Stone Barrington lay back in the cockpit of the Concordia 40, a small cruising yawl built by Abeking & Rasmussen, a German yard, in 1938, and let the light breeze take him back toward Dark Harbor. The sails were nicely balanced as he sailed up Maine’s Penobscot Bay, and he lashed the helm while he looked around, then peed overboard. Thus relieved, he settled back into the cockpit and tucked a cushion behind him, relaxed and happy.

He dozed off.

The yacht jerked a bit, waking him, and he found himself in the thickest fog he had ever experienced. He could barely make out the stem of the boat, and he was uncertain about his course. He had been headed for the Tarratine Yacht Club moorings, and his own dock beyond, but he didn’t know how long he had been asleep or whether the wind had changed and put him off course. He checked the depth sounder: 55 feet of water — too deep to anchor with the rode he had aboard. He stood up and dropped the mainsail to slow the boat to a crawl, continuing with the jib and the mizzen. He went back to his cockpit seat and resumed his position, but left the helm lashed. They were making only three knots in the light breeze, and he reckoned he couldn’t get into too much trouble at that speed. The depth was now 70 feet.

He heard a voice from somewhere in the fog saying, “Start the engines and drop the sails,” but he couldn’t figure out the direction from which it had come. Then there was the sound of water moving past a hull, but he was still unable to determine the direction. He rummaged in a cockpit locker for the air horn and pressed the button. The noise shocked him, and it was followed by shouting from the fog.

Then he saw a shape to port and grabbed for the helm. It took a moment to throw off the lashings, and in that time there was a terrible noise, and his world turned upside down. The boom swung across the cockpit and caught him on the side of his head, and darkness fell.

The tender from the big yacht dropped Stone at his dock, and he walked up to the house. The door opened, and Bob, his yellow Labrador retriever, bounded out to greet him, carrying a ratty stuffed raccoon that was his favorite toy.

Stone knelt and petted him, scratched his back, then took the raccoon and tossed it into the house. Bob followed closely.

Mary, his housekeeper, was dusting the living room. “We were worried,” she said, “when you didn’t come home last night.”

“I had an accident,” Stone said.

Mary’s husband, Seth Hotchkiss, came into the room. “What kind of accident?”

“I got run down by a much larger yacht in the fog.”

“Any damage?”

“Total loss. She’s at the bottom of the bay.”

“Such a beautiful boat,” Seth said. “Very sad. You all right?”

“A slight headache is all. By the way, there’ll be two guests for dinner tonight. They’re coming at six for drinks. Two Dr. Carlssons, father and daughter.”

“Lobster?” Mary asked.

“Just fine.” She would boil it, shell it, and toss the meat in butter.

“Mr. Rawls moved out and into his place this morning,” Seth said. “I drove the stuff he’d bought over there.”

Stone’s neighbor, Ed Rawls, had had his house destroyed by fire a couple of months ago and had rebuilt. “I’m happy for him,” he said.

“Joan called already this morning.”

“I’ll call her back now.” He sat down on the sofa and picked up the phone.

“The Barrington Practice at Woodman & Weld.”

“I’m alive.”

“Mary said you didn’t come home last night. Anybody I know?”

“An accident — collision with a much larger yacht. I lost the boat.”

“Ooh! I’ll keep my picture of it as a memento.”

“Anything going on?”

“You’re still getting calls about the business with Christian St. Clair and Nelson Knott. What should I tell them?”

Christian St. Clair was a multibillionaire who had been running a TV pitchman, Nelson Knott, for President, putting lots of money behind him.

“Tell them they’re both dead, and I don’t speak for them. Tell them to call that guy, what’s his name?”

“Erik Macher.”

“That’s the one. He was St. Clair’s right-hand man in all this. They should speak to him, if he hasn’t been arrested.”

“It’s been weeks. Why don’t they leave you alone?”

“Beats me. If I talk to the media I’ll find myself in the spin zone — they’ll distort whatever I say.”

“This morning’s Times had the medical examiner’s report on St. Clair. Cause of death was a bomb in a piece of luggage that he opened. Would that be your strong case?”

“Not my strong case, Ed Rawls’s. It was taken from him at gunpoint, and he didn’t have time to tell them how to open it safely.”

“So Ed’s not to blame?”

“I would defend him on the available evidence.”

“When are you coming home? You’re due for your physical first of the week.”

“I’m dining with two eminent physicians tonight. Will that do?”

“It’s your FAA flight physical, to keep your medical certificate valid. You can’t fly without it.”

“I know, I know. I hate to come back just for that. The weather up here is gorgeous — autumn comes earlier here than in New York.”

“Lucky you. It’s like a steam bath on the streets here.”

“No calls?”

“Dino called to find out when you’re coming back. He couldn’t reach you there.”

“I’ll call him this morning. Nothing else?”

“Nope. Apparently everyone has forgotten about you.”

“Everyone but the bloody media. Don’t give them this number or my cell number.”

“Gotcha.”

“See you later.” Stone hung up and wondered what to do next. He and his clothes were already clean, so he didn’t need to bathe and dress. He called Dino.

“Bacchetti.”

“It’s Stone.”

“Where the hell have you been?”

“I’ll tell you, but you’re not going to believe me.”

“Try me.”

“I was sailing late yesterday afternoon, when I encountered a fog bank — couldn’t see a thing.”

“Let me guess — you were run down by a beautiful yacht sailed by a beautiful woman who rescued you and nursed you back to health.”

“That’s pretty much what happened.”

“You’re kidding. I made that up.”

“You must be psychic. The owner of the yacht is Dr. Paul Carlsson, of the Carlsson Clinic — and his daughter.”

“What happened to your yacht?”

“She lies in a watery grave at the bottom of Penobscot Bay.”

“That’s sad — pretty boat.”

“Listen, can you still hijack that police helicopter whenever you like?”

“Whenever I like, sometimes.”

“Why don’t you do that this afternoon and get them to drop you here? Weekend’s coming up, and it’s nice and cool here.”

“Put me down for a yes. I’ll check with Viv and confirm, if you’ll hang on for a moment.” He put Stone on hold, then came back. “I talked her into it, and the chopper’s available. We’ll aim for five o’clock.”

“I’ll meet you at the airstrip. The Carlssons are coming to dinner. They’re nice folks.”

“We’ll look forward to it. Bye.” Dino hung up.

Stone told Mary to order more lobsters.

Erik Macher marched himself into the late Christian St. Clair’s library/office, which was undergoing the final touches of repair, and sat down at a leather-topped library table already occupied by four serious-looking men.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” Macher said, careful to speak respectfully.

The four nodded and mumbled something. They were the chairman of the board, two directors, and the corporate counsel of St. Clair Enterprises, and Macher was there to let them know, as gently as possible, that he would be running things from now on. Their agreement was crucial to him.

“I assume you all received the documents I sent you.”

They all nodded.

“And I assume you read Mr. St. Clair’s will, which was prepared by the law firm of Mr. Berenson, our corporate counsel.”

“That is so,” Berenson said, “and it was signed and witnessed in my presence.” The others merely nodded.

“Mr. Berenson, was I a party to drawing up the will, and did I discuss it at any time with you or any of your people?”

“No, and no,” Berenson replied. “I am satisfied that the will is authentic and correctly represents the wishes of Mr. St. Clair.”

“Thank you,” Macher said. “Do any of you have any questions about the preparation and intent of the will?”

Heads were shaken.

“Thank you.”

“Mr. Macher,” the chairman said, “I have a question.”

“Please ask it, sir.”

“What is the purpose of this meeting?”

Macher took a document from his briefcase and distributed copies to the four men. “The purpose is to pass this motion, appointing me as permanent chief executive officer of St. Clair Enterprises. Do I hear a second?”

The chairman looked up from the document. “This gives you extraordinarily broad and deep powers in the operation of the various companies and us very little oversight.”

“That is quite true,” Macher said, “and that is in line with the way Mr. St. Clair ran the enterprises and wished to have them run in the event of his death, is it not, Mr. Berenson?” Macher had met with Berenson earlier and acquired his cooperation, in return for the continuation of his firm’s handling of all the enterprises’ legal work.

“It is entirely in line with both Mr. St. Clair’s past practices and his wishes for the enterprises to continue to be operated,” Berenson said.

The chairman shifted in his seat. “It also says that the board will serve at the pleasure of the CEO and that he will appoint replacements as necessary.”

“It does,” Macher replied. “I would like to mention that I have no plans to change the way the board is presently made up or has operated in the past.”

That caused a few wrinkles to disappear from the chairman’s forehead.

“Or in the board’s compensation,” Macher added. He could see on their faces that that had done the trick.

“I second the motion,” the chairman said, “and I call for it to be passed by acclamation.”

“Hear! Hear!” the four said in unison.

“Thank you for your expression of confidence, gentlemen,” Macher said. “There is no further business at this time, but we will meet again in accordance with the existing schedule of board meetings.” That was annually. “I should tell you that, in the interests of efficiency, I shall be occupying this house and conducting business from this room, when I am in New York. Since Mr. St. Clair’s will left all his residences and other possessions to St. Clair Enterprises, I shall also be using them as necessary.” This, of course, included the yacht, but he didn’t mention it. “Is there any further business, gentlemen?”

“There is the question of your own compensation and benefits package,” the chairman said.

“Mr. Berenson’s firm is working on that as we speak, and he will see that you are notified when the work is complete.”

“That is so,” Berenson said.

“Then if there are no other matters before us, this meeting is concluded. Thank you for your continued work and cooperation, gentlemen.” He stood, causing them to stand as well, and after shaking hands, they filed out. Berenson, as previously agreed, remained.

“Thank you, Tommy,” Macher said. “I thought that went very well.”

“So did I, Erik.”

“You may now send the prepared letters to all the operating officers of the various enterprises, and the general letter to all employees, including the staffs of the properties, and the crews of the yacht, the helicopter, and the fleet of aircraft. I think it’s important that everyone understand that, for purposes of continuity and morale, a new regime is now in place.”

“I agree entirely, Erik,” Berenson said. “They will all go out by FedEx within the hour.”

“Incidentally, Tommy, you may prepare a letter from me doubling your personal salary as counsel with immediate effect, and I will sign it upon receipt.”

“Thank you for that expression of your confidence, Erik.”

Macher handed him a sheet of paper. “Here is a list of all credit accounts previously available only to Christian, which should be notified that I am now the sole signatory. There is also my bank account number, to which my signing bonus and my first year’s salary should be deposited, and a list of credit cards for the bank to issue to me and my secretary.”

“Of course. I’ll see that the signing bonus is deposited today.”

The signing bonus was twenty-five million dollars, and Macher’s salary was ten million dollars a year, plus an unlimited expense account. “Thank you, and I expect we’ll talk soon.”

The two men shook hands, and Berenson departed.

Macher walked to the new desk that had replaced the previous one destroyed in the explosion and began unpacking the boxes that he had had sent from his office in D.C., which included his files and personal photographs. He placed his belongings in the appropriate drawers and arrayed the sterling-silver-framed photographs on the new credenza behind him.

There was a knock on the door.

“Come in!”

His secretary entered the room. “I saw that the board had left,” she said. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Are you quite comfortable in your new rooms upstairs, Hilda?”

“Yes, sir, they are very nice.”

“Your salary increase will be in effect from this day, and new credit cards have been ordered for you. You may open an account with the company’s bank today.”

“Thank you, Mr. Macher. I’m very pleased to be working with you in New York.”

“I am pleased, too, Hilda.”

She left, and Macher leaned back in his new chair and placed his feet on his desk. He had never felt so good. Things could not have gone better if he had planned St. Clair’s death himself.

Stone called Ed Rawls and invited him to dinner.

“Thanks, I could use the break,” Ed replied. “Unpacking is a bitch.”

“See you at six?”

“You’re on.”

Rawls stepped inside; he seemed a little out of breath.

“Sorry if I’m early,” he said. “I walked over here, and it took less time than I thought.”

“That’s fine, Ed. Come in. You know Dino.”

“Hi, Ed.”

“Evening.” He accepted a large Talisker from Stone. “Have you heard the news?”

“What news?”

“Of course you haven’t. What am I thinking?”

“Hard to tell, Ed. Spit it out.”

“Oh. You remember one Erik Macher?”

“I do.”

“I’ve had news that he has taken over Christian St. Clair’s holdings, personal and business — everything except what St. Clair left his wife.”

“How could he do that?”

“He met with the board and, with the support of the corporate counsel, Thomas Berenson, who drew the will and had it witnessed, he got himself appointed CEO, with power to replace board members at will, and he is heir to St. Clair’s personal property that wasn’t left to his wife, including the yacht.”

Stone poured drinks for himself and Dino while he thought about that, then he sat down. “I know a little about Tommy Berenson’s reputation, and it isn’t all good. If I were a board member, I’d put that will through the wringer.”

“And you’d be fired and replaced in the blink of an eye. Anyway, with Tommy Berenson backing him, he’s in an impossibly strong position.”

“Well,” Stone said, “I’m glad I don’t own stock in any of St. Clair’s ventures.”

“Not even the yacht?”

“Well, there is that,” Stone admitted.

“Anyway, none of St. Clair’s businesses are publicly owned. He started with a large fortune from his father and built his empire out of profits.”

“How do you know so much about St. Clair?”

“When I was in prison it was sort of my hobby to follow the careers and lives of a number of people,” Ed said. “St. Clair was one of them, and apart from the Internet, I had my own sources with good information to impart.”

“You must be the most successful prisoner in the history of the federal system,” Stone observed.

“Don’t you believe it. I was just looking for information, while others were establishing fortunes and others were conducting criminal enterprises.”

“Was prison security that loose, that these things could go on?”

“You have to remember that the Atlanta Federal Prison was closed, then later reopened in a small way, to contain special prisoners, and employing a very small staff. None of the inmates had histories of violence — they were mostly white-collar thieves and a few other, special cons, like me, who were put there to keep prisoners in other jails from killing them. A few people had cell phones and laptops, though they weren’t used openly, but communication with the outside was fairly easy.”

“I must remember, if I ever commit a crime, to get sent to Atlanta,” Stone said.

“I’ll note that preference in your file,” Dino said.

“Stone,” Rawls said, “you don’t seem to be getting what this means.”

Stone blinked. “Should I be?”

