But Reagan’s heart was in the right place, that was the main thing. He was passionately anti-Communist.

Lidka said: “And your grandfather was a senator!”

That did not count for much either. Gus Dewar was in his nineties. After Grandmama died he had moved from Buffalo to San Francisco to be near Woody, Beep, and his great-grandson, John Lee. He was long retired from politics. Besides, he was a Democrat, and by Reaganite standards an extreme liberal.

Cam and Lidka walked up a short flight of steps to a red-brick house that looked like a small French château, with dormer windows in the slate roof and a white stone entrance topped by a small Greek pediment. This was the home of Frank and Marybell Lindeman, heavyweight donors to Reagan’s campaign funds and multimillion-dollar beneficiaries of his tax cut. Marybell was one of half a dozen women who dominated Washington social life. She entertained the men who ran America. That was why Cam felt lucky to be here.

Although the Lindemans were Republicans, Marybell’s dinners were cross-party affairs, and Cam was expecting to see senior men from both sides here tonight.

A butler took their coats. Looking around the grand hall, Lidka said: “Why do they have these terrible paintings?”

“It’s called Western art,” Cam said. “That’s a Remington—very valuable.”

“If I had all that money, I wouldn’t buy pictures of cowboys and Indians.”

“They’re making a point. The impressionists were not necessarily the best painters ever. American artists are just as good.”

“No, they’re not—everyone knows that.”

“Matter of opinion.”

Lidka shrugged: another mystery of American life.

The butler showed them into a wide drawing room. It looked like an eighteenth-century salon, with a Chinese dragon carpet and a scatter of spindly chairs upholstered in yellow silk. Cam realized they were the first guests to arrive. A moment later, Marybell appeared through another door. She was a statuesque woman with a mass of red hair that might or might not have been its natural color. She was wearing a necklace of what looked, to Cam, like unusually large diamonds. “How kind of you to come early!” she said.

Cam knew this was a reproof, but Lidka was oblivious. “I couldn’t wait to see your wonderful house,” she gushed.

“And how do you like living in America?” Marybell asked her. “Tell me, what is the best thing about this country, in your opinion?”

Lidka thought for a moment. “You have all these black people,” she said.

Cam suppressed a groan. What the hell was she saying?

Marybell was surprised into silence.

Lidka waved a hand to indicate the waiter holding a tray of champagne flutes, the maid bringing canapés, and the butler, all of whom were African American. “They do everything, like opening doors and serving drinks and sweeping the floor. In Poland we have no one to do that work—everyone has to do it themselves!”

Marybell looked a little frantic. Such talk was incorrect even in Reagan’s Washington. Then she looked over Lidka’s shoulder and saw another guest hovering. “Karim, darling!” she screeched. She embraced a handsome dark-skinned man in an immaculate pin-striped suit. “Meet Cam Dewar and his wife, Lidka. This is Karim Abdullah, from the Saudi embassy.”