Foxx was just getting ready to start the Game of Nations, the role-playing exercise he had organized for the State Department, when a large bald man wearing earphones and carrying a four-foot pole entered. "McNab, Security Officer," he identified himself with authority.

He proceeded to crawl around the floor like an old-time prospector searching for water. He poked the pole under various objects in the room, disappeared under the huge round table in the center of the room, resurfaced, and made a reconnaissance around the edges of the room waving the pole in front of him. Foxx watched in amazement, not sure what was going on.

McNab said that he had to "sweep all the damn operations rooms in foggy bottom because one lousy limpet was found in the Secretary of State's dining room." A "limpet" was, he further explained, a miniature radio transmitter used by foreign intelligence agents. "Someone stuck it under the table with chewing gum."

Foxx wondered what a foreign agent eavesdropping might overhear: fictitious scenarios for a coup d'etat? Economic destabilization programs for non-existent countries, assassination plots against imaginary leaders? Would he assume that places with such odd names as Zemblia, Transvania, and North Arcania were code names for existing countries? He couldn't help but be amused by the international muddle that might result from such spying. How would the incoming President, General Eisenhower explain it? Would a foreign country believe that what was overheard was nothing more than hypothetical scenarios designed by an ambitious Harvard assistant professor for the benefit of under-employed diplomats?

McNab announced, by making a zero between his thumb and forefinger, that there were no bugs, and left with his equipment. "The gaming center is secure."

Foxx could now commence the second round. When Bronson Tracy had first told him about the Gaming Center, he pictured it as something housing a collection of board games, like chess, checkers and monopoly. But he had then found on his Thanksgiving weekend trip to Washington that the it was far more sophisticated. Everyone sat around a round table, twelve feet in diameter, in a windowless room. Inlaid into it were sixteen triangles, one for each player. Each triangle contained different colored pegs representing the "resources" allocated to that particular political role. Each player had both a phone he could whisper into to make secret deals with other players, and a console into which he could enter his move. At the heart of the system was a UNIVAC computer that determined the outcome of each move and automatically reallocate the "resources." Each player could see on his console what he had won or lost.

They played one game Thanksgiving weekend, this would be their second go at it. The had only got to move eight on Thanksgiving Sunday. Then, Tracy halted it abruptly.

"Lets hope we get further this round," Tracy said. "A sixteen step scenario will be used today to simulate an attempted coup in a fictitious nation. It will be called Ajax." He turned to Foxx, "OK, lets have the skinny on it."

"There are special rules in the Ajax version," Foxx began, as the players leafed through briefing books. "First of all, the port of Achillea is highly flammable. There can be no military action there."

"So what if it blows up?" Wilmot Abraham asked. An overweight political scientist from the University of Michigan, he liked to ask queries that made him sound tough.

"If you look at page one-thirteen of your briefing-book, Dr. Abraham, you will see that Ajax is the world's leading exporter of chromium, which is vital to the production of steel here and in Europe... Achillea is the only deep-water port. If it is destroyed, there will be no means of shipping the chromium. Ajax will go bankrupt and everyone loses," Foxx explained.

"The second special rule is that any intervention by the chromium cartel on behalf of the King of Ajax must go undetected. If it is traceable back to the cartel, the King loses automatically," Foxx continued explaining the rules. The participants nodded in agreement.

The lights in the room dimmed. On a large screen overlooking the table, the first move flashed in computer type:

#1. CHROMIUM CARTEL ANNOUNCES SUSPENSION OF ALL FURTHER PAYMENTS TO THE GOVERNMENT OF ZEMBLIA.

A syncopated clock clicked out the time remaining to complete the move. The players scrambled for their phones and began their mock diplomacy. Wilmot Abraham, the KING instantly called Myles Smithline, a bright-faced State Department employee, who was, according to the name plate in front of him, CHIEF OF STATE SECURITY, ZEMBLIA. After five minutes had elapsed, a red light blinked, requiring all players to type their "action plan" into the computer. This was Foxx's favorite part: the whirling of lights and the automatic changing of positions on what nor looked a giant Chinese Checkers board.

The next four moves went by without a hitch. Then came the sixth move, which Foxx was particularly proud of designing.

KING OF ZEMBLIA DISMISSES PRIME MINISTER

At this point, he saw a group of men had entered the room from the rear door. One of them had a jaw that jutted out like the prow of ship. He reminded him of someone he had seen recently. Was it in the Brook Club?

Tracy said "We have some observers tonight."

When the game continued the jutting jaw took a position directly behind Foxx's neck. He could feel the man's presence for the next four moves. "Good show, Foxxy," the man with the jutting jaw whispered the in his ear.

The twelfth move caused a stir:

KING OF ZEMBLIA FORCED OUT

The man now strode over to Tracy. Foxx saw him, teeth glistening, count off four points on his fingers. He then wheeled around and left through the rear door. The other observers followed.

Tracy abruptly announced, "that's enough for this round. See you all next week."

