The waiter brought the menus. Devlin knew what he wanted, cold poached salmon with dill sauce. Loncaric was the gastronomic adventurer. When Devlin found something he liked, he stayed with it until his dining companions started making fun of him. After the waiter had gone, it was Loncaric’s turn to look out toward the river. He was a little guy, five-seven or so, and would have looked younger than his age, thirty-seven, but for his receding hairline and the puffiness of permanent exhaustion under his eyes. Devlin took him to be a driven man, but Devlin didn’t know what Loncaric was driven to, or from. At least he was sober. Aside from a desire to be in the center of the action, Loncaric didn’t seem to believe much in anything. He rarely discussed God, faith, religion, ritual, or prayer, and when he did, he seemed embarrassed. By Loncaric’s vaguely amused expression now, Devlin could see he had nothing so intangible or subjective on his mind. “You might as well know the worst of it, Frank. The cardinal and Jack Brennan had done a deal to stay off each other’s turf after the election—not embroil each other on the abortion issue, and so forth. You have the idea. You can imagine what His Eminence thinks of the City Hall crowd and all the funny, non-Catholic characters floating around the mayor. It’s a far cry from the old days … when St. Pat’s was quite properly called The Powerhouse. Having Jack Brennan in the Senate was going to restore the old balance, as it were. The cardinal was all but rubbing his hands with glee. What you might as well know is that His Eminence is now mightily pissed. He said that something funny was going on up at the Waldorf Towers, that one of his ‘boys’ in Harry Levine’s office tipped him off that our almost-next senator was into S and M. Is that right?”

Devlin grinned. “You mean, is that what they call it?”

“Don’t fuck with me, Frank.

Levine had a spy in the mayor’s office; the cardinal had a spy in Levine’s office. Who spied on the cardinal? The Russians, most likely. And who spied on Frank Devlin?

He said, “Even if I knew something, I couldn’t tell you. You know that. Assuming I did know something and could tell you, what good would the information do you?”

“Don’t give me that. Brennan was being systematically beaten by the girl.”

Devlin stared at him.