As you might expect, New York is home to restaurants that date back well into the 19th century, starting with the first actual restaurant in America, Delmonico’s (1831), followed by Gage & Tollner (1879), Peter Luger (1887) and Keen’s (1885), this last being the location of the Lambs social club, after relocating from West 26th Street; later it moved to West 44th Street.
       Named in honor of English essayist Charles Lamb, author of the satiric “Dissertation on Roast Pig,” it was opened by five actors in 1874, and it was considered a great honor to be invited to join. Fred Astaire exclaimed, “When I was made a Lamb, I felt I had been knighted.”
      The club itself, now on West 36th Street, still exists, while the restaurant is now within the Chatwal hotel, where its premises—designed by the great Sanford White—have been restored to a polished sophistication as a New York landmark. And chef Jack Logue, Gotham born and bred, is doing equally refined cuisine largely in the American style.
         The 85-seat room is done in rich Burgundy colors, with white tablecloths, elegant leather banquettes with end lights and stunning padded chairs with 1960s-style chrome tubing. At the ceiling’s edge are scores of photos of famous Lambs, but, sadly, the lighting in this gorgeous room is set so low that you can’t see those images, the clientele coming and going or the lovely plate presentations. I asked if the lights could be turned up a tad and it made all the difference.
         Logue, whose work I admired at midtown’s Betony, studied in fine ristoranti in Italy, then at Daniel Boulud in New York, Rockpool in Sydney and did stints in Tokyo, Hong Kong, the Dominican Republic and Mexico. Now, with partners David Rabin and Chris Miller,  Logue is putting all that global experience to good use in transforming dishes that sound so familiar yet open your eyes to new interpretations.
        
   Case in point is the perfectly seasoned tuna tartare ($33) that comes as a patty set with avocado and a swirl of cut radishes, sitting in a deep, dark ponzu sauce you can sip with a spoon (left). Steak tartare ($30) has a spicy horseradish-laced crème fraîche and caviar with a grilled baguette. A special that night was a lovely presentation of razor clams ($26) done Casino style: the clams are first steamed with a mixture of kombu kelp and white wine then nestled with panko breadcrumbs, chopped littlenecks, clams, razor clam juice, butter, roasted garlic, chopped parsley, oregano, lemon zest and smoked onion confit, finished with a clam butter and baked with a gratin.
         A fluke crudo ($26) had a good balance of citrus and sweetness, in a marinade of kombu and pink trout roe and cuddled with tiny summer’s tomatoes, macerated kumquats, pickled Fresno chilies, fragrant baby basil leaves and basil oil. Particularly pretty was a sunburst of ravioli stuffed with pureed carrots and peas in lemon, ricotta and mint ($28), while the chilled corn soup was a bright yellow with morsels of melon and garlic scapes ($22).
         There is one other pasta dish I highly recommend: Purists may howl that Logue’s carbonara ($39) bears scant resemblance to a classic Roman rendering, owing to the addition of very hot, spicy ‘nduja condiment, but it is a ravishing dish nonetheless that’s also good to share as an appetizer.
         Fat sea scallops ($48) were quickly seared so the interior was creamy and briny, given a New England touch of bacon, potatoes, leeks and a fume blanc. Roasted lamb loin ($58) was delicious, but the addition of slowly braised leg of lamb into a deep succulence with white beans and fennel was an unexpected pleasure. The New York strip steak ($68) was about par for upscale steakhouse beef but could use more minerality.
         Hamburgers as chefs’ display pieces have already jumped the shark, and, although the meat in Logue’s six-inch-high extravaganza ($30) is of fine quality, it is overwhelmed by layers of Gruyère, pickled onions, lettuce and a bulbous bun. The menu calls it “the Stanford White burger” but it’s architecture better suggests Bernini. The French fries are an abundance of goodness.
         Desserts have a little more restraint but are nonetheless delightful surprises, especially the caramel apple with mascarpone cream, apple cider, Valrhona caramella, oats and hazelnuts ($18). Once tasted, it will be hard not to hog the sundae with popcorn ice cream, candied peanuts, salted caramel sauce and, for good measure, a chocolate chip cookie ($16). The prices are high but the desserts are meant to be shared.
         The multi-national service staff is very well meaning and exceptionally cordial, if sometimes distracted.
        David Jovic oversees an extensive wine list, with 22 by the glass. Mark-ups range from about 100% to 300%.  I liked the idea that a straight-up Martini came with an accompanying additional pour from an iced cruet. 