“You remember I told you that St. Clair had his own police force?”

“I do remember.”

“Well, Erik Macher was its chief, and he still is. Except now he has complete power. He doesn’t have to wait for St. Clair to tell him to remove somebody from living, he can just issue the order himself.”

“Now, why would he do that and jeopardize his newly found position?”

“Because he is a revenge freak, and he’s going to get drunk with power very quickly.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever encountered anybody quite like that,” Stone said. “How would you define a revenge freak?”

“Someone who, when slighted — however slightly — extracts a price from the slighter, usually one all out of proportion to the seriousness of the slight.”

“Even unto death?”

“Death was Macher’s work when he was at the CIA. I mean, he always had a title as a cover, and he did carry out covert operations for the Agency, but they usually revolved around the removal of one or more of the opposition. He was instrumental in the establishment of the Agency’s drone program, which has carried assassination to new and exotic heights.”

“Yes, I’ve seen the pictures of the firing of Hellfire missiles through windows, exploding entire houses.”

“Oh, now it’s much more refined than that,” Ed said. “Now some of them are equipped with silenced .50 caliber sniper rifles that can, remotely, put a round into the ear of an opponent and not make a sound heard on the ground. Heads just suddenly explode, alarming others nearby.”

“Please tell me that St. Clair did not have a fleet of those standing by.”

“Not a fleet, but Macher, through his connections with Agency suppliers, managed to corral a couple. But I digress, I don’t mean necessarily that Macher is going to hunt any of us down with drones.”

“I’m relieved to hear it, and I’m glad that I hardly ever came to Macher’s attention.”

“Don’t you believe it,” Rawls said.

“Huh?”

“St. Clair knew everything about you and me that could be known, and it was Macher who gathered the intelligence on us and anyone else St. Clair dealt with. He was an information freak. He had to know everything about everybody.”

“Then he would have known he was backing a political candidate, Nelson Knott, who had a proclivity for raping and sometimes impregnating women who worked for him.”

“Of course he did, and he took the greatest precautions to see that that news never came out. He took the view that if there was no evidence and no witnesses, it never happened.”

“But his precautions were not successful.”

“Right. You managed to hide one of the women and her family at your home in England, and that recording she made blew the lid off Knott’s candidacy and, incidentally, off the candidate, as well.”

“How colorfully you put it.”

“That’s the sort of interference that Macher would take personally.”

“Oh, he’s thin-skinned, is he?”

“Thin-skinned and hard-shelled. Simultaneously. You must remember that most of the work St. Clair put into creating Knott as a candidate was actually performed by Macher and his wide-ranging PD.”

Stone took a swig of his bourbon and let it find its way down. “Oh, shit,” he said.

The Carlssons, father and daughter, arrived on time for drinks, and after Stone had served everybody, Dr. Paul handed Stone a brown envelope.

“What’s this?” Stone asked.

“Some photographs. Take a look at them.”

Stone opened the envelope and removed half a dozen color photographs of a Concordia 40. “This is gorgeous,” Stone said. “Better equipped and newer-looking than mine.”

“It was one of the original Concordias, the ones built in Germany, like yours,” Carlsson said. “Would you consider it an adequate replacement for your yacht?”

“More than adequate,” Stone said. “Superior, I would say.”

“Then if you will accept it as a fair replacement, it’s yours, and I will deal with my insurance company for the cost.”

“Then I accept. Where is she?”

“She’s out of the water in Rockland, but ready to launch after an extensive refit. One of my crew knew somebody who knew somebody, and there she was. She’ll be at your dock tomorrow.”

“You take my breath away,” Stone said, handing them to Dino to see.

“We very nearly took your breath away permanently, and I’m relieved that you like the replacement Concordia.”

Ed Rawls looked at the photos and raised his glass. “To new old boats,” he said, and everybody drank.

The following morning Stone called his old friend Bill Eggers, who was the managing partner of Woodman & Weld.

“Where are you?” Eggers asked.

“In Maine.”

“It’s very hot here.”

“It’s very cool in Maine.”

Eggers made a groaning noise.

“Bill, I’ve recently met Dr. Paul Carlsson—”

“Of the Carlsson Clinic?”

“The same.” Stone explained the circumstances of the clinic’s ownership and the offer from St. Clair Enterprises. “Paul has asked me if the firm would represent him in dealing with this matter.”

“Of course we would. I’d be delighted to add the Carlsson Clinic to our client roster.”

“I’m glad to hear it. I have another meeting with Paul this morning at ten, and I think it might be a good idea if you would e-mail me a representation contract for him to sign, and a fee schedule.”

“Certainly.”

“Have you heard about Erik Macher’s taking over at St. Clair?”

“Yes, and I was stunned. Christian was a very elegant fellow, if ethically challenged at times, but Macher is a thug, by all accounts.”

“He has Tommy Berenson on his side, and from what I hear, Berenson drew and witnessed the will.”

“And I’m sure he was paid very handsomely to do so.”

“Who would you have expected to succeed St. Clair in the event of his death?”

“I should have thought one of his division heads, or a CEO at one of his companies.”

“Not Macher?”

“I’m sure Christian found him very useful, but not presentable. If this takeover bid should turn into a fight, you should expect him to fight dirty.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“I’ll have my secretary e-mail you those documents immediately.”

“Thanks, Bill.”

Stone hung up and made some notes to himself for his meeting with Carlsson. Dino came down to breakfast and ordered bacon and eggs.

“Dino, could you run a check on Erik Macher for me?” Stone asked.

“Sure. What do you expect to find?”

“I have no expectations, I just want to know what there is.”

Dino made the call to his assistant, then hung up. “A few minutes,” he said.

Stone had a thought; he called Billy Barnett, who worked as a producer in Stone’s son Peter’s film production company at Centurion Studios in L.A. Billy had once been known as Teddy Fay and had been a twenty-year employee of the CIA, rising to deputy head of the technical services division, which equipped intelligence operatives for their missions.

“Stone, how are you?”

“Very well, Billy, and you?”

“Couldn’t be better. What can I do for you?”

“I’m just looking for information about somebody who was a covert operative at the Agency. His time there should have overlapped yours.”

“And who would that be?”

“One Erik Macher.” Stone spelled it for him.

“Sure, I knew him — I probably outfitted him for a dozen or more missions.”

“What was your general impression of him?”

“The man was an assassin. Oh, he was a good officer overall and had a successful career at the Agency, but he had the reputation of being too ready to kill at the drop of a hat. I wouldn’t want to meet him in a dark alley.”

“Anything else?”

“Very bright and adaptable — if one thing didn’t work, he’d find another way. I think management was always a little leery of him.”

“That’s very interesting,” Stone said. “Thank you, Billy.”

“Are you having dealings with Macher, Stone?”

“I expect I will be.” Stone explained the situation.

“I see. May I make a suggestion?”

“Of course.”

“Will you be having face-to-face meetings with him?”

“Possibly. Certainly someone on our side will.”

“I think that it might be a good idea for me to attend a meeting or two with him — not to say anything, just to let him know that I’m involved with his opposition. It might make him more careful in his dealings with you. I expect to be in New York for a few days soon.”

“That sounds like a very good idea. I’d be interested in your assessment of the man.”

“Let me know when you’d like me to be there. I can arrange my schedule accordingly.”

“I’ll do that, Billy. How are my boys doing out there?” He referred to Peter and to Ben Bacchetti’s son, Dino, who was head of production at the studio.

“Thriving,” Billy said. “You’d be proud.”

“Well, I have to run. I’ll speak to you soon.” They said goodbye and hung up.

Erik Macher spent his day going through every business file of Christian St. Clair’s business dealings, then his own files. In St. Clair’s he found the offer for the Carlsson Clinic buyout and its deadline. He read it carefully, then called Dr. Willie Keeling, the head of the stockholders’ association.

“Good morning, Dr. Keeling.”

“Good morning, and who might this be?”

“I am Erik Macher.” He spelled the name slowly. “Does that ring a bell?”

“I’m afraid not, and I don’t have time to talk right now.”

“This is about the buyout offer from St. Clair Enterprises. I believe you have that in hand. And I am the successor of Christian St. Clair.”

“Ah, yes, I heard of his death and thought that might be an end to this business.”

“Certainly not. The offer is still a valid one, and you have three weeks to state your intentions.”

“And what will happen if we do not accept the offer by that time?”

“Then the offer will be withdrawn, and another made, but at a lower price.”

“Mr. Maker—”

“Macher.”

“Mr. Macher, I must tell you that I expect another offer — a better one — by that time.”

“From whom, may I ask?”

“You may not. Good day, sir.” Keeling hung up.

Of all the occasional irritants in Macher’s life, which he fought every day to remove, being hung up on by someone who didn’t know him was right at the top. He felt his gorge rising and fought to keep it down, taking deep breaths.

Stone landed at Teterboro, and he was halfway back to the city when his cell phone rang. “Hello?”

“Stone, it’s Herb Fisher. Are you back yet?”

“Almost. I’ll be home in half an hour.”

“Good. I’ve got a team ransacking the books and files at the Carlsson Clinic, and they should have everything we need by the end of the day.”

“Good.”

“Oh, and Dr. Keeling heard from Erik Macher.”

“And how did that go?”

Herbie gave him an account of the conversations. “I’ve got an answering machine installed at his place now, so he won’t have to talk to Macher.”

“Good. Let’s keep the guy guessing.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if he makes another offer before the deadline.”

“You think we’re driving him that crazy?” Stone asked.

“Yes, I think we are.”

“There’s something I’d like for you to do as soon as your people are finished at the clinic. I’d like to know how much cash the Carlssons have on hand or can borrow on short notice.”

“Ah, I think I see your point — you want them to make an offer to buy the non-family shareholders’ stock.”

“Right. If I’m guessing correctly, some will tender their shares, others won’t,” Stone said, “and it may be possible for the Carlssons to regain a majority of the shares without using Steele to effect a buyout. I want you to figure out how much the family can afford to offer the shareholders.”

“And you want them to make an offer big enough to be off-putting to Macher.”

“Absolutely right.”

“And how will Bill Eggers feel about all the billable hours the firm will lose by not going the Steele route?”

“He can console himself knowing that he’s done the right thing for his clients.”

“I’ll be sure to mention that to him when he blows his stack.”

“Don’t worry, your position will be unassailable. Call me when you have the numbers in order.” They hung up.

Fred dropped Stone at home, then continued uptown to the Bacchettis’ apartment house.

Stone entered the house through the office door and found Joan looking bored. “Obviously I’m not keeping you busy enough,” he said.

“Yes, I just love being overworked when you’re here. Your mail and messages are on your desk. Welcome home!”

Stone ran through the messages and found one from Marisa Carlsson, confirming his appointment for his flight physical, and he asked Joan to cancel his earlier appointment with his old FAA doctor.

“So, who’s this Dr. Carlsson?” Joan asked.

“It’s a name you will hear often for the next few days or weeks. New client.”

“The Carlsson Clinic?”

“Correct.”

“Very tony.”

“Yes, indeed.”

Stone had a message waiting from Herbie Fisher when he returned to his office.

“What’s up, Herb?”

“The Carlssons have the wherewithal and the borrowing power to buy out the non-family stockholders. Once they’ve got a line of credit with their bankers, all we need do is to draft a letter and some forms, telling the stockholders that they’re offering fifty percent more than St. Clair, and if they want to sell, to sign the documents, have them notarized, and a check will be on the way.”

“Fifty percent more?”

“That’s my recommendation. It’s enough to impress the stockholders and to simultaneously warn Macher that he’s in a bidding war. If we can get this done in a hurry, they can make it a fait accompli before the St. Clair time limit is up.”

“Then set up a meeting with the Carlssons as soon as possible, and let’s outline it for them.”

“I can do it late tomorrow afternoon.”

“That’s good for me.”

“I’ll make the call.”

Five minutes later, Herbie called back. “Five-thirty tomorrow in the elder Dr. Carlsson’s office.”

“You’re on.” They hung up. A convenient time, Stone thought.

Joan buzzed him. “Dino on one.”

Stone pressed the button. “Dino?”

“None other. I ran Erik Macher through the computer. Ready?”

“Ready.”

“He’s forty-nine years old, born in Queens, educated in the public schools, four years at Fordham, where he was introduced by a priest to a CIA recruiter. He vanished into the Agency, did his twenty years, took his government pension, and fled the premises. I don’t know what he did while he was there.”

“I know — he was in covert ops and had a reputation as an assassin.”

“Training he put to use, if what we already know about him is true.”

“Right.”

“He had a couple of brushes with the law along the way — a barroom fight that he won all too handily, charges dismissed when his victim refused to testify against him. The other was more serious — a woman accused him of rape, and the DA had a good case, but the victim left town before they could haul Macher into court. The case just sat there, until the statute of limitations ran out.”

“Anybody ever hear from the woman again?”

“Nope.”

“You think he used his Agency-acquired skills to make sure she didn’t show up?”

“Would you be surprised?” Dino asked.

“Nope.”

“Me neither. He would have done serious time if it had gone to trial.”

“So he’s clean.”

“Yep. I’m sure St. Clair would have checked before he hired him.”

“I’m sure he did,” Stone replied, “and I’ll bet St. Clair was attracted by both charges. He wouldn’t have wanted a squeaky-clean character for the job he had in mind.”

“Have you talked to Mike Freeman at Strategic Services about him?”

“No, but that’s a good idea.”

“Dinner tomorrow?”

“I’m booked, how about the evening after?”

“Done.” They hung up.

Stone called Mike Freeman and was connected immediately.

“How are you, Stone?”

“Pretty good. I want to pick your brain.”

“Shoot.”

“What do you know about somebody called Erik Macher?”

“St. Clair’s muscle?”

“That’s the one.”

“You know he was Agency.”

“That, I know.”

“He applied for a job here when he left the Agency, so we did a pretty good work-up on him.”

“And what did you find?”

“Hang on, let me fire up the computer.” Stone could hear the clicking of a keyboard. “A couple of blots on his copybook — the first, a fight in a pub, during which he nearly disabled the other guy, who wouldn’t testify. The second, a murder.”

“The woman he raped? That turned up on his rap sheet.”

“We concluded that he murdered the woman.”

“But you couldn’t prove it?”

