that Sunday, Hamilton Keyes stood at the large window of his library, staring out at the snow-blanketed garden and wondering what it would be like to go outside and build a twilight snowman. Finding it to be a mild temptation, easily resisted, he instead took a long swallow of his iced vodka and, without turning, made an announcement.“After I resigned yesterday they offered to make me an ambassador.”Muriel Keyes was sitting on the odd-size leather couch, wearing gray slacks, white Reeboks, a turtleneck of black silk and holding a Scotch and water. The announcement made her slosh a little of her drink onto a burled-walnut parsons table.Using a paper napkin to mop up the spilled water and alcohol, she said, “You resigned?”Keyes turned from the window. “I believe we’ve arrived at one of our ghastly need-to-know times.”“Yes,” she said. “I do believe we have.”“There’s a catch, of course,” Keyes said as he crossed the room and sat down. They now sat exactly as he and Gilbert Undean had sat on the previous Friday evening: Keyes in the leather armchair and his wife in Undean’s spot on the couch.Keyes had another quick swallow of his drink, then made an exploratory pass over his bald head with the palm of his left hand and said, “The catch goes by the name of Steadfast Haynes.”“Who died.”“But who, before dying, managed to finish his memoirs, entitled Mercenary Calling.”She began a smile that ended as a laugh that was almost a giggle.
