began--at first like sporadic sniper fire, then progressing into a full-fledged barrage. Vicary couldn't decide which hand to free to cover his mouth. He repeatedly pivoted his head and sneezed so the little puffs of moisture and germs were carried away by the wind.

The driver saw Vicary's gyrations in the mirror and became alarmed. "Would you like me to stop the car, Professor Vicary?" he asked, easing off the throttle.