“Nope. A female body turned up four months later in a fifty-five-gallon drum that washed up on a beach in Jersey. Cause of death was a shattered vertebra that could have resulted from a hanging or the attentions of somebody who was trained in the art of assisting a person to break his neck. A positive identification couldn’t be made.”

“Uh-oh.”

“Yeah, that certainly put us off. We never made him an offer.”

“How’d he take it?”

“I don’t know, we just wrote him a turn-down letter and never heard from him again. Later, I heard he had been hired by Christian St. Clair to assemble a private security group, with him as its only client. Frankly, I suspect that Macher had a hand in every shady thing we heard about St. Clair in subsequent years. And now he’s running the company.”

“So I hear.”

“You know, if he hadn’t been sitting a few feet from St. Clair when the explosion happened, he would have been the prime suspect.”

“I can’t argue with that,” Stone said. “Thanks, Mike, this is all good to know.” The two men hung up.

Stone called Dino.

“Yeah?”

“I thought you might like to update your file on Macher.”

“You got more info?”

“Mike Freeman had some.”

“Shoot.”

“Four months after Macher’s rape charge, the body of a woman turned up in an industrial drum on the Jersey shore, with a broken neck as the cause of death. It was too far gone for identification.”

“Not even teeth? The teeth never go away.”

“Beats me. Macher had applied for a job at Strategic Services at the time, and Mike figured the body was that of Macher’s accuser, though he couldn’t ID her.”

“Well, that was more than twenty years ago, probably when you and I were sharing a squad car. The news never filtered down, not that I knew anything about it at the time, anyway. See you soon.”

They both hung up.

Stone wondered where the remains in the steel drum had ended up.

Stone went to his meeting with the Carlssons the next day. The two young men, Nihls and Sven, looked enough like their father to have been him at an earlier age — handsome, fit, and comfortable in their skins. Marisa was the female version.

They all sat down, and coffee was served.

“What have you got for us, Stone?” Paul Carlsson asked.

“Essentially, your clinic back,” Stone said. “And without doing a deal with the Steele Insurance Group.”

“How do we do that?” Sven asked.

“Your books and collective financial statements show enough liquidity to make an offer to the non-family stockholders fifty percent larger than the St. Clair offer. If they all want to sell, then you might need to borrow some of the necessary funds, but probably some of them will feel comfortable with the long run.”

“Dad,” Sven said, “I should speak to our bankers, in case we need to increase our line of credit.”

“Do that,” Paul said.

“We think it should be done quickly,” Stone said, distributing a package of documents. “Here is a letter to have printed on your letterhead, Paul, and for you to sign. There’s also a letter for those wishing to sell to sign, have notarized, and return to receive their money. You should print this as soon as possible and FedEx it to all the shareholders, with a return FedEx envelope enclosed. You might be able to get enough of them to agree before St. Clair’s deadline expires, when Macher would probably make a higher offer.”

“Is our offer too high?” Nihls asked. “Maybe twenty-five percent more than St. Clair’s might do the trick.”

“We think that’s what Macher would offer,” Stone said, “and it would be quicker and cleaner to make it fifty percent — it would be better not to get into a bidding war. The stock’s value is probably greater than that.”

“What do you say?” Carlsson asked his children.

They all responded affirmatively.

“Then let’s do it,” he said, handing the documents to Sven. “Ask somebody to stay tonight and make the copies. We’ll get the packages off tomorrow morning.”

Marisa stood up. “If you will excuse me, I have something I must do.” She shook Stone’s hand and left the room.

“Stone,” Paul Carlsson said, “I want to thank you and tell you how impressed we all are with how quickly you put this plan together.”

“I was very happy to help,” Stone said.

“I believe we can find some more work for your firm,” Carlsson said. “We have discussed opening a new division devoted to executive physical exams. Most companies today ask their executives to undergo them, and we think our reputation will serve us well. We have a floor downstairs that we can devote to the operation.”

“What a good idea,” Stone said. “We’d be glad to help. Why don’t I get you together with our managing partner, Bill Eggers, as soon as the stock buyout is resolved, and we’ll see how to proceed.”

“Wonderful,” Paul said. They all stood and shook hands and went their separate ways. In the outside hallway, Stone found the mahogany elevator door and pressed the button.

“Yes?” Marisa’s voice said on the intercom.

“It’s Stone.”

The elevator door opened, and Stone got on. Upstairs, the door opened into a vestibule, where Marisa was waiting. “Good meeting!” she said. “Perhaps Scandinavians are not so demonstrative, but I could tell that Papa was thrilled, and so were the boys.”

“I’m glad I could help.”

“Come in and let me get you a drink.” She led him into a large living room, paneled in a light wood and hung with many pictures, with marvelous city views to the south. She went to a bar. “What would you like?”

“Knob Creek bourbon, if you have it.”

She looked. “I’m sorry, no. I’ll have it next time. May I interest you in an Akvavit?” she asked.

“Wonderful idea.”

She opened a freezer and came out with a bottle frozen in a block of ice, found two small glasses, and poured for them.

“Skoal,” she said. They raised their glasses and tossed back the icy liquid.

“What a beautiful finish,” Stone said, tasting the afterglow.

“It’s a special Akvavit that we have sent over,” she said, pouring them another.

Stone felt the warmth spreading up from his belly.

“Where do you live?” she asked.

“In Turtle Bay Gardens,” he replied.

“Oh, good,” she said. “Within crawling distance.” They tossed back another.

“I think I will hold at this altitude for a while,” Stone said.

“Look, I know you’ve booked a table, but downstairs we have a very fine chef. Why don’t I have a smorgasbord sent up?”

“What a good idea.” While she was calling down, he phoned the restaurant and canceled.

She came back and nestled beside him on the sofa. “You know,” she said, “I should ask our crew to run down yachts more often.”

“I’m quite happy to have undergone the experience, given its results.”

“A good business move?”

“An even better personal one.”

She smiled and poured them another Akvavit. Stone thought that, from here in, he should sip and not chugalug.

—

Dinner arrived in due course, and the waiter placed the large tray on the dining table, set it with china and silverware, and left.

They took their seats, and Stone surveyed the array of smoked fishes, sliced meats, hot dishes, breads, and other comestibles. Marisa opened a chilled bottle of Bâtard-Montrachet and poured them glasses.

“You have good taste in wines,” Stone said, sipping his approvingly.

“Papa is the wine collector,” she said. “I steal from his cellar.”

“Well stolen — this is one of my favorites.”

“Now,” she said, joining him, “I want to hear all about you. Google did not produce sufficient results.”

“The short version — born, Greenwich Village, attended public schools, NYU, and NYU law school. Became infatuated with police work and joined the force, ending up as a longtime homicide detective. Dino, whom you have met, was my partner. Took a bullet in the knee, and the NYPD took the opportunity to unload me. An old law-school buddy, who was with Woodman & Weld, advised me to take a cram course, take the bar, and come to work for them. I did so.”

“Ever married?”

“Yes, she died not long afterward, murdered by a former suitor.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Children?”

“One son, Peter, now a film director in Los Angeles. One Labrador retriever, Bob. Your turn.”

“Mine is more boring. Born just down the street, attended Spence, summered in Sweden with my mother — they were divorced when I was ten. Columbia, master’s in biology, and Harvard Medical School. Did my internship and residency in internal medicine at New York Hospital, right over there, and since then I’ve never strayed far from this building.”

“I hope you’re getting out more these days.”

“Every chance I get.”

“We must contrive some things to do with your spare time.”

She pushed back from the table. “Perhaps you’re aware of the Swedish attitude toward sex?”

“I’ve heard rumors,” Stone replied.

“They are all true,” she said, taking his hand. “Come with me.”

And he did.

Stone awoke alone in a large bed in a darkened room. “Oh, you’re awake,” Marisa said from across the room, raising a blind partway to admit a stream of bright sunlight. “Breakfast in half an hour.” She slipped off her robe, giving him a large, Swedish dose of the full-frontal view. “We have time to do it again.”

He raised his arms, and she came into them. Half an hour later he heard the doorbell.

“Breakfast,” she said, grabbing her robe, and headed for the front door. “Join me.”

Stone found a robe for himself draped over a chair, slipped into it, and went into the living/dining room. Another smorgasbord, this one with eggs, cheese, smoked salmon, and toasted muffins. They dug in.

“You are an excellent lover,” she said, “gentle, kind, but assertive and willing to experiment.”

“I don’t believe I’ve ever been rated that way before,” he said.

“You have been, you just weren’t told. And what about me?”

“Enthusiastic, affectionate, skillful, and welcoming,” he replied. “Highest marks. Oh, and I give the Swedish attitude toward sex equally high marks.”

She laughed. “When will I see you again?”

“Is this evening too soon? I’m having dinner with Dino and Viv. Will you join us?”

“Of course. I’ll be working a little late — may I meet you at the restaurant?”

“Eight o’clock at Patroon — 160 East Forty-sixth Street.”

“Agreed. How late will we be?”

“Bring a toothbrush,” he replied, “and a change of socks.”

Mike listened while Stone outlined the problem. “I’ll put two people with each of them, one to watch the scene, the other to stick close.”

“Uh, Mike, there will be times when the daughter won’t need that coverage.”

“What sort of times?”

“The times when she’s with me.”

“Are you prepared to go armed at those times and explain to her why you’re carrying?”

“It would be better than having a strange man in my bedroom,” Stone replied.

“As you wish. I’ll put Viv Bacchetti in charge of getting a team together. I’ll send a team to the clinic to survey the strengths and weaknesses of the place, and I’ll have personal protection in place by five o’clock today.”

“Make that ten tomorrow morning for Marisa,” Stone said.

“Gotcha. Anything else?”

“It might be a good idea to put one of your shrinks to the task of disassembling Erik Macher’s psyche, with an eye toward predicting his moves.”

“A thoughtful suggestion. They sometimes complain about not being given enough work. Talk to you later.”

Both men hung up.

Joan buzzed. “A Dr. Carlsson on one,” she said.

Stone picked up the phone. “Paul?”

“Not the first time I’ve been mistaken for my father,” Marisa said.

“I was under-informed. I’m sorry.”

“My late appointment has been canceled. May I come to you for a drink before dinner? I want to see how you live.”

“I’d be delighted. Seven o’clock, if Swedes are congenitally punctual, six-thirty if they tend to run late.”

“See you at seven. I have the address.” She hung up.

Stone buzzed Joan. “Next time tell me which Dr. Carlsson,” he said, then hung up before she could come back with a snappy reply.

Fred dropped them at Patroon, and they found Dino and Viv waiting for them. “Marisa, you remember Dino and Viv from our dinner in Maine.”

“Of course,” Marisa replied, shaking their hands and sitting.

“I ordered you both a Knob Creek,” Dino said.

“Then it’s a good thing that Marisa is a new convert to bourbon, or I’d have to drink it myself.”

“You’ll get around to it anyway.”

“Marisa,” Viv said, “you spoke so little at our introductory dinner that we hardly got to know you. I’m glad you’re here tonight, so we can make up for that.”

“You are very kind,” Marisa replied.

Their drinks arrived.

“Skoal,” Dino said, and they raised their glasses.

“By the way,” Viv said to Marisa, “I’m personally handling your security, so please call me if there’s something you’d like changed.” She pushed her business card across the table. “Our company name is Strategic Services.”

“Security?” Marisa asked. “What does that mean?”

“People with guns,” Viv replied, “except when you’re with Stone.”

“Do you have a gun?” Marisa asked Stone.

“I do.”

“I don’t see it.”

“It’s cleverly concealed.”

“This is all very un-Swedish,” she replied.

“You’re in New York, not Stockholm,” Viv said. “Sometimes we have to take precautions.”

Stone pushed her drink at her. “It will be easier to tolerate once you’ve had a drink.”

She laughed and took a big swig of the bourbon.

“You see?” Stone said. “She’s thoroughly acclimated.”

“What does this ‘security’ entail, besides men with guns?”

“You, your father and two brothers will have two people each,” Viv said. “I’ve arranged for both of yours to be women — it makes things less tense in the ladies’ room.”

“Also,” Stone said, “except when Fred is driving us, when you leave the clinic you will always travel in a Strategic Services car.”

“Is all this really necessary?”

“We very much hope not,” Viv said, “but we must, in the circumstances, be prepared should it become necessary.”

“For how long?”

“At least until the stock buyout is complete,” Stone said. “Perhaps a bit longer.”

“Is doing business always this dangerous?”

“It’s not about business,” Stone said, “it’s about the ego of one man, a fellow called Erik Macher, who recently took charge of St. Clair Enterprises after the untimely death of Christian St. Clair.”

“Untimely? Does that mean violent?”

“Unfortunately, yes. He opened a package that contained a bomb.”

“Who sent the bomb?”

“It was an integral part of the package and would have been safe, if he had known the procedure for opening it.”

“I’m sorry, none of this makes any sense at all,” Marisa said. “Perhaps we should change the subject.”

“Willingly,” Stone said. “Marisa was brought up in both New York and in Sweden, and she takes the Swedish part to heart, especially about being candid.”

“Are the rumors true about Swedish women?” Dino asked.

Viv kicked him under the table.

“What? I’m just curious.”

“The rumors are all true, Dino,” Marisa said. “But Stone and I have already got over that hump.” She caught herself. “So to speak.”

Everybody laughed, and what with the drinks, all tensions disappeared.

Erik Macher read the note on his desk. He hammered his fist on the buttons before him, and people appeared from everywhere.

“What the hell is this?” he demanded of them.

Glances were exchanged, then a young man got brave. “It’s in this morning’s Wall Street Journal,” he said.

Macher grabbed the unread paper on his desk and saw the front-page headline. “Someone has offered fifty percent more than our offer?”

“The Carlsson family has made the offer,” the young man said.

“What is your name?”

“Charles Fox,” he replied.

“How can we stop this?”

“We can’t stop it,” Fox said, “we can only outbid them.”

“I had figured on a twenty-five percent increase, if we encountered opposition among the stockholders,” Macher said, “but fifty percent?”

“You could offer seventy-five percent more.”

“Not a chance!”

“Well, the article does quote an unnamed source as saying that they are likely to get enough shares from this offer for the family to hold a majority, as they once did.”

“Is the clinic worth seventy-five percent more?”

“Perhaps,” Fox said, “but if you offer that, the clinic could still top it. It’s probably worth more to the family than to St. Clair.”

