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Rensselaer-Wright. But Gifford had called her something else.
    Cricket.
    Niedermann smiled as he realized that he had just cracked the code of Gifford’s private thoughts. He had heard of Cricket, but always in connection with her father. It had never occurred to him that she might have had an emotional hold on Gifford himself.
    Here was a new deal in the game. The spell of a woman was one of the most powerful ways to get inside a man’s head. It could work to his advantage, if he played it right.
    Hmmm. This called for a little “research” on Cricket Rensselaer-­Wright.
    Fortunately, he knew just the right man for that.

Five

    CRICKET WAS DREAMING OF THE BEACH at Tenerife, a crescent-­shaped sill of white sand ringed by dark mountains, where Canary palms waved lustrous green against blue sky and the foaming, wrinkled cobalt of the sea. Étienne stood at her side, tall and lean, with a shock of wavy, black hair dangling over his forehead. Cricket held his hand, squinting into the sunlight as a warm, dry breeze massaged her skin. She was enveloped by song, by a woman’s voice lapping against her—­luscious, edgeless, smoky, gliding from note to note like syrup or chocolate:
    Duermen en mi jardín
    Las blancas azucenas,
    Los nardos y las rosas.
    White lilies, nards, and roses, asleep in the quiet of the garden. The beauty of the song ravished her. She wanted never to awaken, never to let go of Étienne’s hand. The strange, sweet singer seemed to know what she had suffered—suffering that had to be kept secret, at all costs—even in the solitude of the garden. For if her sorrow were known, even the flowers would die . . .
    Then a clang of silverware broke in, and she knew she was no longer sleeping. She opened her eyes. The singer was leaning over her, staring at her with a feline smile. For a moment it seemed that Tenerife itself had come to her, in the form of this elegantly ovoid face, with its perfect mocha-and-cream skin, broad cheekbones, and ever-so-slightly African fullness of lips and nose.
    â€œYou’re . . . her ,” said the woman, ending her song. She was so close that her long, straight, black hair threatened to brush against Cricket’s eyelashes.
    Cricket bolted upright on the sofa. “Excuse me? Hank!” she called out.
    â€œYou look just like him,” said the woman, still smiling. “I mean, that big painting of him over the staircase at Weiszacker House.”
    Still groggy with sleep, Cricket wrinkled her nose and inhaled sharply to clear her airway. “My father? Sure, I get that all the time. It must be the shiny bald head.” She spoke in jest. But she remembered how, a year ago, after she had shaved her head in her own private kaddish of mourning for Étienne David, she had looked in the mirror and was startled to see how much of a resemblance there was.
    â€œSorry, Cricket,” called out Hank from the kitchen. “This is Yolanda Carlson. Jack Niedermann’s secretary.”
    â€œExecutive assistant,” corrected Yolanda. “Dr. Gifford sent me to look in on you. He said to ask you to please come to the demonstration. It won’t take long, and you can still catch your plane.”
    Cricket noted that two small children were clinging to Yolanda, both lighter in complexion. The girl looked about four, the curly-haired boy younger. The boy reached for Cricket’s nose with a chubby, squirming hand.
    â€œThat’s Chuck junior,” said Yolanda. “The shy one is Bonnie.”
    â€œHi, Bonnie. Hi, Chuck.”
    Chuck’s eyes opened wide at the sound of his name, and he pumped his hand up and down, as if in a one-sided high five. Bonnie withdrew farther behind her mother’s skirt.
    Cricket smiled. “Okay, okay. I’ll come.”
    â€œI’ve brought you an ID badge that will get you in. It’s silver—the highest level.” Yolanda handed