At the stroke of eight o’clock, Fred rang the silver dinner gong that Stone had found at a shop in the King’s Road, London, some years before, and the guests began looking for their place cards. Stone had put Ian Rattle and Caroline at the far end of the table from where he sat with Holly on his right and Heather to his left. For insurance, in case Caroline did not find Ian sufficiently attractive, he had placed Herbie on her other side.

“What brings you to New York, Ian?” Bill Eggers asked.

“Oh, a bit of housekeeping at our UN embassy,” Ian replied smoothly. “Very boring, but periodically necessary.”

“You’re with the Foreign Office, then?”

“For my sins.”

That received a chuckle, and no one probed further.

“Holly, what’s your excuse to get out of Washington?” Eggers’s most recent wife, Eleanora, asked.

“I’m speaking at a luncheon tomorrow at the Foreign Policy Association.”

“And your subject?”

“The Middle East, what else?”

“Are you for it or against it?” Stone asked.

“You’ll have to sit through a rubber chicken lunch to find out,” she replied, then turned to Dino. “Dino, I hear that you somehow were recently appointed police commissioner, or is that just an ill-founded rumor?”

“I’m afraid it is so,” Dino said.

“Next, you’ll be running for president.”

“If that should ever happen, Stone has promised to shoot me.”

“And I will keep that promise,” Stone said.

“Dino,” Herbie said, “you’ve been getting remarkably good press since you moved into One Police Plaza. How do you do that?”

“By keeping my mouth shut,” Dino replied. “If you don’t say anything, they can’t quote you.”

“I’ve been telling him to shut up for years,” Stone said.

The dinner moved from a foie gras course, through a duck course and a soufflé course to a cheese course. Fred had decanted two bottles of port Stone had been saving for a special occasion, and a perfect Stilton was served with it.

“My God,” Ian exclaimed after tasting the wine. “What is this?”

“It’s a Quinta do Noval Nacional ’61.”

“I know Noval, but what is Nacional?”

“It’s a tiny area in the Noval vineyard, planted with ungrafted, pre-phylloxera vines, and virtually unobtainable, unless you know somebody. Fortunately, I know Marcel du Bois, our French partner in the Arrington hotels, who gave me four bottles for Christmas last year.”

“This wine is older than my parents!” Heather said, getting a laugh.

When the guests moved to leave, not a drop of the port had been wasted.

—

When the last guest had left, Stone invited Ian into his study and gave him a glass of very old Armagnac.

“That was a perfect dinner,” Ian said. “I didn’t know California wines could be that good, and the port, of course, was nothing short of sensational.”