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  “A man after my own heart,” Henry said, chuckling. “Are we going to rebuild the computer setup?”

  “I don’t think so,” Damien said. “After the Times’s investigative campaign against us, the banking people will have completely gutted their security procedures and started over. It would be much, much harder to pull off another digital heist.”

  “I want Hank to become the public face of the company now,” Henry said. “We’ve got four years to rebuild him as a serious presidential candidate, and you . . . Well, you know.”

  Damien nodded. He knew he was no longer a pretty face—and he’d make Barrington pay for that.

  5

  By mid-afternoon, people were arriving. First came Vanessa Pym, a svelte beauty with a mane of honey-blond hair, whose hired Rolls-Royce disgorged ten pieces of matched luggage. Craig made the introductions, and then Stone called Major Bugg and specified the former master suite for Craig and Vanessa, which contained a large dressing room. “And you’d better assign a maid to Ms. Pym, too. I think she’s going to demand one, anyway. Move Mick down the hall a bit, so the maid can use his room for ironing.”

  “And you’ll be five for dinner?”

  “Yes, unless Mick also produces a female companion.”

  “And Dame Felicity?”

  “She’s in London. And if we hear from her, don’t mention the presence of our guests.”

  * * *

  • • •

  In the late afternoon, two Mercedes Sprinters arrived and set down a team of eight men with bulges under their jackets and extra-long luggage. They were housed in a large cottage that had been used for the same purpose before—Stone had already ordered for a cook and a maid to be assigned to them. The tallest among them reintroduced himself to Stone as Derek Forrest. “Same as last time, Mr. Barrington?” he asked.

  “Pretty much,” Stone said. “Whoever’s out there has already missed me and wounded a guest, then left in a gray Ford van.”

  “I’ll have a man on the front gate and another on the dock,” Derek said.

  “Very good,” Stone said, handing him a card with his cell number on it. “Call me directly if there’s an emergency. Otherwise, call Major Bugg, whom you’ve met.”

  “Yes, sir, I already have his cell number.” Then the man went about his business.

  * * *

  • • •

  Stone sent word to Craig that dress for dinner was lounge suits, not dinner jackets. When they turned up for drinks in the library, Vanessa had apparently not received the message, since she was dressed in a floor-length yellow gown billowing around her breasts from cleavage nearly to her navel.

  “Why didn’t you tell me we were dressing up?” Jamie hissed in Stone’s ear.

  “Because we’re not. Vanessa apparently dresses to a different standard.”

  “Did you see her luggage?” Jamie asked.

  “I did. We’re fortunate that it’s a large house.”

  “I’ll bet she has a ball gown and two fur coats packed.”

  “I’ve assigned her a maid.”

  “You didn’t assign me a maid,” Jamie said, pouting.

  “That’s because you are so wonderfully self-sufficient,” Stone said, kissing her on the forehead. “I didn’t want to insult you.”

  “Well,” Jamie said, smoothing her skirt.

  Stone knew that to be a complete sentence.

  * * *

  • • •

  Stone saw to it that everyone had been well lubricated and Craig anesthetized before they sat down for dinner, so they were all in a jolly mood. He observed that Craig knew exactly the level of attention that Vanessa required, and he admired the way the man managed it.

  “I don’t expect you have a projection room,” Craig commented as they settled in with after-dinner drinks.

  “No,” Stone responded.

  “How about a very large TV?”

  “In your bedroom,” Stone said.

  “A pity. I brought a copy of my latest film—hasn’t been released yet.”

  “We are desolated,” Stone said. “I suppose we’ll have to fall back on conversation.”

  “Are you sure you’re not English?” Craig asked.

  “On both sides, all the way back, but not by birth.”

  “I had rather thought you might be Eton and Oxford, but for the accent. I’m Harrow and Cambridge, myself.”

  “I’m PS Six and NYU,” Stone replied.

  “Not the Ivy League?”

  “We used to call it the Poison Ivy League.”

  “Do you have a London club?”

  “Sadly, no.”

  “I could propose you for the Garrick, but it takes years to work your way up the list. A lot of fellows have to die before your name comes up.”

  “That’s kind of you, Craig, but I don’t think it’s worth bothering. I might not improve with age.”

  “Felicity tells me you belong to the Royal Yacht Squadron. How’d you manage that, not being English?”

  “By not being English,” Stone replied. “No members knew me well enough to vote against me.”

  “Very good,” Craig said, chuckling, “very good.”

  “Another brandy?”

  “Thank you, but Ms. Pym expects to be serviced, if that dress says anything. And I’d better be up for the task, so to speak. I warn you, she’s noisy when in full flight.”

  “You’re far enough down the hall, so don’t worry,” Stone replied. “She can cut loose.”

  “Believe me, she will.” Craig got gingerly to his feet and, after good nights were exchanged, escorted her from the room, limping slightly.