        I  may never be invited to join the Lambs social society, but I’d much rather dine splendidly on such imaginatively crafted cuisine at the Lambs Club restaurant and happily bring in out-of-town friends to show what New York swank can be.

Open for breakfast Sat. & Sun.; lunch Mon.-Thurs.; dinner Tues.-Sat.

        Back at their hotel rooms Katie and David checked their messages.  One, David was surprised and relieved to see, was from Lentov. Just two words: “Five PM.” Nothing from Southey. There was nothing for Katie, but a few minutes later her phone rang. It was Spollen, who sounded quite cheery.
         “I have a bit more information for you, Katie,” he announced. “When I got back to the office I asked to see the file on Pogue. Nothing there about his asking to go to Moscow, but there is a scribbled note saying ‛contact’ and a name and number. It must be the person Pogue said the paper could contact if he was out of the country. The name is Margaret Stinchfield. Here’s the number. It’s ten years old, so it may pan out to be a dead end, but there it is.”
         Katie thanked Spollen profusely and said she’d follow up and get back to him if she found out anything of interest. She hung up, waited five seconds and dialed the number.  An answering machine picked up with the message, “Hi, thanks for calling. Leave a number and I’ll get back to you soon as I can.” The voice had a decided American accent.
         Katie left the number of her cell phone and hotel line, then called David to tell him the news. David said he had heard from Lentov and was going out to Southall to see him at five.
         “I’ve got to hustle,” he said. “You wanna come with me?” He actually hoped Katie would say no, because he had to move fast and told her, “I want to spend some quality time with the old Ruskie.”
         “That’s okay,” she said. “I’m going to wait around to see if I hear from Margaret Stinchfield. At least I know she’s still in London ten years later. Give Lentov my best.”
         David hurried off to the train station, lucky to find a train leaving for Southall in the next half hour, meaning he’d arrive around 4:30.  While waiting he picked up copies of The Times and The Guardian to see what kind of stuff Spollen and Boyer published.
         Around the time David arrived at Southall, Katie’s cell phone rang.
       “Hello, is this Katie Caputo?”
         “Cavuto, actually.”
         “Oh, sorry about that. This is Margaret Stinchfield. You called a little while ago?”
         The voice was definitely American but Katie noted a slight British inflection Stinchfield must have acquired over the past decade.
         “Yes,” said Katie, “I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m a writer for an American magazine called McClure’s”—she didn’t want to say “reporter”—“and I’m interested in finding someone who knew Jonathan Pogue.”
         There was silence on the other end.
         “I was given your number by a colleague who found it in a file at his paper, The Guardian, from ten years ago, indicating you were a contact for Mr. Pogue.”
         Stinchfield spoke slowly. “Yes, well, I did know Pogue, but haven’t had any contact with him in all that time.”
         “Sorry to ask, but didn’t Mr. Pogue pass away in 1989?”
         Another pause on the line, then, “Can I call you Katie?”
         “Sure.”
         “Well, then, Katie, all I can tell you is that Pogue left London that summer, and I never heard from him again. He’s been missing ever since.”
         Katie tried not to sound quite so surprised as she actually was, fumbling a “wow” then asked, “May I ask you, if you two were close back then?”
         “Call me Peggy. Yes, we were about as close as two people intending to get married that fall could be, I suppose.”
         Katie did not want to carry on the conversation over the phone, so she said, “Peggy, let me tell you a little about why I’m asking about Mr. Pogue. The story I’m working on involves a trip to Moscow Mr. Pogue might have taken around that time and—”
         “Let me cut you off there. Can we meet in person tomorrow around lunchtime at Harrods?  I’m a buyer there.”
         Katie answered, “Whenever you want.”
         “All right, then, how about twelve-thirty?  I’ll meet you at the elevator on the sixth floor
         “See you then,” said Katie, who was buoyed by what had just occurred. It meant her story was still alive and perhaps even darkening with intrigue. She couldn’t wait to tell David, who was at that moment knocking on Leonid Lent
         It took a while for Lentov to appear. David had picked up the two days’ of newspapers on the stoop and handed it to the Russian, saying, “Thanks for seeing me again.”
         Leonid was dressed exactly the way he had been on their first meeting, but then, so was David. Lentov was already in his topcoat, saying “Let us take a walk outside.”
         “And so,” Lentov began, sitting on the same bench in the park. “You are back.”
         “We are, although a little earlier than we’d planned,” said David. “Actually, we got thrown out of Moscow and didn’t exactly get a warm welcome getting back to London.”
         Lentov smiled. “So I assume you did meet with Philby. How is he feeling?”
