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with as much formality as he could muster in a hotel dining room.
    Feisal produced a pen and wrote on the card, then handed it to Lawrence, who read out, “I agree to all of Feisal’s demands.”
    Feisal let out a great belly laugh, then bowed his head as Dulles said farewell.
    Lawrence led them to a quiet alcove in the lobby. The man was only a little older than Dulles—at college, he would have been a senior when Dulles was a freshman—yet he had an ageless quality.
    Becoming a legend in your twenties must do that, Dulles thought, even if you’re short and odd-looking.
    â€œMr. Dulles, I understand you’ve become an adviser to the president.” Lawrence appeared for all the world to be speaking not to Dulles, but to the armrest of Dulles’ chair.
    â€œMr. Wilson has many advisers.”
    â€œLet’s not waste time. The president holds the hopes and dreams of the Arabs in his hands. The Arabs are a great people. They invented algebra and installed indoor plumbing at a time when Europeans were still chanting around open fires. Arab religion and literature are deep expressions of the human soul, and their civilization goes back millennia.”
    â€œThis is all most educational, Colonel—”
    Lawrence held a hand up but still did not look at Dulles. “They joined us in striking down the Turk, and they must share in that victory or they will become our adversaries for generations. It’s that simple. I have lived with them. I understand them. If we fail in this, we will trigger an era of mistrust and hatred that may rival the Crusades.” Still no eye contact. “I hope you can explain that to the president.” Lawrence nodded, rose, and walked off.
    Lawrence was a man of passion, Dulles thought as he sat back in his chair. That passion could be both appealing and disturbing. Certainly he wasn’t an altogether trustworthy fellow.

    Dulles found that dinner and dancing with Lady Florence were very small pleasures. No expanse of prime real estate could compensate for her sluggish conversation and deficit of sensual feeling. He ended the evening as quickly as possible.
    Noting the light shining under the door to Uncle Bert’s suite at the Crillon, he rapped on it. When he entered, his uncle sat stripped to his vest in an overstuffed armchair, a stack of papers on the side table next to him with a glass one-third full of golden cognac.
    â€œI warn you, Allen, that I’m in a foul humor. You might do better to pass on to your room.”
    â€œCognac?” Dulles nodded to a bottle on a low coffee table.
    â€œServe yourself.”
    â€œThe foulness in your life?”
    â€œThis wretched conference.”
    â€œAh.”
    â€œAh, indeed. Our sainted president is leaving to go home to deal with Congress. Of course, he never should have come in the first place, which I told him in no uncertain terms, thereby beginning my exile to the outer regions of the universe. Also, Lloyd George is leaving for London to deal with his Parliament, his unions, his Irishmen, and I don’t know what else. Before they depart, the single thing they will have agreed to is the Covenant for the League of Nations. Not a bad thing of itself, but hardly a worthy output for the immense leaders of the world who have stopped everything else in their respective countries for a two-month period. They will not, Allen”—Lansing pointed an accusing finger at him—“decide on another goddamned thing before they leave.”
    Dulles concentrated on pouring his drink. His uncle had discerning taste in liquors.
    Lansing continued. “The world wants peace, Allie. But Mr. Wilson wants his League of Nations, so the world will have to wait for its peace. We’ll keep just enough troops here to enrage the people back home, disappointing the soldiers who are so homesick and disgusted that they go AWOL on a daily basis. And that will also be just enough soldiers