“Such a prestigious name, though.”

“The article says that stockholders will receive the offer this morning, and that the Carlssons have included a FedEx return envelope, so if they respond quickly, there may not even be time to increase our offer.”

“But our offer doesn’t expire for, what, another two or three weeks?”

“It doesn’t matter, they don’t have to respond. They can just take the Carlssons’ offer.”

Macher was visibly fuming. “What should I do?”

Fox kept quiet.

“Well?”

“Perhaps look for another investment,” Fox said at last.

“How long have you been here, Fox?”

“Mr. St. Clair hired me two weeks before he... left us.”

“Why shouldn’t I bid higher?”

“Mr. St. Clair acted unilaterally,” Fox said, “as I’m told he often did. I’ve checked, and we don’t have any documents that would substantiate what the clinic is worth. Either he had inside information, or he just made a guess. An increase in your offer might do it, or it might not — it’s a toss-up.”

Macher thought about it; he did not relish telling the board that he had gambled on a guess about the value of the clinic.

“In the circumstances, it’s possible,” Fox said, “that the clinic isn’t worth what Mr. St. Clair bid for it. We have no way of knowing.”

“What did St. Clair hire you to do?” Macher asked.

“I think just as a general executive. I’ve been working at Goldman Sachs since college.”

“Were you a partner?”

“Yes, but his offer was so good, I took it.”

“What are we paying you?”

Fox told him.

Macher was impressed; this kid was earning almost as much as he was before his ascension to CEO. “Well,” he said, “you’d better earn it. Get out of here, Fox.”

Stone was at his desk the following morning when Joan buzzed. “The elder, male Dr. Carlsson on one.”

He pressed the button. “Yes, Paul?”

“Good morning, Stone.”

“Good morning.”

“FedEx delivered half an hour ago, and about half the stockholders have accepted. Their checks are being written as we speak. We now own fifty-three percent of the clinic, and of course there could be more tomorrow.”

“Congratulations, Paul.”

“Thank you. May we now dispense with the armed guards?”

“No, you may not. This may set Macher off. Let’s look at it again in a week.”

“Thank you again, Stone.”

“You are entirely welcome.”

“I promise you, the family will never again own less than fifty percent of the stock.”

“I’m delighted to hear it. Paul, I’d like to invite you and your tribe, and their wives or girlfriends, to dinner one night soon. Would Friday evening be convenient for all of you?”

“I’ll take a vote and call you back.”

“Good.” They hung up. Twenty minutes later Paul called back. “This Friday is good for all of us. The boys will bring their wives.”

“Will you bring a lady?” Stone asked.

“Well, one of Marisa’s security guards is very attractive. Shall I ask her?”

“Please do. Seven o’clock for drinks?”

“Perfect.” They hung up and Stone called Dino.

“Bacchetti.”

“Good news — the Carlssons are majority owners of their clinic again.”

“Great news.”

“They’re all coming for dinner on Friday evening. Will you and Viv join us?”

“Sure we will. She’ll actually be in town.”

“Drinks at seven.” They hung up. Stone called Ed Rawls.

“Yeah?”

“It’s Stone. Will you, by any chance, be in New York the day after tomorrow?”

“Give me an excuse.”

“The Carlssons are owners of their clinic again, and we’re celebrating. Dinner Friday evening?”

“That’s a good excuse.”

“How’s the widow hunting in Islesboro?”

“They’re thick on the ground.”

“Would you like to bring one? I’ll put you both up, together or separately.”

“Yes, I would. If we fly from our little airport directly to Teterboro, we could arrive late afternoon.”

“Excellent. See you then.” He hung up and buzzed Joan.

“Yes, sir?”

“Will you let Helene and Fred know that we’ll be twelve for dinner at eight, on Friday? Drinks at seven.”

“Certainly.”

“Ask her to get back to me with a menu.”

“Certainly.”

Stone’s fax machine cranked out a sheet of paper early in the afternoon; it was printed on the letterhead of the Carlsson Clinic and he read it with interest.

It was signed by Paul Carlsson.

Erik Macher had just boarded what was now, effectively, his yacht when his cell phone rang.

“Macher,” he said into it. “This better be good.”

“It’s Jake,” the caller said, “and it’s not good.”

Macher listened as Jake played the recording of his telephone conversation with Stone Barrington the evening before. “Shit!” he screamed, alarming the two crew who were bringing his luggage aboard.

“This is what happens when we make empty threats,” Jake said.

“Are you saying that we’re going to have to up our offer by seventy-five percent?”

“It’s too late for that,” Jake said. “I’m informed that as of this morning, the Carlssons have accumulated about sixty-five percent of the stock in the clinic, and they’ll probably get more. And your secretary said to tell you that the board of directors has requested a meeting Monday morning at nine AM.”

Macher sat down and began taking deep breaths, trying to get his pulse and his blood pressure down.

“Erik, are you all right?”

“Not exactly,” Macher said.

“Tell me what you want to do.”

“Take out one of the Carlssons,” he said.

“Which one?”

“I don’t care, just make it look accidental.”

“Erik, they’ve got Strategic Services protection, every one of them, and I don’t have to tell you how good that outfit is. Now, I can probably get a shot at one of them, but the police will be all over us — make that all over you.”

“All right, what do you suggest?”

“I suggest we lie low for a few days, wait for them to pull their guards off, then reassess. Or maybe, a more serious shot across their bows.”

“That’s good advice, Jake. Do the second one. Have my secretary call the board members and tell them I’m out of town, and I’ll meet with them Wednesday morning at ten.”

“Got it,” Jake replied, then hung up.

One of the crewmen was standing by, looking concerned.

“Bring me a drink,” Macher said.

“Certainly, sir. What would you like?”

“A great big single malt scotch.”

“Right away, sir.” The man was back in a flash with a double old-fashioned glass filled with scotch on a silver tray and an ice bucket. “Would you like ice, sir?”

“No.”

The man extended the tray. “There you are, sir. Would you like me to tell the captain he can get under way?”

Macher grabbed the glass and took a big swig. “Do it.”

“Yes, sir, and the chef would like to know what time you’d like lunch served.”

“One o’clock sharp. We’ll be four — the chopper has gone for the others.”

“Yes, sir.” The man dematerialized.

Macher took one more gulp of the scotch; he tossed the rest overboard and set down the glass. He couldn’t be drunk when his guests arrived; for one thing, he wanted to get laid this afternoon, and he couldn’t manage that with a load on.

Stone and Marisa went upstairs to change, and he dumped his trousers, damp to the calf, into a hamper, along with his sweaty shirt and underwear, and put trees into his wet shoes. At least they had grown up wet, being alligator.

The phone rang, and he sat on the bedside and answered it. “Hello?”

“It’s Ed Rawls. How you doing?”

“I’m not sure,” Stone replied.

“That sounds ominous.”

“I was on the boat lake in Central Park after lunch, and somebody put a round through the stern of my rowboat. I found a.23 slug in the bottom of the boat after we hauled it in.”

“Just sitting there, not in your leg?”

“I figure it must have been fired into the water at the stern, and that took a lot of muzzle velocity off it, otherwise it might have hit one of us.”

“So you were rowing a lady around the Central Park boat lake? That doesn’t sound like you.”

“It doesn’t feel like me, either,” Stone said, “but I was cajoled into it with the promise of better things.”

Rawls chuckled. “Better collect before she forgets.”

“In the meantime, I’ve had a shot across my bows, even if it was into the stern.”

“They’re not going to go on warning you forever,” Ed said. “Maybe it’s time you made a move.”

“Maybe so. You got any suggestions?”

“Well, my source tells me that Macher is spending a few days on St. Clair’s yacht up here,” Rawls said. “I’ve seen the chopper going back and forth from Rockland.”

“You don’t have a rocket-propelled grenade launcher handy, do you?”

“Well, no, but I could probably find you one pretty quick. But that might be more of a statement than you want to make at this point in the game.”

“I guess so.”

“I wouldn’t rule it out for later, though,” Rawls said, “if they hurt somebody. In the meantime there might be another alternative.”

“Tell me.”

Rawls told him.

“I like it,” Stone said. “It’s better than tit for tat, but it doesn’t escalate things to the point where he’ll have to respond with something life-threatening.”

“I’ll take care of it, then,” Rawls said, and the two men hung up.

Marisa had sat down next to him, equally naked. “I seem to recall promising you better things in return for the boat ride.”

She pushed him back onto the bed.

“Do with me as you will,” Stone said.

And she did.

Jake Herman stood at a loose parade rest before Erik Macher’s desk in Christian St. Clair’s old library. He noticed that Macher seemed to have acquired a slight facial tic, the sudden lifting of his left eyebrow for no apparent reason.

“Good morning, sir,” Jake said.

“Not so,” Macher replied. “I have just had a long weekend of cruising aboard my yacht interrupted by a visit from the Coast Guard.”

“Ah, yes, that happens, sir. They like to check to see if a boat has all the required emergency equipment.”

“This was something more than that,” Macher replied. “They did an investigatory search of the yacht, going through the guest cabins and the owner’s cabin.”

“Did they find anything of consequence?”

“They came up with a plastic bag containing a white powder.”

“Uh-oh.”

“It wasn’t my white powder!” Macher yelled, losing it for a moment, then regaining control of himself.

“Of course not, sir.”

“St. Clair must have left it there.”

“Most probably, sir. Were there any consequences of this discovery?”

“A stern lecture from the captain of the Coast Guard vessel — a woman, for God’s sake! She’s having it tested in their laboratory, said she’d get back to me.”

“I don’t believe the Coast Guard has a laboratory, sir, so it probably went to the FBI lab for analysis. Have you taken any defensive steps?”

“The woman advised me to hire an attorney with maritime experience.”

“That’s probably good advice.”

“I have a call in to Tommy Berenson, our corporate counsel.”

“A good move.”

“What happens if the powder is cocaine?” Macher demanded.

“Well, conceivably, charges for possession could be brought, or if there is a substantial quantity, a charge for intent to sell might be added.”

“It was the first time I’d ever set foot on the yacht! I hadn’t even unpacked my bags!”

“In that case, a good attorney might be able to persuade them not to bring charges, since it was clearly left there by a previous occupant — one now deceased, I might add, and that should stand in your stead.”

“Jake, I smell a rat here, one named Stone Barrington. Do you think he might have been able to instigate these events?”

“Well, sir, anyone could call the Coast Guard and report that a yacht carrying drugs is sailing in Penobscot Bay, and the Coast Guard would be obliged to investigate such a report.”

“Even if the report were anonymous? I can’t imagine Barrington giving them his name.”

“Yes, sir, even an anonymous report. Of course, any person making such a report that was false and malicious would be subject to arrest for making a false report.”

“Aha!”

“However, if the substance found aboard turns out to be cocaine or heroin or some other illegal drug, the report would not have been false. In some circumstances he might even be financially rewarded, if the drugs were of sufficient value.”

Macher made a groaning noise.

“Sir, I would suggest that this incident is unlikely to result in a prosecution because of insufficient evidence. I think the best thing would be to consult your attorney to see if any legal moves were indicated, then to just be patient and wait for the lab to issue its report.”

“I am a little short of patience,” Macher said.

“Sir, I originally came in to report on yesterday’s incident in Central Park.”

“Oh, yes, I had forgotten. What happened?”

“We found Barrington and the Carlsson woman in a rowboat on the Central Park lake. One of my men very carefully fired a silenced round into the boat, causing it to spring a serious leak.”

“Heh, heh,” Macher said.

“Barrington managed to get the boat to the dock before it could sink, but he was seen to recover the spent round from it, so he knows that he has received a warning.”

“Now that’s what I like to hear!” Macher said, brightening visibly. “Now he knows where we stand.”

“Sir, this event took place early Saturday afternoon. When did your brush with the Coast Guard happen?”

“Late Saturday afternoon.”

“So that event could have been in response to the earlier one.”

Macher pondered that. “I see what you mean,” he said. “So the ball could be back in our court?”

“Possibly, sir.”

“Then we need to respond more forcibly.”

“If I may suggest, sir, it might be prudent to wait to hear from the Coast Guard before proceeding.”

“Oh, yes,” Macher said, sounding disappointed.

“I could do some preplanning for a response and get back to you,” Jake said.

“Yes, good, Jake, you do that.”

“Please let me know about the lab report from the Coast Guard,” Jake said. “It could affect our planning.”

“Yes, of course, I’ll do that.”

Jake left Macher as he had found him, including the eyebrow twitch, which was still there.

Macher got Tommy Berenson on the phone.

“Good day, Erik,” the attorney said.

“Good day. I may require some legal advice from an attorney with a knowledge of maritime law.”

“Shoot.”

Macher gave him an account of the stopping of the yacht and the subsequent search and powder found.

“First of all, Erik, I must ask you — and your reply is covered under attorney-client confidentiality — was this powder yours, and is it cocaine?”

“Tommy, I have just explained to you the exact circumstances.”

“Yes, but in this case, I need to know if we are up against an actual violation of the law, or just some awful coincidence.”

“Do not make me recount the events. What I have told you is the truth.”

“Then it is not cocaine?”

“I have no idea — it wasn’t mine.”

“Then it is not your cocaine?”

“Tommy,” Macher said, and his voice was a little shaky, “if I have to explain this to you again, I am going to do so with my hands around your throat.”

“I think it’s best to wait for the lab report, then discuss how to proceed from there.”

Macher slammed down the phone with a whimper.

Charles Fox listened to the recording from the tiny bug he had placed in Macher’s office and smiled. The man sounded as if he were coming unglued, and that was exactly what Fox wished to happen. He knew that a board meeting had been called for later that morning, and he would record that, as well.

Joan buzzed Stone. “Ed Rawls on one.”

Stone picked up. “Yes, Ed?”

“Stone, I think it’s time for you to meet my source at St. Clair.”

“I’m up for that.”

“His name is Charles Fox, Charley to his friends. He’s going to call you in half an hour, and I suggest that you invite him to your home for dinner, rather than meet at a restaurant, and warn him not to be followed.”

“All right. Tell me something about him.”

“He’s in his mid-thirties, a Southerner, scholarship to Yale, Rhodes Scholar, recruited to the Agency by a Yale professor. I’ve read his personnel file, and he got high marks from everyone during his training. When I was station chief in Stockholm, he was sent to me for an operation requiring an officer who was not connected to the embassy. He performed beautifully. He’ll tell you the rest, including what he wants.”

