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cunning man. She said, “Temperature, too, is relative. Men are usually too warm when a woman feels comfortable. Why don’t you take off your jacket?”
    “I prefer to leave it on.”
    And with good reason,
she thought. She had spotted the pistol.
    The limousine moved up a few feet. Grenville handed the drinks around. “We may be the only people in the country celebrating—what is it called?—Loyalty Day. It’s also International Law Day, or something.” He sucked on an ice cube. “Well, most of us at Van Dorn’s will be lawyers, and most of us are loyal, so I suppose it’s fitting.” He bit into his ice cube.
    Joan winced. “Don’t
do
that. God, what a horrid weekend this is going to be. Why does Van Dorn make such a spectacle of himself?” She looked at Marc Pembroke.
    Pembroke smiled. “I understand that Mr. Van Dorn never misses an opportunity to make his next-door neighbors uncomfortable.”
    Joan Grenville finished her Scotch in a long swallow, then said to no one in particular, “Is he going to blare those speakers toward their estate again? God, what a headache I get.”
    Tom Grenville laughed. “You can imagine the headache
they
get.”
    Katherine said, “It’s all rather petty. George lowers himself by doing this.”
    Joan Grenville nodded in agreement. “He’s going to do it again, isn’t he? Memorial Day, I mean. Then
again
on July Fourth. Oh, Tom, let’s be out of town. I can’t stand all this flag-waving, martial music, fireworks, and whatnot. It’s not fun, really.” She turned to Marc Pembroke again. “The English wouldn’t behave like this, would they? I mean, you’re civilized.”
    Pembroke crossed his legs and looked closely at Joan Grenville. She stared back at him and the first smile of the evening broke across her face. They held eye contact for several seconds, then Joan reiterated, “I mean, are you civilized or not?”
    Pembroke rubbed his lower lip, then replied, “Only recently, I think. Are you staying the weekend?”
    The sudden shift in subject caught her off guard. “No . . . I mean, yes. We may. And you?”
    He nodded.
    Tom Grenville seemed not to notice the currents passing between his wife and the Englishman as he made himself another drink. There was a sharp knock on the window of the stopped vehicle and Grenville lowered it. A helmeted policeman peered in and asked, “Van Dorn’s or the Russians’?”
    “Van Dorn’s,” answered Grenville. “Don’t we look like capitalists?”
    “You all look the same to me, buddy. Pull out on the shoulder and go around this mess.”
    Grenville instructed the driver through the intercom and the limousine pulled out of the line of traffic and moved slowly on the shoulder.
    Before they came to the main entrance of the Russian estate, they passed the YMCA, whose enclosed tennis courts as well as a few other buildings had once been part of Killenworth. Grenville said to his wife, “That’s where the FBI headquarter themselves. The CIA uses the Glengariff Nursing Home up the road.”
    “Who cares?” replied Joan.
    Marc Pembroke said, “How do you know that?”
    Grenville shrugged. “Local lore.”
    The limousine drew abreast of the main gates to the Russian estate, moving very slowly through the police cars and motorcycles. Katherine thought there must be at least a hundred people picketing, led by the mayor of Glen Cove, Dominic Parioli, holding a huge bullhorn and wearing an Uncle Sam top hat.
    Tom Grenville inclined his head toward the demonstrators. “About a fourth of them are FBI agents, with a few CIA, plus some county and state undercover police. Not to mention a KGB spy or two. If it weren’t for all the double agents, Parioli couldn’t muster ten people.” He chuckled softly.
    The demonstrators started singing “America,” the police were trying to get the vehicles through the crowd, and rockets were bursting overhead. In the distance, Van Dorn’s speakers could be heard now, also blaring out