Foxx wondered why the game was terminated . They were still four moves to go. He half-rose to leave along and then caught Tracy's eye. Tracy motioned him to stay.

"Jake, I'll just be a moment..." Tracy seemed flustered, picking up his yellow pad and ducking out the back door.

The others straggled out the front door, looking more exhausted than exhilarated. It was past midnight.

Foxx was alone in the Gaming Center. He slumped back in his seat looking at the tangle of pieces on the board. His mind was also occupied with a tangled mess, but it was not this silly Game of Nations. He was obsessing about a dilemma that had been tormenting him since Thanksgiving. He felt impaled on the horns of two sisters.

He had invited Arabella over for a late-night turkey tryst in his apartment. He had lit the scented candles in both the dining room and bedroom, decanted a bottle of Bordeaux, set the table for two and re-heated the wild turkey from Lochaber's restaurant. As an private joke, he now greatly regretted, he had hung on his bedroom door his office "Tutorial In Progress" card. The two hands on its "Will Return" clock face were suggestively merging into one.

Arabella had arrived promptly at 9PM but not, as he expected, alone.

"Jake meet Tina," Arabella had said.

Arabella had mentioned in passing that her older sister would be coming to Cambridge to curate some show at the Fogg Museum, but she had said nothing to prepare him for her stunning beauty. She was three years older than Arabella but looked three years younger. She was also taller. Her black hair flowed down over her white fur coat. Under her fur coat, she wore tight jeans and a skimpy sweater that did not quite meet at her waist. He had found it impossible to take his eye's off her as she hopped about the room pulling off her snowy boots. She wore multicolored socks.

"Look, Bella, Midnight tutorials," she had said, spying the hands on the clock face on the bedroom door.

He could feel his face reddened. Arabella, the eternal picador, twisted the knife in further, chortling,"Candle-lit, no less. Don't you regret Tina not getting an American education?"

After that introduction, they sat down to eat the overcooked turkey. The meal turned out to be very tense. The sisters were as competitive as determined tennis players. When Tina had described her success in assembling in the Fogg pre-Raphilite paintings that had only hung previously in private homes, Arabella compared it to "caging a bunch of animals, never meant to be in proximity to each other in zoos, for the convenience of tourists."

It was a smash to Tina's career. Tina had shrugged, "That explains Bela why you always have avoided Museums."

Turning his head back and forth as they volleyed, he sensed that different they were. Arabella was hard, unyielding and logical: Tina, soft, acquiescing and intuitive. They all had drank quite a bit. Then, it started. a stocking toe began intermittently tapping his leg, and, inch by inch, it traced a line up his leg. Both sisters were within range: but which one was it? Like Cinderella's Prince, he tried to visualize which girl's foot fit the sensation, and, in his mind, choose the shoeless Tina. The fantasy had ended abruptly. Glimpsing down, he saw that the intruder was Arabella, who had also kicked off her shoes.

So had Tina seen. "Sorry but I am still on London time," she had said, excusing herself from the table, while slipping on her boots and fur coat. Before he could even see her out, she had left his apartment.

Arabella had whispered, "Tina could see you were aroused. The trick is to conceal your passion." She arched her eyebrow, as if he had been responsible for Tina's quick exit. She then unbuttoned her blouse. "Time for my tutorial, Lets see how hard it is to get an "A," she said, reaching for belt, and leading him towards the bedroom.

But he was still thinking of Tina. By the time that they had reached the bed, he pulled Arabella back. "Bela," picking up Tina's name for her, "Tonight is wrong. You know it, I know it."

"Not up to it. Is that the story? Is that why you lit all those stinking candles? Is that why you flirted with Tina all night?" She screamed, "I don't mind rejection, but I can't stand inconsistency. No more tutorials for me, Prof." She threw her coat on over her unbuttoned blouse, opened the door. "One more thing, don't ever try to see my darling sister." She slammed the door closed behind her with rage. That unpleasant confrontation was two weeks ago. He had seen Arabella sitting, legs crossed, in the back of his lecture, but they had not spoke. He had not seen Tina again, though he desperately wanted to.

Tracy barged back through the door. "We need to do another Ajax round. There is a problem in Move 12."

"Did one of your associates object," Foxx asked, "Was it the guy who was breathing down my neck for three moves?"

"Didn't you recognize him, Kim?"

Suddenly, The portrait he had seen at the Brook Club popped into his mind. It was of Teddy Roosevelt. He had the same jutting jaw, square face.

"You'll meet Kim, "Tracy continued. "He's quite a character. Taught history at Harvard, wrote three books. Did you see the story on him in the paper today? He's going to be appointed to John Foster Dulles' personal staff."

Kim Roosevelt, Foxx realized. But why would the grandson of the dead President be watching this game? "Kim loved your Ajax scenario," Tracy but thought it needed another option for Zemblia. Say, a Plan B."

Foxx nodded. His mind was no longer focused on the Game of Nations. It was formulating a plan to solve his two-sister dilemma.