“All right, I’ll look forward to hearing from him.”

“By the way, I didn’t thank you properly for dinner and the guest room. We had a wonderful time. See ya.” Rawls hung up.

Mike Freeman arrived and was given a drink while Stone and Charley started a new one. Stone introduced Mike to Charley and filled him in on his background with Charley’s help. Dinner was served, and Fred poured the wine.

“So, Charley,” Stone said, “what do you want to do as soon as you can extricate yourself from Macher and St. Clair?”

“Well, if I can’t run St. Clair, I’d like to go into the mergers and acquisitions business for myself, or with partners.”

Stone and Mike exchanged a glance. “What sort of acquisitions interest you?” Stone asked.

“Start-ups, or interesting small companies with the potential for rapid growth, if they get the financing they need.”

“What are you prepared to invest in such a business?” Mike asked.

“Five million to start. I made a couple of really good deals at Goldman, and I’ve still got my starting bonus from St. Clair.”

“Is that everything you’ve got?” Mike asked.

“Not quite, and I’d need a salary to live on, of course.”

“Where do you live?” Stone asked.

“I have a suite at the Lombardy Hotel, on East Fifty-sixth Street. It’s expensive, but I get hotel services like room service, laundry, and maid, so I don’t have to spend any time keeping house.”

“How much time were you putting in on a weekly basis at Goldman?” Mike asked.

“Sixty to eighty hours a week,” Charley replied. “It was what was expected of the younger guys, and it was too much. I want a life, too.”

“That seems reasonable.”

They chatted on through dinner and Stone got the strong impression that Mike wanted to go into business with Charley Fox. After dessert, he pulled Mike aside. “What do you think?”

“I think we need this guy,” Mike said. “We’ve been acquiring slowly, catch as catch can, and we need somebody who can put together deals and do the due diligence.”

“I think you’re right, and I think he’s the guy.”

“I’ve got some free office space in our building. We can install him in there with a secretary and a small staff.”

“Good,” Stone replied. “What should we pay him?”

“A million a year, then bump him up to two as soon as he starts doing deals that will support it. I reckon we’re going to be pumping in operating expenses for at least a year, but that’s what we’re for in the deal, the daddies.”

“Are you going to kick in free rent?”

“Sure, until he generates the revenue to pay for it.”

They went back to the dinner table. “I guess you’ve got a contract with St. Clair,” Stone said.

Charley produced it from an inside pocket. “Christian drew it up, and I signed it.”

Stone read it quickly. “Nothing to keep you from taking a hike whenever you feel like it.”

“Or to keep him from firing me out of hand.”

“Can you just walk out tomorrow?”

“I need a little more time with document collection,” Charley said, “then I’m out.” He paused. “If I’ve got someplace to go.”

“Mike and I want to give you that place,” Stone said. He outlined the deal he and Mike had discussed. “What do you think?”

“Do I get a piece of each deal?”

“You can invest up to a third of each one, if you can find the money.”

Charley shook his head. “I want a fee for each deal, and that gets plowed in as an investment.”

“What sort of a fee?”

“A third of a third of the investment. Sometimes I’ll be able to ante up, sometimes not.”

Stone and Mike exchanged a nod. “That’s a very sweet deal, Charley,” Stone said, offering his hand. “You’d better hold up your end.”

“Agreed,” Charley said, and he shook Mike’s hand, too. “When I said I was interested in small deals, that won’t always be so.”

“When you’ve got the right deal, we can find the cash,” Stone said. “From more than one source.”

“Great.”

“Okay, I’ll draw up a contract and get it to you in a couple of days. Do you have a lawyer?”

“I’d like for you to be my lawyer.”

“Not ethical. There’s a guy at Woodman & Weld named Herb Fisher that you’ll like. In fact, you talk to him, and he can draw up the contract.”

“Charley,” Mike said, “does anybody at St. Clair know where you live?”

“My address is in my employee records,” he replied.

“You’d better get out of there before you make the move. It may piss off Macher, and we don’t want you to be too easy to find.”

“Tell you what, Charley,” Stone said. “I own the house next door where my staff live. There’s a furnished ground-floor rear apartment empty there, opens onto the common garden. You can move in there rent-free, until you decide where you want to live.”

“Thanks, Stone.”

“Call my secretary, Joan Robertson, when you want to start sending stuff over.”

“It’s just clothes — won’t take long.”

“You figure out when it’s the right moment to bail out of St. Clair, and tell me how you want to do it.”

“I’ll want to vanish in a puff of smoke,” Charley said.

“When you do, give Macher a proper letter of resignation. Do you still have family in Georgia?”

“Nope, they’re all gone.”

“Then tell him you have to go back there to deal with family matters. If he looks for you there, he’ll find a dead end.”

“Good idea,” Charley said. “And there’s something I should tell you.”

“Okay,” Stone said.

“I’ve got Macher’s office wired for sound, and I have recordings of a couple of his meetings, including one with his board, which is exercised over something to do with the Coast Guard finding cocaine aboard the company yacht.”

“I believe I’m acquainted with that incident,” Stone said drily.

“Do you want me to keep the wire in there?”

“Yes, but for informational purposes only, since it’s illegal. Make sure you shut it down without a trace when you go. You don’t want them finding it later.”

“Right,” Charley said. “I’ll be out of there in a week.”

“Good. Be careful. Don’t roil the waters there. We don’t want our new partner to get hurt.”

“Charley,” Mike said, “I’m in the security business, you know. If you feel in danger at any time, call me on my cell, twenty-four/seven.” He handed Charley a card. “I can put people on you or snatch you off the street, if necessary. And when you check out of the hotel, give them a forwarding address in Georgia, and after you leave, don’t return to the hotel.”

“Not even for a haircut?” Charley asked. “My barber’s there.”

“Find a new barber for the moment,” Mike said.

“I get my hair cut there, too,” Stone said. “I’ll make excuses for you next time I’m in.”

They walked Charley to the front door.

“Let me have a look outside,” Mike said, “then I’ll give you a lift to the hotel.” He did so, while Stone and Charley waited.

“I think this is going to work well,” Stone said. “Just remember to stay safe. You’ve been trained on how to do that, haven’t you?”

“I certainly have,” Charley said.

Mike returned. “Okay, into my car,” he said, and the two of them left.

Charley Fox turned up early the next morning and started going through his desk, cleaning out drawers and putting what he wanted to take away in his briefcase. He downloaded the cache of documents he had been saving onto a pair of thumb drives, numbered one and two, and tossed them into his briefcase. He deleted all his computer files and reformatted the hard drive. Finally, he disconnected the little amplifier hooked to the bug in Macher’s office and tossed them into his briefcase, as well, along with the two burner cell phones in his drawer. That done, he typed up a letter of resignation, put it into his briefcase and locked it.

“Charles,” a woman’s voice said.

He turned to find Agnes, the group secretary, standing in his doorway. “Yes, Agnes?”

“Mr. Macher would like to see you in his office.”

“I’ll be there shortly, thanks.”

“He said, now.”

“All right.” He got into his jacket, grabbed his briefcase, removed the resignation letter, put it into his jacket pocket, and walked upstairs. In the outer office, he set his briefcase down next to Macher’s secretary’s desk. “I’ll pick this up in a few minutes,” he said to her.

“Fine,” she replied.

He knocked on the door and heard Macher shout, “Come!” He found Macher sitting at his desk and Jake Herman standing behind him, leaning against a bookcase. This did not look good.

“Sit down, Charles,” Macher said.

Charley did. “Good morning, Mr. Macher, Jake.”

“Charles, have you heard anything about the company yacht being stopped by the Coast Guard last weekend?”

“Nope, not a thing,” he replied. “They do equipment checks on yachts all the time, though. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“Why not?”

“Because the checks are routine. They probably didn’t single you out.”

Herman spoke up. “You ever had any telephone conversations with the Coast Guard, Fox?”

Charley shook his head. “Nope. I’ve never needed their help at sea.”

“You sail?”

“Doesn’t everybody?”

“Not everybody,” Herman replied.

“Come on, Jake, what is this about?”

“Somebody tipped the Coast Guard to search the company yacht,” Herman replied.

“What for?”

“Drugs.”

“Did they find any?”

“Unlikely.”

“Then what’s the problem, and what do I have to do with it?”

Jake left the room and came back a moment later with Charley’s briefcase. “Let’s have a look in here,” Herman said.

Charley leaned over as he passed and snatched the case out of Herman’s hand. “Let’s not.” One of his burner phones would have the Coast Guard number in it.

“Charles, let Jake open the case,” Macher said.

“For what purpose?”

“For whatever purpose I wish.”

The secretary knocked, came into the room, and set some things on Macher’s desk. “Your mail, sir,” she said. “And there’s one from the Coast Guard. You asked me to watch for it.”

Macher picked up the envelope, ripped it open, and removed a letter. “Well, let’s see what they have to say,” he said, unfolding the letterhead and reading aloud. “‘Dear Mr. Macher. Further to the search of your company’s yacht on Saturday last, I wish to inform you that our laboratory has analyzed the white powder found in the owner’s suite. The powder turned out to be an over-the-counter laxative called SuperLax. I wish to apologize for any inconvenience caused by our search and to thank you for your cooperation.’”

“Anything else?” Charley asked.

“That doesn’t mean that you didn’t call the Coast Guard,” Herman said. He moved toward where Charley sat, reaching for the briefcase.

Charley stood up and kicked him hard in the knee, and Herman cried out and collapsed, clutching his knee. Charley turned to Macher. “Mr. Macher,” he said, “I don’t like working here anymore, so I’m resigning as of this moment. I got paid yesterday, so you don’t owe me anything.” He picked up his briefcase and started for the door.

“Now, Charles,” Macher said placatingly, “let’s talk about this.”

“I’ve nothing to talk about,” Charley replied, opening the door. “Good day.” He closed the door behind him and started for the outer door, then he stopped, reached into his pocket for the resignation letter, and tossed it onto the secretary’s desk. “I forgot to give this to Mr. Macher,” he said. “Please give it to him for me.”

“Of course, Charley,” she replied.

A moment later, Charley was on the street, hailing a cab.

“The Lombardy Hotel,” he said to the driver. “Fifty-sixth Street, east of Park.”

At the hotel he got out, went upstairs to his room, packed his things, and called down for a bellman. When the man came, he said, “Put these into a cab for me, going to JFK Airport, while I check out.”

“Yes, sir.”

Charley took the elevator down and asked the woman at the desk for his final bill.

“Leaving us, Mr. Fox?”

“Yes, I have to head down to Georgia to tend to a family matter.”

“Will you be returning to us soon?”

“Probably not for several months. I’ll give you a forwarding address.” He gave her his credit card, and she handed him a form. He filled it out, giving the address of the law firm that his family had dealt with, and signed the credit card slip. “Thanks for everything,” he said.

“Come back to see us.”

He gave the bellman a fifty, got into a cab, and as the driver pulled away, said, “Never mind the airport, I’ve another stop to make.” He gave the man the address, then got out his cell phone.

“Stone Barrington.”

“Stone, it’s Charley Fox.”

“Good morning, Charley.”

“Things came to a head with Macher this morning, and I’m out of that place and the hotel. May I come there now?”

“Of course. Come in through my office entrance.”

The following morning Jake Herman went to the Lombardy Hotel.

“May I help you, sir?” the desk clerk asked.

“Yes, I’ve been trying to reach a friend of mine, Charles Fox, who lives here, but the operator said he had checked out.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Fox checked out yesterday.”

“Do you have a forwarding address? I want to repay some money I owe him.”

She went to a file drawer and came back with a form, and he copied the address. A law firm. He found a seat in the lobby, called the number in Delano, Georgia. He was told that they had not seen or heard of Mr. Fox for more than two years and weren’t expecting to.

Herman found the bell captain and inquired about Fox’s departure the day before. The man called in the bellman who covered Fox’s floor. “Did you put Mr. Fox into a cab yesterday?”

“Yep. He was going to JFK.”

“Do you remember what cab company the car was from?” Herman asked.

“Yeah, it was the Ace Cab Company. We get a lot of their cabs waiting outside.”

“Did you know the driver?”

“Name is Casey. I don’t know if that’s a first or a last name.”

“What time did Mr. Fox leave?”

“About nine-thirty, nine forty-five.”

Jake gave him a twenty and thanked him. He resumed his seat in the lobby, called the Ace Cab Company and asked for the dispatcher.

“Dispatch.”

“This is Special Agent Jacobs with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

“What can I do you for?”

“Yesterday around nine-thirty, nine forty-five, a driver of yours named Casey picked up a fare at the Lombardy Hotel on East Fifty-sixth Street. Can you tell me his final destination?”

“Hang on, let me pull up his trip sheet. Here we go, went to JFK — no, he changed his destination.” The man gave it to him.

“That’s in Turtle Bay Gardens, isn’t it?”

“If you say so. Gotta run.” The man hung up.

Jake Herman knew who lived at that address. He went back to St. Clair and downstairs to Fox’s office, then searched it thoroughly. “As clean as a hound’s tooth,” he said aloud to himself, then he switched on Fox’s computer.

That done, he went upstairs and knocked on Macher’s door.

“Come!”

Jake went in and sat down. “Charles Fox didn’t go to Georgia yesterday,” he said. “He went to Stone Barrington’s house.”

“That little shit!”

“His office is empty, the cleaners have already emptied his wastebasket, and his computer’s hard drive has been reformatted, so there’s nothing on it.”

“How the hell does he know Stone Barrington?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you think he’s been spying for Barrington ever since he came to work for St. Clair?”

“It’s possible,” Jake said. “There’s no way of knowing, unless I get a chance to beat it out of him, and I’d welcome that opportunity.” His knee still hurt.

“All right, stake out Barrington’s house and snatch Fox at the first opportunity. Take him to that place you have where you do that sort of thing, and don’t stop until you’re satisfied you have every answer to your every question.”

“Perhaps he should disappear permanently? He’s already left the forwarding address of a law firm in Georgia.”

“I think that might be the most convenient thing to do, but not until you know you’ve got everything.”

“This will be my pleasure,” Herman said.

