The Morgan Files. Leo J. Maloney

Sauvage.”

      “You are Marjorie Francis from Akron, Ohio,” said Morgan, closing the curtains in the foyer. “Your hair comes from a bottle and your accent comes from Brigitte Bardot movies.”

      Adele smiled. “You’ve got the tongue of a viper.”

      “I’m just not the kind of sap who makes up your clientele.”

      “People fall for what they want to fall for,” said Adele, her voice now adult and self-assured. Morgan turned around to look at her. She had risen, her coquettish pose replaced by a disdainful hand on her hip. “You learn that when you trade in fantasy. But I don’t think I have to tell you that, do I, Mr. Secret Agent Man?”

      “Morgan will do fine,” he said. “Now, I understand you have something for me?”

      “I do,” she said, with a sly grin. “And you have something for me?”

      “It’s on its way,” said Morgan. “As a matter of fact, your dear friend Peter Conley is bringing it to us.”

      “Please tell me he’s not bringing cash,” she said. “I specifically asked no cash.”

      “No, no money,” said Morgan. “We’re bringing a very expensive gift from an anonymous admirer. A valuable antique that we guarantee can be sold at auction for at least two hundred thousand.”

      “Ooh, is it shiny?”

      “Very shiny,” said Morgan. “That would be us holding up our end of the bargain. Now, where’s yours?”

      “My end of the bargain is right here,” she said, reaching into her robe. Morgan’s hand went for his gun, which wasn’t there—it wouldn’t have made it past the hotel’s metal detectors. But there was no danger. She merely pulled out the stamp-sized memory card that Conley had given her two nights before and held it between her thumb and index finger. “The contents of the smart phone of Jasper Elliott.”

      Morgan reached for it, but she slipped it back into her robe. “No, no, no, monsieur Morgan. Not until my payment arrives.”

      Morgan threw up his hands. “Fair enough. Conley should be on his way.”

      “I suppose we’ll have to stand each other’s company for a few more minutes, then.” Adele circled the table.

      “Nice digs we’ve set you up with,” he said, looking around the suite. The carpet and upholstery were sky blue, offset by an off-white armchair and beige wallpaper. Altogether, the seats, the wrought iron coffee table, the Tiffany fireplace screen, the end table, and the desk gave the suite a feeling of clutter. Morgan’s wife, Jenny, the interior decorator, would have loved it. Morgan liked his spaces to be spare.

      “Oh, please,” she said. “At my rates, this is on the low end for my clients. Plus, when you have lived in the palace of the Sultan of Brunei, there is little in the way of luxury that can impress you.”

      Morgan raised his eyebrows in interest. “You’ll have to tell me all about that someday.”

      “I really don’t,” she said.

      Morgan sat back in the armchair, which was stiff and uncomfortable for all its fanciness. “I guess discretion is a big deal in your line of work.”

      “Frankly, it’s more for what they say than what they do,” she said. “It’s the dirty little secret of my profession, Mr. Morgan. We spend quite a bit more time having conversations than on our backs. There’s a premium on a girl who can talk about everything from Shakespeare to Derrida to the Red Sox.”

      “What’s a girl who can talk Shakespeare and Derrida doing being an escort?”

      “To make the kind of money I make at my age,” she said, “the only other way is to be a different kind of whore on Wall Street.” She leaned in and whispered, “I think my kind is much more dignified.”

      Morgan flashed a grin at her, and she returned it until something seemed to catch her eye though the narrow opening between the curtains. Morgan followed her gaze to see a procession of police cars.

      “What the hell?” He stood up to get a clearer view. He tried to get his face flat against the window in order to see as far up Park Avenue as possible. He made out a couple of town cars bearing flags with green and red details.

      He heard the beeping of his radio communicator in his ear. Conley was hailing him. “Morgan here. What’s happening? Thanksgiving Day parade come a day late?”

      “It’s Ramadani,” said Conley. “The President of Iran. I just got off the phone with Bloch.”

      “He was supposed to—”

      “Stay at the Plaza, I know,” cut in Conley. “Change of plans, evidently. I got the package, but I’m not getting inside until this dies down.”

      “All right,” said Morgan. “Keep me posted. Out.” He cut the mic and turned to Adele. “Is there any chance I could get that little piece of plastic off of you on an IOU?”

      “Oh, baby, sorry, but I don’t work on credit,” she said. “Rule number one.” She sat back on the white armchair, extending her legs on an ottoman and letting her high heels dangle off her toes. “You want it, you’ve got to pay for it.”

      He looked through the half-drawn curtain at the loose police cordon that was forming around the hotel entrance. A crowd was gathering, and he saw no sign of Conley. “Looks like it’s going to be awhile.” He thought about Alex. She’d be arriving at Grand Central Terminal pretty soon, and it was getting increasingly unlikely that he’d be able to meet her there.

      “Honey, I’ve got all day,” she said. “It’s not like I was going outside on Black Friday, anyway. I beat the crowds by staying in.”

      “Well, it looks like the crowds came to us,” he said.

      “I can think of worse places to be stuck,” said Adele, and picked up the receiver on her hotel phone. “Breakfast? You’re buying.”

      7:18 a.m.

      Shir Soroush stood at the window overlooking Park Avenue, arms crossed, the entire city at his feet. In his mind, the various strands of the plan were converging. Months of planning led up to this moment. Righteous energy surged through his body. Soon, he thought. So soon.

      He turned at the sound of footsteps approaching, wooden heels padding on the carpeted floor. It was a man with a large hooked nose and a thick beard despite his relative youth. Zubin.

      “I have made contact with Razi, Salm, and Sharzeh,” he said. “They are in position.”

      “Good,” said Soroush. “What of the Secret Service?”

      “They have two men here already, but they are scrambling. They were caught completely off guard.”

      “And Ramadani?”

      “The President is on his way up with Asadi and Taleb.”

      “I’ll be ready to welcome him,” said Soroush. He walked to the foyer and waited, hands clasped at the small of his back, until the elevator arrived at the floor and Ramadani emerged accompanied by his secretary and chief of staff.

      “Sir,” Soroush said, offering his hand for a shake. “Welcome to your accommodations in New York City.”

      “Shir, it is good to see you,” said Ramadani. “You’ve done a good job here.” He gestured to their surroundings. “Beautiful. Classic.”

      “Thank you, sir,” said Soroush, hiding his contempt. Ramadani’s fine features, a straight nose and strong chin, more suitable for a movie star than a statesman, concealed a weakling and a traitor to his people.

      “Professional as always,” said Ramadani, making his way from the foyer to the living room. Soroush followed. Its light-colored walls, floor, and upholstery gave it an airy and light feeling. “Have