Page 150 of The Oligarch's Daughter

“Not yet, I’m not,” Paul said. “That’s what I need to talk to you about.”

“What—what’s my son’s favorite sport?”

“Favorite sport?” Paul was stumped. “He hates sports.”

“Where did he live freshman year?”

“McKinley.” The ambassador’s eyes widened.

“Good Lord! I thought you’d been killed by Arkady Galkin’s goons. Come in, come in.”

The screen went blue again, and the cast-iron gate swung inward. Paul heard the electric swing gate operator’s motor hum.

He walked up a long white flagstone driveway toward the mansion. Colworth Hall was spectacularly beautiful, built entirely of stone with chimney stacks and high-pitched gable rooflines. It was surrounded by an immense green lawn like a golf course, and in front of the house burbled a marble fountain.

By the time he arrived at the portico, the double entrance doors were coming open, antique dark-brown walnut, beautifully carved. Standing there when the doors opened fully was the uniformed housekeeper.

“Welcome,” she said. “The ambassador is in his library. May I get you a drink?”

“No, I’m fine, thanks,” Paul said, though he needed one.

Ambassador John Robinson Gillette was wheelchair-bound now, Paul saw. “Paul Brightman?” he said.

“Yes.”

“Come on in. Take a seat. Did Noreen take your drink order? I’m having a martini. Noreen makes excellent martinis. Can I offer you one as well?”

“Scotch rocks would be excellent,” Paul said.

The ambassador’s wheelchair was parked before a big, roaring fire in a fireplace with carved stone surrounds. The floor was a highly polished mahogany. The walls were wood-paneled. Exposed beams crisscrossed the ceiling.

At ninety, Ambassador Gillette was a patrician figure who spoke with a precise mid-Atlantic accent. His silver hair and eyebrows contrasted dramatically with his dark-brown skin.

“You are indeed Paul Brightman?” he said.

“I am.” Was the ambassador senile, or was he still testing him?

“Sang with J.R., too, as I recall.”

“That’s right.”

“What’s the name of the a cappella singing group you both sang in?”

“The Herodotones.”

Gillette grinned. That was another test. “HowReedis that? From Herodotus, of course. Mr. Brightman, I can’t tell you how grateful I am to you for helping out J.R. in college.”

“He was my friend,” Paul said. “But I’m ashamed I haven’t been in touch.” For the last five years, of course, it had been dangerous for him to reach out to any college friend. “How is he?”

Gillette shrugged. “He’s been better. He’s been able to keep a job, but I still worry about him.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Please give him all my best.”

“You were a wonderful friend to him. So I imagine you have a story to tell.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, I don’t know what I can do to help. I’ve been retired for quite some time. But anything I can do, I’m here for you.”

---