Jake Herman went online to the New York City Department of Buildings website and searched for building permits at Stone Barrington’s house. He was astonished at what he found.

Under the banner of the General Services Administration, a federal agency, he found detailed plans for improvements several years before, and the authorizing agency was the Central Intelligence Agency. For some reason they had seen fit to make Barrington’s house extremely secure. The brick veneer at the front and rear of the house had been removed and half-inch steel sheathing had been applied, then the bricks replaced, and the same with the roof; the windows had been replaced with replicas conforming to the New-York Historical Society’s rules with steel frames and inch-thick armored glass, and the electrical and utility wiring to the house had been reinforced and encased in stainless-steel pipes.

The goddamned place was a fortress. Clearly the Agency had some sort of relationship with Barrington. That made him wonder if Charles Fox had a connection with the Agency, but he didn’t have the skills to crack their computers. He searched his mind for past acquaintances who had served there and came up with a woman about Fox’s age, Kaley Weiss, whom he had interviewed for a job at Macher’s security company a couple of years ago. He called the number he had for her.

“Hello?”

“Kaley Weiss?”

“Who’s calling?”

“This is Jake Herman at St. Clair Enterprises. We met a couple of years ago.”

“Oh, yes, the interview.”

“We have an opening. Would you like to come by and talk about it?”

“Thank you, Mr. Herman, but I’m very well situated in a new job, and I’m not interested in moving.”

“Oh? Where are you? I’ll notate your record for the future.”

“I’m afraid they insist on confidentiality from their employees.”

“Of course. Oh, by way, when you were at the Agency, did you know a guy named Charles Fox?”

“Yes, but not well. We were in a class together during training.”

“Have you heard from him since? There’s something here that might interest him, and I don’t have a number for him.”

“I’m afraid not,” she said. “Thanks for thinking of me.” She hung up and made a call of her own.

Charley Fox opened his door and found Kaley Weiss standing there in a cashmere dress draped over her tall, slim frame and high breasts. She looked much the same as the last time he had seen her, except there was a dent the size of a Ping-Pong ball in the right side of her forehead. She seemed to be missing a chunk of her skull.

They embraced lightly, and he showed her in.

“This is very nice,” she said, looking around. “You said it belongs to a friend?”

“Yes, he lives in the house next door, but he owns this house, too, and he had an empty apartment. Let me get you a drink.”

“Scotch,” she said.

He poured her a Talisker and himself a Knob Creek. “Why don’t we sit out in the garden for a while, before it gets too chilly?” He led her outside, where they found a comfortable outdoor sofa.

“This is lovely,” she said. “I’ve heard of Turtle Bay, but I’ve never been here.”

“You’ll always be welcome.”

“How long are you going to live here?”

“Stone has said I can stay as long as I like, but eventually I’ll want to buy something.”

“Wait a minute, Stone Barrington?”

“Yes. Do you know him?”

“No, but my boss and her husband are very tight with him.”

“Right.”

“Listen, I’d better explain about my face.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Let’s get it out of the way. After our training at the Farm I was stationed in various parts of the Middle East, the last in Israel. I was sitting in an outdoor café in Jerusalem with one of my local sources, and the place got hit in a drive-by, sprayed with automatic weapons fire. I woke up in a hospital two days later. A couple of days after that the Agency airlifted me home and put me in Walter Reed Hospital, where I had a number of surgeries over four months, then spent another seven months in rehabilitation. The Agency kept me on the payroll through all that, but afterward, I didn’t want another foreign assignment, so I resigned and came to New York.”

“You seem to be fine now,” he said.

“I am fine — an occasional headache, but that’s it. I still have one more surgery to go, but I’m glad to be out of the line of fire.”

“I don’t blame you,” Charley said.

“What did you do after the Farm?”

“I did hitches in Stockholm and London.”

“Did you learn Swedish?”

“No, I was playing the part of an American businessman, and nobody expected me to speak the language.”

“I assume you didn’t have that problem in London.”

He laughed. “No, not once I got the hang of speaking Britslang.”

“You said you had left St. Clair. What are you going to do now?”

“I’m going to work with Stone and your boss, Mike Freeman, doing mergers and acquisitions in a partnership we’re forming. I’ll be working in your office building.”

“So you’ll be conveniently located.”

He smiled. “You, too.”

The following morning Fred drove Charley Fox to the Strategic Services building on East Fifty-seventh Street, with his briefcase and a couple of boxes of office stuff. It was still raining.

“Mr. Fox, you’ll be happy to hear your two tails got properly doused last night,” Fred said.

“That does make me happy.”

“There are two new ones there this morning, in raincoats, hats, and carrying umbrellas like weapons. They look like proper spies.”

“They don’t have wheels, do they?”

“No, don’t worry, they’re not following us. Still, I’ll take further precautions.” Fred made a couple of unnecessary course alterations, then pulled up under the portico of the building and carried Charley’s boxes inside for him.

Charley presented himself at the front desk, showed them two picture IDs, then was photographed and presented with a newly minted security badge to clip to his breast pocket. A man in a black suit led him to an elevator and up to the fourth floor.

“My name is Chaney, Mr. Fox. You’ll be pretty much alone on this floor,” the man said, “as it’s kept for expansion and for lone wolves like you. Two temporaries — a receptionist and a secretary — have been assigned to you, until you find your own.”

“Thank you, Mr. Chaney,” Charley replied.

They came to a double glass door on which had been affixed the words THE TRIANGLE PARTNERSHIP in large gold letters. An attractive young woman sat behind the front desk.

“Mr. Fox, this is Stella, your receptionist.”

They shook hands.

“Welcome to Strategic Services,” she said. “I’m sorry — to The Triangle Partnership.”

“I’ll have to get used to that myself,” Charley said.

They continued to an office suite, where a middle-aged woman was occupying the secretary’s desk.

“This is Maggie Everson,” Chaney said. “She’ll be running you.”

Charley laughed and shook her hand. “I’ll look forward to that, Maggie.”

“He’s all yours,” Chaney said, and exited.

Maggie led him into a roomy corner office with a desk, a small conference table and other matching pieces of furniture, plus a seating area with a leather sofa and matching chairs. “We’ve got a warehouse full of stuff downtown, if there’s anything you want to shop for,” Maggie said. She opened the wide curtains, revealing a rain-swept garden below. “There’s a lot of sun when it comes out.”

“This looks very well equipped,” Charley replied. It was much handsomer than his offices at either Goldman Sachs or St. Clair.

Maggie opened a desk drawer and handed him a box of business cards. “There’s engraved stationery in the other drawers, and here’s your new cell phone.” She handed him the latest iPhone. “If you want to keep your old phone, as well, I can have your calls transferred to this one. It has some Strategic Services apps and security features that I’ll take you through later. You should memorize the new number as soon as possible.” She helped him open his boxes and distribute his belongings.

“Your computer is an Apple mini Mac, and our usual software has been customized for the purposes of Triangle.” She took him through the operation of the computer, then showed him how the phone system worked. “You have a direct line for personal calls, three office lines, and three fax lines. Line one is the one on your business cards, and your new e-mail address is there, too — charlesfox-at-triangleparnership-dot-com. Stella is the phone operator, as well as the receptionist, and she answers all incoming calls, except your direct, private line. There are four other offices attached to this suite for future hirees. They have their own phone and fax lines. Your fax machine is outside, next to my desk.” She opened a cabinet across the room to reveal a clever kitchenette, a well-stocked bar, with an ice maker and a coffee and espresso maker. “What else can I tell you?”

“Where’s the men’s room?” Charley asked.

She laughed and pointed at a door across the room. “That’s your private one, and it has a shower, too. There’s a bed, too, should you need to pull an all-nighter. Strategic Services frowns on sex in the office, but then this isn’t their office, it’s yours, and their rules don’t apply.”

Charley laughed. “Good to know.”

“Visitors must check in first downstairs, as you did, and they’ll be issued with visitors’ passes. If some of your visitors are regular, they can be issued with permanent passes.”

“That’s fine.”

“Two floors up there are two restaurants — a cafeteria for all employees and a more luxurious one called Safe House, with its own chef, for senior officers. You may use either. They’ll swipe the bar code from your security ID and bill Triangle for all charges. Anything else?”

“Not right now. Thanks, Maggie.”

She left, and a moment later there was a knock on the door, and Stone Barrington and Mike Freeman entered, one carrying a champagne bucket and the other a bottle of Veuve Clicquot Grande Dame.

“Welcome,” Stone said, opening the bottle and grabbing three glasses from the bar. They raised them and drank.

“So,” Mike said, “how much money have you made for us so far?”

“Zip,” Charley replied, “but I have some ideas. I also have a list of companies that Christian St. Clair was interested in, glommed from his computer system. I think I’ll start with those.”

“You can hire anybody you want for receptionist and secretary,” Mike said, “but if you’re happy with these two, I’ll transfer them.”

“I’ll let you know. There are also two people at Goldman that I’d like to steal from them.”

“Go right ahead,” Stone said. “You’re going to need help.”

“Make up your own office budget and send it to me,” Mike said. “We’ll also take care of background checks on the people you want to hire. Anybody who works in this building has to submit to that, and they’re thorough. Don’t commit to a hiring until that has been done. It rarely takes more than a few hours.”

“Of course. What about polygraphs?”

“Only for senior Strategic Services staff, and those others we may have questions about.”

“I’d like to have full workups on Erik Macher, Jake Herman, and Thomas Berenson, the St. Clair lawyer.”

“Good idea,” Mike said, “always good to know about the opposition. I understand you’re acquainted with Kaley Weiss.”

“You’re very well informed.”

“I try to be. What, may I ask, is your relationship?”

“Close,” Charley replied. “We knew each other at the Farm, but our duties separated us after that. We had dinner last night and renewed our acquaintance.”

“Well, we’ve already run our background check on you, Charley, and as far as Strategic Services is concerned, you are qualified to continue seeing her.”

Charley laughed. “I’m relieved to hear it — it saves me from having to tell you to go fuck yourself.”

Everybody laughed, but Charley had made his point.

Jake knocked on Macher’s office door and was shouted in.

“What is it?” Macher asked sourly. He had been in a bad mood since Fox had so suddenly departed.

“Just an update,” Jake said. “I’m getting no results on watching Barrington’s house. His car has left the garage a couple of times, but the windows are tinted and my guys can’t spot who’s inside. Also, they weren’t dressed for last night’s unforecast big rain, and one of them has what sounds like walking pneumonia and is going to be in bed for a few days.”

“Did you put new people on it? People with umbrellas, maybe?”

“Yes, sir, they’re on station now, but they’re getting nothing. Also, I think there may be a rear way out of the house, through the common garden, but we can’t cover that. It’s private, and somebody would immediately call the cops.”

“Maybe it’s time to hurt somebody.”

“What would that accomplish, sir? We’ve lost the Carlsson takeover, and we can’t get that back.”

“All right, just annoy them, make them think we’re thinking about them.”

Jake sighed. “All right, sir. I’ll have my men take out a couple of the Bentley’s tires. That will take time and effort to correct. The car will have to be flat-bedded to a dealer.”

“Call it a goodbye kiss,” Macher said, managing what resembled a little smile.

“I’m on it.”

“Oh, and I’ve made two new bids for small companies, ones that were on a list Christian was working from.”

“What are they?”

“An electronic parts maker and a company that sends out mechanics to work on cars at people’s homes or garages. They’ve already got twenty-five men working in the city, and they’re ready to expand to other cities, if they can get fresh capital.”

“Sounds great. I hope you didn’t underbid, like Christian did.”

“Get out of here,” Macher growled. “And keep an eye on the computer file of those two companies.”

“Yes, sir.”

Dino looked up from his steak. “Okay, what’s my probable cause for a search warrant?”

“Thanks to Charley, here, I have two versions of Christian St. Clair’s will that Erik Macher and Tommy Berenson, his lawyer, colluded on, and the second version gives full operating power of the whole company to Macher. The first one didn’t mention him.”

“I like it,” Dino said, taking a swig of his cabernet. “These two copies were stolen, right?”

“Well, yes,” Stone said, “but the original computer files are still in St. Clair’s system. You can make your warrant for a search for the wills, which a reliable source told you existed, both physical and digital.”

“I think that will fly,” Dino said. “Remind me to call somebody after I finish this steak.”

“Certainly.”

“Dino,” Charley said, “there’s a button somewhere in Macher’s office that, when pressed, will scrub all their computer files clean.”

“Uh-oh. Where is it?”

“I don’t know, somewhere in that room. Just keep Macher and anybody else there out of that office until you’ve had a chance to search the files.”

“Have you got locations and file names for the files?”

“Yes, you can print out the will there, then download them onto a thumb drive. I’m assuming you’ll take an IT guy along on your raid.”

“Right.”

“If he has any problems, he can reach me anytime on my cell.” Charley gave him his business card. “Macher lives on the top floor, in Christian St. Clair’s old apartment, very handsome. Something else you should know, his taste in women runs to call girls. I heard him say once that picking up and seducing the amateurs was too time-consuming, so he’s likely not to be alone when you bust in.”

“There’s another charge you can add to your list,” Stone said.

“Who else lives there?” Dino asked.

“His secretary. Word around the office is, Macher likes her to be available for blow jobs, as well as her regular work. By the way, you want to keep her away from her desk and computer while you’re there. Cuff her to a doorknob or something.”

“Are there any other bedrooms?”

“There are several that are occasionally occupied by visiting business associates and others. It’s quite an elegant house, really.”

“What about Jake Herman, Charley?” Stone asked. “Where does he live?”

“He has an apartment in the neighborhood, but I’ve known him to stay the night at the mansion.”

“Is he likely to offer resistance?”

“Nah, Jake is ex-FBI. He knows the drill. Macher knows the drill, too, but he won’t like it. He could very well give you a hard time.”

“I hope so,” Dino said, grinning.

“So do I,” Charley said. “I wish I could be there to watch the raid.”

“We’ll be doing a video,” Dino replied. “I’ll shoot you a copy so you won’t miss any of the action.”

“Great!”

“Forgive the change of subject,” Stone said, “but is anything happening on the investment front, Charley?”

“I’ve had conversations with two companies on St. Clair’s list — both are good bets.”

“What are they?”

