Jack found a spot on Thirty-eighth where he could stand and watch the Clayton house unseen. He timed the “security force’s” inspection rounds and noticed that they always operated as a pair, leaving the car twice an hour to make a perimeter inspection. No uniforms, just windbreakers and slacks.

Every so often one would walk off and return with a paper sack—coffee and donuts, most likely. And occasionally one would enter the house through the front door and return a few minutes later. They didn’t need a Porta Potti; they had the house.

At ten to three, another car showed up. The first pulled out, letting the second into the precious parking space, and the next shift took over.

Satisfied that he had the security boys’ schedule down, Jack called Abe for a consultation.

“So you want them down for the count, but they shouldn’t be candidates for a nursing home.”

“Right. A nice long nap is all.”

“T-72 is what you want,” Abe told him. “Colorless, odorless, no serious side effects, and best of all, it’s made in America for the U.S. Army.”

“Sounds great,” Jack said. “I’ll take some.”

“And I would gladly sell you some if I had any. But I do not. It’s not exactly a sporting good.”

“I can’t tell you how disappointed I am, Abe.”

“Nu, I should stock everything in the world you will possibly need so that when you ask for it I can give it to you?”

“Yeah. Because you’re the best.”

“Feh! I’ll find you some.”

“By tonight?”

“Such a kidder he is. If I’m lucky, perhaps maybe I can have a canister for you tomorrow afternoon.”

“Good enough, I suppose.”

Jack had wanted to search the house tonight, but he’d have to put it off.

“Good enough? Such a feat should be acclaimed as nothing short of heroic.”

“See you tomorrow, my hero.”

After he hung up with Abe, Jack called Alicia.

6.

6.

“Shall I open another?” the waiter said, holding up the empty merlot bottle.

Will looked at her and raised his eyebrows.

Alicia shrugged. “I could go for a little more. It’s delicious.”

So was everything else she’d tried tonight. Zov’s was this noisy little place off Union Square, more of a bistro than a restaurant. But the rack of lamb on the platter between them had been marinated in something indescribable and was by far the most delicious meat she had ever eaten.

And as for the wine: she could go for a lot more.

Jack’s call this afternoon had unsettled her. That Thomas had an Arab backer willing to pay the ten million she’d asked for the house had shocked her; that they were convinced the house held a secret many times more valuable had floored her; but Jack’s plan to sneak into the house and search it had stopped her dead in her tracks.