  Jamie was ready for bed, too. Mick O’Leary was in a chair before the fire with a book in his lap and glasses perched on his nose. “I think I’ll have another brandy and give Craig and Vanessa a head start,” Mick said. “I’m a light sleeper.”

  Stone left him the decanter and walked Jamie upstairs.

  * * *

  • • •

  Upstairs, Stone drew the curtains before unzipping Jamie.

  “Stone,” she said. “Just how much danger are we in here?”

  “Less than in New York, I expect,” Stone replied. “There are eight armed men patrolling the grounds in shifts. All are ex-SAS or Royal Marines, and they don’t mess about, as the Brits would put it.”

  “How far down the hall are Craig and Vanessa?” she asked, slipping out of her underwear.

  “Far enough that we shouldn’t hear Craig’s pitiful cries.” He got into bed with her. “I’m a little worried about them hearing you, though.”

  “Am I that noisy?”

  “Only in extremis,” he replied. “And I like it that way.” He nibbled lightly on a nipple.

  “You’re going to have to do better than that, if you want noise,” she said.

  “I’ll do the best I can,” he said, turning to his appointed task.

  Sometime later, from outside, he woke to the crack of a rifle.

  6

  Jamie sat up in bed. “Stone, what was that noise?”

  Stone pretended that she had awakened him. “Did you say noise? What noise?”

  “You didn’t hear that?”

  “All I heard was my name. Now I have to get back to sleep.”

  “I’m sure it was a gunshot,” she said.

  “What kind of gunshot?”

  “A machine gun.”

  Stone tried not to laugh. “Jamie, everything is all right. Please go back to sleep.”

  “How can everything be all right, if there’s a machine gun outside?”

  “Do you hear anyone returning gunfire?”

  “Not yet.”

  “That means everything is all right.”

  “Go see.”

  “Jamie . . .”
>
  “Go see, or I won’t be able to sleep.”

  Stone groaned, then got out of bed and into a dressing gown and slippers. “I’ll be right back,” he said.

  “All right.”

  He left the room, went downstairs, and made sure the front door’s exterior light was off before he unbolted the door and stuck his head outside. A man with some sort of weapon came out of some nearby trees and walked toward the house, his shoes crunching on the gravel beside the driveway.

  Stone closed the door nearly all the way, but through a slit kept the man in sight. He didn’t look familiar. Stone closed the door.

  A moment later there was a soft rap on the door. “Mr. Barrington?”

  Stone opened the door six inches but kept a foot jammed against it. “What’s going on?” he asked. Somehow he felt he should not identify himself.

  “You heard the gunshot?”

  “Yes, a rifle?”

  “An assault weapon. One of our men flushed a man out from some bushes near the front gate, and he went over the wall. Our man got off a round and thinks he hit the intruder, probably in the ass.”

  “Poetic justice,” Stone said.

  “Pardon?”

  “They shot my guest in the ass.”

  “Oh, yes. Well . . .”

  “Are you satisfied he won’t be back?”

  “I expect he’s back in his van with his trousers down, being attended to. It’s unlikely they’ll come back tonight.”

  “Good, then I’ll go back to bed.” Stone thanked the man, went back upstairs, threw his robe on a chair, and got into bed.

  “Well?” Jamie asked.

  “A passing car backfired.”

  “Oh.”

  “Sleep.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Stone slept peacefully in the knowledge that neither of the two men shot in the ass was himself.

  * * *

  • • •

  The following morning Stone and Jamie were out horseback riding, followed by two men in a Range Rover. Stone’s phone rang. “Yes?”

  “Mr. Barrington, this is Derek Forrest.”

  “Good morning.”

  “I wanted you to know that we got a blood sample from the wall this morning, and we’ve sent it back to London for DNA testing.”

  “Oh, good,” Stone replied.

  “We’ll run it against criminal databases in the U.K. and the States. I’ll call you with the report later today.”

  “That’s fine, Derek. Thank you.” He hung up.

  Jamie pulled up next to him. “What was that?”

  “Just Derek, calling to say that all is well.”

  “Is that a euphemism for ‘we’re all in terrible danger’?”

  “It is not. His words mean what they say.”

  “I never know when to believe you.”

  “Life would be simpler for both of us if you would try to believe me all the time.”

  “I don’t believe anybody all the time,” she said.

  “You have a distrustful nature.”

  “It comes from being a journalist. When people speak to me, they are usually lying.”

  “How do you decide who to believe?”

  “Instinct.”

  “How reliable is that?”

  “Better than ninety percent, I think.”

  “I read somewhere there’s a course you can take that teaches you how to identify liars.”

  “How do they do that?”

  “Liars have what poker players call a tell.”

  “I know what a tell is. I play poker sometimes. What is a liar’s tell?”

  “It varies with the liar,” Stone said. “Some blink rapidly when they’re lying. Some don’t blink at all. Some can’t look you in the eye. Others can’t or won’t look away. Some distort their mouths when they’re telling really big lies that they know aren’t credible. These people often laugh when they’re lying, too.”