“DigiFlood is one. They make digital components for manufacturers. They’re particularly interesting right now because they’re working on a new kind of storage device that will be revolutionary. They need thirty million dollars to finish the development. The other is called Automobile Butler Services. They work on your car in your own garage or even parking space, if the weather is good. The great thing about them is that they’re authorized warranty agents for the more expensive cars. They’ve got a couple of dozen offices in the tristate area, but they need capital to expand nationwide.”

“Sounds good.”

“They’re both well managed and already profitable.”

“Then move in whenever you’re ready.”

“I’ve also got two new people, starting the first of the month, who I knew at Goldman, and they’ll bring their own ideas with them.”

“Great.”

“One thing I should mention, though. St. Clair has already made overtures to both DigiFlood and Automobile Butler Services, so we’re likely to make Macher angry again.”

“Well, if he gets angry enough, maybe he’ll do something stupid that will allow us to neutralize him.”

“As long as you know what’s happening.”

“I’ll have a word with Mike about it.”

Dino finished his steak.

“You were going to call somebody,” Stone reminded him.

“Yeah, an assistant DA who will get us our warrant.” Dino made the call and discussed his raid for a few minutes, then hung up. “Done,” he said. “He’ll see a judge in the morning, and we should be ready to go for tomorrow night.”

Erik Macher gazed up at the girl on top of him. “How’s that, baby?” he asked.

“Oooh, good!” she replied, as she was expected to. “Why don’t you just move me into your apartment, and we can do this all the time? Looks like you’ve got plenty of room.”

“Don’t ruin the mood,” Macher said, then the doorbell rang. He glanced at the bedside clock: three AM. “What the hell?” he said, sitting up and unseating the young woman.

“What’s the matter?”

The doorbell rang again, and there was a hammering on it, followed by muffled shouting.

“Don’t you move,” Macher said. He reached into his bedside drawer and withdrew a Glock. He grabbed a robe, and as he departed his apartment, he slapped the panic button on his security system, and a siren began to wail. As he reached the first floor, there was a huge bang, a splintering sound, and the front door flew open, followed by a man with a steel ram, surrounded by uniformed police officers wearing body armor.

“Drop the gun!” a cop yelled at him.

Macher had forgotten the Glock in his excitement, and he opened his hand, allowing it to fall onto the stairs. “What the fuck is this?” he screamed.

A cop handcuffed his wrist and fastened the other end to the banister rail. “What’s your security cancellation code?” the cop shouted.

Macher told him, and the cop entered it into a keypad at the bottom of the stairs. The siren abruptly stopped. “I asked you, what the fuck is this?” Macher demanded anew.

A detective in a suit stepped forward and handed him a paper. “This is a warrant, allowing us to search the premises.”

“Search the premises for what?” Macher demanded, tossing the warrant aside.

“Whatever the fuck we like,” the cop replied. “You’ve been served, now shut up and cooperate. Who else is in the house?”

“My secretary lives on the second floor.” As if on cue, the woman appeared, one landing up, tying a robe around her. “And there’s a Ms.... oh, I don’t know what the hell her name is. She’s on the top floor in my bed... ah, apartment.”

“Is that your office?” the detective asked, pointing at a set of double doors.

“Yes.”

“All right,” he shouted to his group, “execute the plan.” He pointed at a young man in civilian clothes. “You — on the computers, now.”

“Gotcha,” the youth replied, heading for the double doors.

Macher sat down on the stairs, the cold marble freezing his ass through the thin silk robe, picked up the warrant and began to read. “Shit!” he said to nobody in particular.

Stone was having lunch in the Strategic Services restaurant, Safe House, with Charley Fox.

“How’d the raid go?” Charley asked.

“As expected,” Stone said. “They got the will, and the DA has it now. I hear he has forwarded it to the Bar Association and to the chairman of the board of St. Clair. Now we just wait for the explosions. If we’re lucky, you’ll be able to hear them in your office with the doors and windows closed.”

“I would enjoy that,” Charley said. “Now, my turn. After a few conversations, we have an agreement in principle for the investments in DigiFlood and Automobile Butler. I’ve spoken to Herb Fisher, and he’s at work on the contracts.”

“That went well!”

“Yes, it did. I want to send out a press release that combines the news of the investments and the forming of Triangle and my appointment as president. That okay with you and Mike?”

“Sure. A nice piece in the Journal and the Times will probably invite new opportunities for investment.”

“That would be good. I’m going to need seventy million in cash to close these two deals.”

“I’ll get on that. It should be in the Triangle account in a few days.”

“How much capital do we have access to? I need to know so that I can have intelligent conversations with prospects.”

“I think we can manage half a billion from our various sources, so for the moment, use that as a ceiling.”

“Will it all come from you and Mike Freeman?”

“These first two deals will. As we need more cash, I can call on Marcel duBois, in Paris, and a client of mine named Laurence Hayward.”

“I know who duBois is — the Warren Buffett of Europe. Who’s Hayward?”

“He won six hundred and twelve million in the lottery a few months ago.”

“Ah, yes, I read about that in the papers.”

“The good news is, he hasn’t spent it all yet, and he’s looking for investments.”

“I’ll be happy to help him.”

Charley Fox was in his office after lunch when Stella buzzed him.

“Yes?”

“Norm Keller from Goldman Sachs for you.”

Keller was Charley’s last boss at Goldman. Charley picked up the phone. “Hi, Norm,” he said.

“How you doing, Charley?”

“I can’t complain.”

“I saw the announcement in the Journal. Sounds like you’ve landed on your feet.”

“If you say so,” Charley said.

“I admit, I was envious of you when you left us for St. Clair. I figured you’d double or triple your income over there. Then St. Clair got blown up, and I wondered what had happened to you.”

“Well, now you know.”

“Is that Macher character still running St. Clair?” Keller asked.

“As far as I know, but a guy like Macher could evaporate at any moment.”

“Interesting,” Norm said. “I just got a hand-delivered letter from him, offering me a seat on the board at St. Clair. The money’s good, and the use of the yacht is thrown in.”

“Interesting.”

“What’s your take on this, Charley? Should I accept?”

“Just between you and me, Norm, I’d shred the letter and say nothing to anybody about it.”

“Why?”

“I can’t go into the details at the moment, but it’s my opinion that Macher’s position at St. Clair is precarious, to say the least, and dealing with him is an even more precarious state.”

“One other guy here got the same letter,” Keller said, “and he told me that a guy at Chase Private Bank got one, too.”

“Sounds like Macher is looking for a whole new board, doesn’t it?” Charley said. “Makes you wonder why, doesn’t it?”

“Does he have the authority to fire and replace the St. Clair board at the drop of a hat?”

“If he does, it won’t be for long, Norm. My advice to you and the others is to decline. Wait and see what happens.”

“I expect that’s good advice, Charley, and I thank you for it.” He hung up.

Charley got Stone Barrington and Mike Freeman on a conference call.

“What’s up, Charley?” Stone asked.

Charley related the content of the call from Keller. “What do you guys think is going on over there?”

“My guess,” Stone said, “is that the St. Clair board has heard about the two wills, maybe from the DA, and I heard this morning that Tommy Berenson’s license to practice law has been suspended by the Bar Association, pending a hearing. Remember, the bogus will gave Macher the authority to fire and replace the board, and that must be what he’s trying to do.”

“My guess,” Mike Freeman said, “is that by this time tomorrow, Macher will be on the street, and the board will remain as constituted.”

“Well,” said Charley, “if that happens there might be some opportunities where the St. Clair assets are concerned. From what I gleaned from their computer files, the company has more than half a billion dollars in assets, all of it in just the kind of companies we’re interested in acquiring, and St. Clair has no debt. Christian was always a very conservative businessman, and it’s been a long time since he borrowed any money.”

“Very, very interesting,” Mike said. “Let’s see what tomorrow brings.”

“Call again,” Stone said, “if you hear anything new.” They all hung up.

Charley worked through the afternoon, and he was contemplating a drink when another call came in.

“Yes?”

“A Mr. Something-or-other Barnes on line one. I didn’t get the first name.”

Charley pressed the button. “This is Charles Fox.”

“Mr. Fox,” an elderly voice said, “this is Elihu Barnes. Does my name mean anything to you?”

“Yes, sir, it does. I believe you’re a banker and chairman of the board of St. Clair Enterprises. We met when Mr. St. Clair hired me.”

“You are correct, Mr. Fox, and I’m glad we don’t have to waste any time establishing my bona fides.”

“Certainly not.”

“Mr. Fox, there is about to be a major upheaval at St. Clair, and I and the other two members of our board, Mr. Maximus Quinn and Mr. George Fineman, would like to meet with you, if we may.”

“Of course, Mr. Barnes. I’m at your disposal.”

“Our usual meeting place at St. Clair is not available to us at this moment. I wonder if we might meet at your offices?”

“Certainly.” Charley gave him the address and explained the entry requirements for the building. “When would you like to meet?”

“Would six o’clock this evening be convenient for you?”

“Yes, sir, it would.”

“Then we will look forward to seeing you at that time, in your offices.” The two men hung up.

Charley reestablished his conference call.

“What’s up, Charley?” Stone asked.

“Gentlemen, the board of directors of St. Clair Enterprises is going to be meeting at six o’clock — in my office.”

Nobody said anything for a moment. Finally Stone spoke up. “Do you have any idea why?”

“Nothing that would make any sense,” Charley said. “I was struck, though, at how solicitous Mr. Barnes sounded on the phone. His more usual style might be thought of as imperious.”

“Charley,” Mike said, “it sounds like these gentlemen want something from you. What might that be?”

“Perhaps investment advice?” Charley hazarded. “Christian St. Clair introduced me to them at the time he hired me, and he spoke to them of his hopes for me at St. Clair.”

“Sounds like you impressed them,” Mike said.

“Well,” Stone said, “let’s talk about what Charley might want from the board.”

“How about their company?” Charley said. “I’d like for Triangle to own that.”

“I doubt if that’s up for grabs, but let’s take a look at their assets. Do you have a list?”

“I do.”

“Then why don’t you run over that list before your meeting and see what plums you’d like to pick from their tree, and what each of them is worth to us.”

“I can think, right off the bat, of two of their assets I’d like to own.”

“And what are those?” Mike asked.

“Their building,” Charley said, “and their yacht.”

“I’ve been aboard the yacht,” Stone said, “and it is gorgeous — made me salivate just to be on her. And she’s brand-new, built in a small yard in Maine that Christian bought just to build the vessel. He told me the yard is already turning a profit, working on antique and traditional yachts.”

“And what about the building?” Mike asked.

Charley spoke up. “It’s a very large town house, maybe seventy-five feet wide, in the East Sixties. Beautifully renovated and decorated. It has an apartment upstairs, which was Christian’s, another, smaller one for his secretary, maybe a dozen bedrooms, most of which have been converted to offices, and a garage on the lower level that will hold a dozen cars. It has a living room ideal for large cocktail parties, a dining room that will seat at least twenty, a beautifully designed garden out back, and a gorgeous library, which Christian used as his office.”

“Both of those assets sound very desirable,” Mike said.

“Listen, I’d like for both of you guys to be in the building while I’m talking to the board. I might need you on short notice.”

“I’ll come over,” Stone said, “and have a drink with Mike while you have your meeting.”

“We’ll be available,” Mike said.

“Be prepared to improvise,” Charley replied, and ended the call.

The three-man board of directors of St. Clair Enterprises arrived, as one man, precisely at six PM. Charley figured they had all come in the same limo. Hands were shaken and acquaintances renewed. Charley seated them all in his collection of leather furniture.

“Mr. Fox,” Elihu Barnes said, “I will come directly to the point, if I may.”

“Certainly you may, sir,” Charley replied, with appropriate deference.

“After a long and substantive discussion,” Barnes said, “we would like to offer you the position of chief executive officer of St. Clair Enterprises.” He held up a hand to deter protestations. “In our years of serving Christian St. Clair, we found him to be an excellent judge of both competence and character, and we were all impressed when he introduced us to you.”

Charley allowed himself to breathe again. “Thank you, sir.”

“Before Christian met his untimely death, he had not expressed to us any sort of idea of succession, and then Erik Macher came to us with a will appointing him CEO with extraordinary powers over the board. We have since learned that the will was fraudulent, concocted with the collusion of Thomas Berenson, our former corporate counsel.”

Charley had noticed that Berenson was not present.

Barnes took a sheet of paper from his briefcase and handed it to Charley. “This is our proposal for authority, compensation, and perquisites. Please take as long as you like to peruse it.”

It took Charley about six seconds to take it in, but he pretended to take longer. “Gentlemen,” he said, “this is generous. As you may know, I have entered into a partnership with Mr. Michael Freeman of Strategic Services and Mr. Stone Barrington, a partner in the law firm of Woodman & Weld.”

“We all read that in the Wall Street Journal,” Barnes replied.

“If I may, I would like them to join us in discussing this matter.”

“Of course, if you wish.”

“If you will excuse me for a moment.”

“Certainly.”

Charley left the room and called upstairs from his secretary’s desk. Mike Freeman answered, and Charley requested to be put on speakerphone.

“Go,” Mike said.

“They’ve offered me the CEO job at St. Clair,” he said.

“And what do you intend to do?” Stone asked.

“I think we should make them an offer for the company,” Charley said.

“What sort of an offer?” Mike asked.

“I’ve been through the assets and the profit-and-loss statements, and I value them at about seven hundred million, including the building and yacht. I propose that we offer them half a billion for the lot. We can then dispose of the companies at our leisure and make a lot of money.”

“Mike?” Stone asked.

“Good idea,” Mike replied.

“Charley, you have our agreement,” Stone said, “but we shouldn’t buy the company, since we’re not aware of what sort of liabilities it may have. Make the offer for the assets only.”

“Right, now get your asses down here pronto!” Charley said. He hung up and waited another minute before returning to his office. “Mr. Freeman and Mr. Barrington will be here shortly,” he said, dragging a couple of chairs over from his desk to the seating area.

As he resumed his seat there was a knock at the door, and Mike and Stone entered. Charley made the introductions.

“Gentlemen, may I continue?”

“Yes, please,” Barnes replied.

“Regretfully, I must decline your generous offer.” He gave them a moment to rearrange their faces. “However,” he said, “the Triangle Partnership, that is, the three of us, would like to acquire all the assets of St. Clair Enterprises.”