         “Not well at all.  He thinks he’s at death’s door.”
         “I’m not surprised. He’s probably looking forward to it.”
         “But he’s also very concerned about his reputation. Katie and I were actually surprised he was so open about everything.”
         “Kim has nothing to lose at this point. And, if you believe all he told you and you print that, he may die with a smile on his face. I assume you also met his wife.”
         David told Lentov as little as possible about the meeting, wanting instead to find out if the Russian was in any way involved with their quick exit from Moscow.
         “Does the name Kovalyov mean anything to you?” asked David.
         Lentov smiled and nodded like a man expecting that question right at that moment.
         “I do indeed. And he’s done very well for himself, both when he was KGB and now as head of FSS. And now, Mr. Greco, let me tell you what I’m sure he told you.”
         Lentov went on to describe, in a general way, how Kovalyov tried to make David and Katie believe their interview had all been a ridiculous hoax cooked up by two actors and himself, that Philby had died as intended in 1988, and how the two Americans should not attempt to publish anything to the contrary. 
         David had more or less expected this, and Lentov’s narrative suggested, though he hadn’t brought it up, there was something to Kovalyov’s assertion that Lentov had been involved.
         “And just how would you know all that? And how did Kovalyov know about you?” asked David.
         “I’d like to say something like ‘word gets around,’” answered the Russian, “but it’s simpler than that. In answer to your second question, I am well known to Kovalyov for obvious reasons. In fact, since the fall of the Soviet Union he has even contacted me, as if my treason no longer looked so terrible to him, now that he was back to being a proud Russian oligarch.
         “The answer to your first question is that he assumed I was the only one in London who would tell you the truth about Philby being alive, so he had to make up this fantasy about me being paid to send reporters like you to Moscow to meet the fake Philbys.”
         “And that’s not even remotely true?” asked David. “Then how was it that Kovalyov and even the MI6 agents at Heathrow knew every detail about our trip over there? They scooped us up the minute we left the Philbys’ apartment.”
         “Ah, there are two possibilities how that happened. The one is quite simple: At first the Russians had no idea why you were in Moscow.  You had your visas, your hotel, they knew your colleague was a journalist, perhaps even that you were a former police officer. But with only that little information they could hardly come to a conclusion as to your going to see the Philbys.”
         Lentov lit a cigarette and paused to watch the first puff blow into the air.  “They only came to such a conclusion after those two men you met the first day to ask directions to the Philby apartment reported back to their superiors that two Americans had done just that. Their only job was to do surveillance in that neighborhood.”
         David balked. “You mean that, even if though Philby had supposedly died more than ten years ago, they still plant two goons outside his apartment in case some pesky foreign reporters came snooping around?”
         Lentov laughed. “Old habits die hard in Russia. Those two men and before them another two men and before them, and so on had been standing outside the Philbys’ apartment since the day Kim and his wife were assigned to live there. It’s not that they think people like you and Miss Cavuto were coming to expose the truth about the Philbys; it’s just that the address of the apartment had long ago been known, perhaps even published. 
        “Graham Greene visited them there back in the 1970s and they had other foreign visitors, up until Kim supposedly died in 1988. So you have to assume there had been—what do you call them?—curiosity seekers going to see that apartment, at least from the outside. And the two neighborhood watchdogs would shoo them away, if necessary.  Unfortunately, you and Miss Cavuto were seen by them being let into the building by Rufina Philby, and all hell broke loose. They would immediately contact Kovalyov’s office and within twenty-four hours—when you actually got into the building—they had a dossier on you.  I’m not surprised they didn’t rush up the stairs after you. After all, this is the ‘new’ Russia. Instead, Kovalyov just tried to make you think you had been on what you call a wild goose chase, and that I, Leonid Lentov, had set it all up for you. Then they tried to frighten you a little and rushed you out of Moscow the next morning. Very clean. Meanwhile, they called their friends at MI6 and told them when you were landing back at Heathrow.  And MI6, as I’m sure you can imagine, has all the same reasons for keeping Philby dead.  I assume Philby did not ask you for any money.”
         David viewed Lentov’s pat explanation with suspicion, though it made a certain amount of sense. Whatever the Russians and MI6 knew about the two Americans would have been easy enough to find out within hours. It was certainly no secret that Katie was a writer for McClure’s. But how did they know he and Katie had been to see Lentov before leaving for Moscow?
         “You said there were two possibilities,” David said. “What was the other one?”
         Lentov stamped out his cigarette under his shoe. “Ah, for that, perhaps you should ask your friend Joseph Southey.”