  “Is that it?”

  “Oh, no, there are dozens of other tells. This method was apparently developed by the Mossad, the Israeli intelligence service. It’s taught to all their interrogators and to their security people at airports.”

  “Maybe I should take the course,” Jamie replied thoughtfully.

  “Well, you’d have to spend six weeks in Israel—and it costs twenty-five thousand dollars if you’re not a Mossad agent.”

  “Maybe I could get the Times to pay for it.”

  Stone was making all this up, and he thought it was time he put an end to it before Jamie headed off to Israel. “They won’t accept journalists in the course. That’s the first question they ask you when you show up for training. If you lie to them, they take you out and shoot you.”

  “Shoot you?”

  “The Mossad is tough. They don’t fuck around.” Stone spurred his horse into a gallop before he had to answer any more questions.

  When they got back to the stables, another pair of horses had just been brought out for Craig and Vanessa.

  Stone motioned Craig over.

  “What is it, Stone?”

  Stone leaned in and whispered, “Are you absolutely certain that you want to get on that horse?”

  Craig made a disgusted noise and slapped his own forehead.

  “What?” Vanessa cried when she was told they couldn’t go riding.

  “I’m sorry. I’ve been advised against it.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s a security precaution,” he replied with a straight face.

  Stone and Jamie walked back to the house. “Could you tell Craig was lying?” he asked her.

  “No,” she replied.

  “So much for instinct.”

  7

  While Stone and his guests were having drinks in the library early that evening, Derek Forrest appeared at the door and motioned for Stone to come into the hall.

  “What is it?” Stone asked.

  “We got the DNA results back,” Derek said, then read from a sheet of paper. “The man’s name is Antonio Fenzi,” he said. “Also, Anthony Farmer.” He showed Stone a sheet of paper with a mug shot. “Also Albert Fender. It’s the first time I’ve ever run a DNA check that came back with three names.” He handed Stone two more sheets of paper.

  “But all with the same face,” Stone said. “And all three have arrests for assault, battery, and disturbing the peace, but on different dates. I wonder which name is on his passport?”

  “Good question,” Derek said.

  “Can Strategic Services let immigration officials know that they’ve admitted this man to the country, and find out which name he used?”

  “We can do that.”

  “You might let them know, too, that he’s a part of an assassination team, heavily armed.”

  “We can do that, too.”

  “For what it’s worth,” Stone said, “I’d bet he’s traveling as Anthony Farmer.”

  “Why do you think that?” Derek asked.

  “The Italian name is probably in some files that the New York district attorney has, but it would have been changed legally at some point. I suspect that Albert Fender was an afterthought when he got busted later.”

  “I’ll mention that.”

  “And you should tell them that, for an identifying mark, he might have a bullet wound in the ass.”

  Derek laughed. “I’ll get right on it.”

  Stone went back to the library.

  “What’s happening?” Jamie asked.

  “The best possible thing,” Stone replied. “Nothing.”

  “Then what did that man want?” Jamie asked.

  “Derek was just giving me a periodic report.”

  Craig Calvert, who seemed taller than usual because he was sitting on a loose cushion, said, “Nothing
works for me.”

  Vanessa spoke up. “I’m not even going to ask,” she said, “because I’m certain the answer would bore me to death.”

  “Good call,” Stone replied.

  * * *

  • • •

  The following morning, Dino called from somewhere south of Ireland. “Wheels down in an hour,” he said.

  “Great, I’ll have customs waiting to arrest you.” Stone asked Major Bugg to summon customs. Then, when some time had passed, Stone drove a golf cart down to the airstrip, arriving in time to watch the big Gulfstream touch down and taxi over to the hangar, where the customs van awaited. Stone stood off until his friends had been cleared, then collected them and their luggage.

  “Is Craig Calvert still here?” Viv asked immediately.

  “Oh, stop it,” Dino said.

  “He’s working out with his trainer in the gym,” Stone replied. “He works out for four hours a day, but he’ll probably make an appearance at lunch.”

  “I hope he’s still sweaty,” Viv said. “Did our team arrive on schedule?”

  “They did, and they’ve already wounded a would-be assassin.” Stone handed Dino the three sheets.

  “Have you had him arrested?”

  “Derek has notified immigration, and we’ll let them handle it. I don’t want a lot of cops crawling all over the place. I’m told somebody will alert the media when they find out Craig Calvert is here, and you’ll have to spend your little holiday indoors, hiding from the paparazzi.”

  Stone’s phone rang. “Yes?”

  “It’s Felicity. Have Dino and Viv arrived yet?”

  “How could you possibly know that?” Stone said. “Have you got a satellite trained on me?”

  “Heavens, no,” she replied. “Dino and Viv always arrive shortly after you do.”

  “I’ve been here for a month,” Stone pointed out.

  “Well, I do have my sources. In fact, I understand Craig is your houseguest. May I invite myself over for dinner? I should be down from London in time.”