“Unfortunately, in matters of national security it’s not possible to be idealistic. I always think that’s a luxury for people who aren’t willing to dirty their hands. But perhaps we should move to matters of more immediate importance. My wife was most upset by your questioning her yesterday under pretense of being a detective.”

I shook my head. “No pretense. I am a detective. I’m licensed by the state of Illinois and everything.”

He smiled condescendingly. “You know you’re splitting hairs: she never would have admitted you, let alone spoken to you, if she hadn’t believed you were with the Chicago police.”

I smiled back. “You should be pleased with me, Baladine—it shows I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty.”

He frowned briefly. “I’d prefer you demonstrated that someplace other than with my family. Particularly with my son, who has an unfortunate streak of naïveté of his own and is an easy prey for anyone willing to take advantage of his vulnerability.”

“Yes. I suppose one always thinks one’s own family ought to be off–limits, no matter how much one claims to inhabit the world of realpolitik. It’s what makes it so confusing, don’t you think? Everyone has a family, even Gadhafi, that they think should be off–limits. Everyone has a point of view, and who is to judge which point of view is more reliable or more worthy of protection?”

“And what point of view were you trying to protect by harassing my wife?”

He kept his tone light, but he was upset that I’d one–upped him in a philosophy discussion—he controlled his hands, but he couldn’t control a pulse in his temple. I made sure that the breath of relief I exhaled went out very softly indeed.

“My own, Mr. Baladine. With all the money you spent finding out about my whisky preferences, I’m sure you must have put a dollar or two into learning about the State’s Attorney’s attempt to arrest me for a hit–and–run involving your former nanny. Or was he doing that at your and Jean–Claude Poilevy’s request?”

He laughed with a practiced humor that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m honored you have that much respect for my power, but I don’t think Nicola’s death was anything but an unfortunate accident. She ran away from jail; she got hit by a car. I can’t even say I’m sorry: she was a liar and she was a thief. My strongest feeling is annoyance, because my hyper–emotional son is having another tiresome episode over her death.”

“Poor Robbie,” I said. “Not the son for a manly man. Maybe he was swapped at birth with an artist’s child.”