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though he was all she’d ever wanted. A fiction she’d adopted to suit the setting and her mood. Having Little Winston two years ago had improved her public poses, Ian thought; she’d learned this one from photographer Cecil Beaton. Her arms were loosely folded around her drink, cradling her sumptuous breasts; her head was slightly bent, like a Madonna’s. Pam’s secret was that she never looked like a tart. It was only later, Ian reflected, when she’d taken everything you had, that you found out what she was.
    He was conscious of eyes on his back, and glanced over his shoulder. Roosevelt was leaning heavily in his wheelchair, a cheroot between his fingers, a wide and fixed smile on his face as he watched Hudders perform. At that moment, his son Elliott—a man roughly Ian’s own age and already twice married—reached impulsively for Madame Chiang and swung her into a makeshift tango. Too intimate a dance for the company and their level of acquaintance, but the music demanded it. May-ling looked both startled and oddly pleased. Elliott was grinning broadly.
    The President’s pince-nez reflected the light in such a way that Ian could not read his gaze. But Roosevelt was plainly staring at him.
    â€œSir,” he said.
    â€œYou’re Fleming. Hudson’s friend from boarding school.”
    â€œI am, indeed.” Ian inclined his head, hands grasped behind his back—the traditional British act of condescension, masked as deference.
    â€œPerhaps you can explain something to me.”
    â€œI’m at your service, Mr. President.”
    â€œWhy is there suddenly an RAF gun sight on top of the Great Pyramid?”
    â€œBecause the best hope of civilization is collected here in one smallish villa.”
    Roosevelt cocked his head. For the first time the light shifted and Ian caught the shrewdness in his eyes. “The best hope collected days ago. The gun sight showed up this morning. Sure nothing in particular inspired you?”
    â€œA stray Dornier, sir. Reported over Tunis. Not seen, to my knowledge, since.”
    â€œThat’s the second-generation Nazi bomber, correct?”
    â€œIt is. We knocked a few out of the sky in Rommel’s retreat last winter, and have been chasing them ever since.”
    Roosevelt inhaled some smoke and released it, lips pursed. “If anything that interesting comes up between here and Tehran, you’ll talk to Sam, won’t you?”
    â€œSam?”
    â€œSchwartz. Head of my Secret Service detail. He’s a fellow you should know.”
    â€œThen I’ll remember his name,” Ian said.
    He was aware of the piano keys drifting into silence. Hudders rising from the bench, laughing in a self-deprecating way. Madame Chiang was bowing politely as though she’d enjoyed her tango crucifixion. Her husband looked dangerous—like he might slap his glove across Elliott Roosevelt’s face—but Pamela Churchill drifted by, murmuring to Chiang with a smile, and the moment passed.
    Hudders’s eyes flicked up and met Ian’s. His expression of good humor faded. Without the slightest appearance of haste or alarm, he slipped out of his charmed circle and made his way to Ian’s side. Leaned toward him and offered a light.
    â€œWhat is it?” he asked quietly.
    â€œHigh Drama. Conflagration.” Ian expelled a lungful of smoke. “The Too Bad Club meets in my room in a quarter of an hour.”

CHAPTER 4
    A collar stiff with starch. A waistcoat, tails, and top hat. Pin-striped morning trousers. Eve made him wear the new school uniform for a fortnight before he arrived at Eton during the Michaelmas half term in 1921. Peter had already been there for two years, and they were both stuck in the Timbralls, a redbrick house that sat on the Slough road, because it had been Mokie’s house when he was at Eton. Everybody referred to it as Slater’s. Sam Slater, the master, was feared by