Barnes exchanged glances with his fellow board members and received an almost imperceptible nod from each, which indicated to Charley that they had previously discussed this move.

“What is your offer, Mr. Fox?”

“We offer half a billion dollars for all the company’s assets, including the building and the yacht.”

After a brief pause, Barnes said, “We have discussed this possibility, and we concur in our belief that a more acceptable offer would be six hundred million, the value of the assets being what it is.”

“I can understand your feelings in the matter, gentlemen. You could certainly hire a firm like my previous home, Goldman Sachs, to come in, value each property separately, and dispose of them piecemeal. Alternatively, they could seek a buyer for the entire company, but I’m sure you realize that either process would consume many months of your time and many millions in fees and costs. We offer an immediate purchase, to close in, say, thirty days, and we will assume the responsibility of the preparation of the documentation for the sale, to be approved, of course, by your new counsel. Have you chosen one yet?”

“Frankly,” Barnes replied, “we were considering offering Mr. Barrington that position.”

“Thank you, gentlemen, but our offer would make that a conflict of interest. I could recommend someone, if you like.”

“Mr. Fox, may we withdraw to your waiting room for a moment to discuss the matter?” Barnes asked.

Charley stood, and so did Mike and Stone. “Certainly,” he said, and they waited until the board had closed the door behind them before sitting again.

“They’re not going to take the offer,” Mike said.

“I don’t think so, either,” Stone replied. “Suppose we offer them another fifty million?”

“Agreed,” Mike replied, and Charley nodded.

“It was a smart move to offer the legal work,” Stone said. “I can get that done wholesale.”

“I figured you could,” Charley replied. “I wanted to make it as easy for them as possible.”

The door opened, and the three men returned. They didn’t sit down, which worried Charley. “Gentlemen,” Barnes said, “the board has voted to accept your offer.”

Everyone broke out in smiles, and handshakes were exchanged all around. Charley produced a bottle of champagne from his bar, and toasts were drunk.

“I must say, Mr. Fox,” Barnes said, “your offer took us somewhat by surprise, but I must admit that in making it, you confirmed our judgment of you. We are all sorry that we will miss the opportunity of working with you in years to come.”

“Gentlemen,” Charley said, “I believe that is the highest praise I have ever had.”

When their glasses were empty, the group adjourned, and the board departed.

Mike grabbed Charley and hugged him. “This must be the most spectacular first week of any investment firm ever,” he said.

Stone patted Charley on the back and said, “At the risk of being too late, why don’t we run over that list of St. Clair’s assets? I’d like to know exactly what Charley has gotten us into.”

Stone tossed the documents onto the coffee table. “Charley,” he said, “I think you’ve done a great job of placing values on these companies. In fact, I think you’ve been a little conservative. I believe they might be worth fifty or a hundred million more.”

“I’ve been looking at these values since I joined St. Clair,” Charley said, “so I’ve had plenty of time to come to my conclusions. However, I hope you are right. Now, how are we going to come up with half a billion dollars?”

“Mike and I have been talking about that,” Stone said, “and I think we have a way forward. Mike and I can come up with seventy-five million each from our own resources.”

“And go to Marcel duBois and your lottery winner for the rest?”

“No. As you may know, my late wife, Arrington, had been previously married to the actor Vance Calder.”

“I don’t think I did know that,” Charley replied. “I know about Calder, though — that in addition to being a top star, he was a terrific businessman.”

“He was, and his estate ran to something over a billion dollars. He left everything to Arrington, and after our marriage I oversaw the liquidation of most of his estate, mostly real estate, with the result that when Arrington died, she mostly held stock in Centurion Studios and in cash. My law firm had prepared her will, without my participation, or even knowledge of its terms. She left me a third of her estate and two-thirds to our son, Peter, in a trust of which I am the sole trustee. Peter doesn’t come into it until he’s thirty, but I have consulted him about the investments I’ve made for the trust. I think it would be a good use of the cash in the trust to invest three hundred million of it in Triangle, and use those funds to close the sale. I’ll talk with Peter about it right away and confirm that.”

“Great, but we’re still missing fifty million.”

“Mike and I are going to loan you that, secured by your share of the partnership, and you can repay the loan as profits come in from the sale of the St. Clair companies.”

“That’s extraordinarily generous of you both,” Charley replied, moved.

“This transaction was your idea, and you brought the knowledge and skills to bear to make it happen. You deserve to be rewarded for that.”

“There’s something else I haven’t mentioned,” Charley said. “I think that three of the companies have come to the point where they can go public in the next year or so, and with our majority ownership, we will reap a huge profit from the initial public offering, and so will the original stockholders who sold to St. Clair. I think everybody will be very, very happy.”

“Are there others on the list that can have IPOs later?” Mike asked.

“Most of them. Those that aren’t ready we can sell separately.”

“That’s wonderful, Charley,” Stone said. “Something else that Mike and I think you deserve is occupancy of St. Clair’s apartment in the building.”

Charley broke into a grin. “I can’t say that that hadn’t crossed my mind.”

“Also, the yacht is owned by a Delaware corporation. We can sell that to ourselves, and Mike and I will loan you the money to buy your third. It shouldn’t take you long to reap enough from the IPOs to repay it.”

“Also,” Mike said, “there are two airplanes and a helicopter owned by St. Clair. Strategic Services will buy one, and we can sell the helicopter, since none of us has much use for it. We can keep the other airplane as a Triangle company aircraft.”

“What are the two airplanes?” Stone asked.

“One is a Gulfstream 450, which we will buy, if you agree. The other is a very new airplane from Cessna, a Citation Latitude, which has a big cabin and a range of twenty-seven hundred miles. It can live in our hangar complex at Teterboro.”

“Suddenly, it seems,” Charley said, “that all my personal needs have been taken care of.” The three of them shook hands and parted company for the evening.

Stone headed home to call Peter, and then to have dinner and meet the personal needs of Marisa Carlsson.

Erik Macher and Jake Herman sat in Macher’s new suite, a small one, at the Lombardy Hotel, surrounded by boxes. Macher’s secretary had been dropped with her boxes at her sister’s apartment building a few blocks away.

Macher poured Herman another drink. “You understand, Jake, you’re still employed by my security company, which I owned before I met Christian St. Clair. The money isn’t quite as good, but it will keep us afloat until we can feather our nests once again.”

“And how are we going to do that?” Jake asked.

“Opportunities will present themselves, and we will capitalize on them.”

“What kind of opportunities?”

“That remains to be seen, but believe me, they will materialize. Christian St. Clair was such an opportunity. There will be others.”

“Okay, whatever you say.”

“But before we make the move back to D.C. we have business to take care of here, with regard to Barrington and Fox.”

“Uh-oh.”

“Don’t worry, there’ll be the two of us working on it. You won’t bear the entire responsibility. I would, however, be grateful for suggestions.”

“A bullet to the brain has always worked for me,” Jake said.

“Not in this case. There are three people to deal with.”

“Three? Whatever happened to just the two?”

“Elihu Barnes will join Charles Fox and Stone Barrington on our list.”

“Who the fuck is Elihu Barnes?”

“He’s the chairman of the St. Clair board, the imperious prick who fired us.”

“Oh. Well, in the circumstances I can hardly blame him,” Jake said.

“I can blame him,” Macher replied.

“Okay, then you kill him. I’ll help with the other two.”

“What I’d like your help on is to think of a way to get them in the same room. I’m well trained and experienced with explosives.”

“Well, they must have further business together. Where would that take place?”

“I would think in the St. Clair mansion,” Macher said.

“Why there?”

“Because I suspect that Barnes and the board are going to offer Charles Fox my job, and probably today.”

“Why Charley?”

“Because St. Clair hired him, and I expect with the promise of one day replacing Christian in the CEO’s job. Barnes and Company would know that. They’d naturally turn to him, and Fox would take it in the blink of an eye.”

“Well, if you can make a bomb, I guess I can get it into the library, where the board meets.”

“You know that girl in accounting, the one you’ve been diddling since you came to New York?”

“Velma Ottley?”

“That’s the one.”

“She’s not going to plant any bomb,” Jake said.

“No, but she hears things around the office. She’ll know what’s going on.”

“I guess.”

“I think you should ask her to dinner tonight and prepare the ground for the sowing of seeds, so to speak.”

“I guess I could do that.”

“I got you a room down the hall. You can take her there after you dine. Make a reservation in the hotel dining room.”

Jake picked up the phone.

“No, take your things down to your room,” Macher said, handing him the key card. “Use your cell phone to call her.”

“They took my cell phone when they threw us out.”

Macher handed him a burner phone. “This will work.”

Jake picked up his bags and left the suite.

Macher lay down on the bed, his head throbbing. He’d feel better when they were all dead.

Jake was awakened early on Saturday morning by an insistent Velma. They had dined well the evening before, and had adjourned to Jake’s room, where they had done things to each other twice, before rendering each other unconscious.

“It’s Saturday,” Velma said. “No work.”

“You mean there’s nobody at the office?”

“Nobody works Saturdays since St. Clair died.”

“That’s good news,” Jake muttered.

“Why?” Velma asked.

Jake thought about that for a moment. “Because you don’t have to be there, and you can fuck me again.”

“How nice you put it, Jake,” Velma replied, rolling him over and climbing on. “And I’m going to want eggs Benedict after you’re helpless again.”

“Deal,” Jake said, then did his duty.

Stone heard Kaley screaming and started for the stairs, then he saw the elevator, its door standing open. He pulled Marisa in and pressed the button for the top floor. As the car rose, he saw through the stained glass of the doors a figure running down the stairs and out the front door. At the top, they got out and ran into the apartment, looking for Kaley and Charley.

They found them in the bathroom, Charley lying on his back, glassy-eyed, while Kaley tried to stanch the flow of blood from his belly with a towel.

“Let me in here,” Marisa said, pushing Kaley aside. She examined the wound, then applied a fresh towel to it.

“I’ll call nine-one-one,” Stone said, whipping out his cell phone.

“No,” Marisa barked, “dial this number.” She recited it for him. “Now give me the phone.” She listened for a moment. “This is Marisa, give me Nihls, now.” She waited. “Nihls, I’m bringing in a man with a major abdominal knife wound. Send an ambulance to this address.” She recited it. “Prep OR 1 and start scrubbing. Wait.”

Charley was trying to say something. Marisa bent over him and listened.

“A positive,” Charley murmured, then closed his eyes.

Marisa went back to the phone. “Order four units of type A positive for the ambulance and eight for the OR, stat!” She hung up. “Nihls is the best trauma surgeon in the city,” she said. “He did his surgical residency at Bellevue, and he’s seen more knife wounds than anybody.”

Somewhere out in the street, an ambulance siren could already be heard. “I’ll get them up here,” Stone said, and ran down the stairs.

Stone got to his desk on time the next morning and rang for Joan.

She picked up the phone. “Yes, boss?”

“Will you please run over to the bank, see Mr. Baird, and pick up a cashier’s check for me?”

“Sure thing. Be right back.” She hung up.

Stone reviewed his copy of the sales contract and closing statement, and by the time he had finished, Joan was back with the check.

“That’s a very nice round number,” she said, handing him the check.

“It’s going to buy a dozen or more companies,” he replied, “for Triangle.”

“How’s Charley doing?”

“He was fine when I saw him yesterday. He ran me out and told me to call him today when we’ve closed.”

“Good luck,” she said, and went back to her desk.

Stone gathered his papers together, put the check in his inside pocket, and got into the Bentley for the trip to the St. Clair mansion.

Stone went straight to the hospital to see Charley Fox.

“When you didn’t call I began to think something had gone wrong,” Charley said.

“You could say that,” Stone replied. He related the events of midday.

“Macher!” Charley said.

“Of course, who else?”

“Can we nail him for it?”

“I’ve already talked to Dino, who has talked to the DA. There were no prints on the bomb, and the phone was bought at a convenience store in New Jersey. And I can’t swear it was Macher on the phone. It’s called ‘insufficient evidence to indict.’”

“I’m glad there’s a guard on my room,” Charley said.

“There are a dozen Strategic Services people in the building. You’re quite safe.”

“When I’m out of here,” Charley said, “Macher and I are going to have a reckoning.”

“Don’t let that weigh on your mind,” Stone replied. “You’ll internalize your anger, and it will affect your recovery.”

“I feel an intense need to deal with it on a personal level.”

“I can understand that, but it’s not the way to go about it. The DA is still considering whether to charge Macher with the murder of Christian St. Clair, so he’s far from out of the woods.”

“Something else,” Charley said.

“What?”

“He’s not going to stop.”

“Charley...”

“No, I’m happy about that — it will give us other opportunities to kill him legally.”

“Not while I’m your attorney,” Stone said.

“Then at some point I’ll just have to fire you.”

“You know who we should talk to about this?”

“Who?”

“Ed Rawls.”

Charley managed to sit up a little straighter in his bed. “You’re damned right,” he said. “Ed is smarter than any of us, and he knows more ways to skin a cat than anybody alive.”

“What can I get you to make your stay more pleasant?” Stone asked. “Magazines? Books?”

“They have a very good library here. A lady comes around every day with a cartful of reading material.”

“Anything else?”

“A bottle of single-malt scotch and a straw.”

“All in good time.”

“I must be getting better — I’m horny.”

“Maybe you should discuss that with Kaley,” Stone said.

“Don’t you worry, I will. Oh, I didn’t tell you — Kaley’s going to move into the mansion with me.”

“Now that’s good news.”

“She’s out shopping now for enough new furniture and stuff so that we can forget Macher ever lived there. She’s going to keep her job at Strategic Services.”

“By the way, there’s a locksmith at the mansion as we speak, rekeying the locks, and Mike’s people will change the alarm code. I’ll send everything over to Kaley as soon as the locksmith drops off the new keys.”

“I think you’d better call the old employees — the accounting people and the cleaning and cooking staffs — and tell them to come back to work tomorrow.”

“All that’s in hand. There’ll be somebody there to let them in. There’s enough cash in the company accounts to pay their salaries and other operating expenses, for the moment. I’ve already sent the bank new signature cards with my and Mike’s signatures. We’ll add yours later.”

“Right. Stone,” Charley said, “there’s something else you can do for me.”

“Anything at all.”

“Your pistol and my knife are in my desk drawer in the apartment. Could you get them over to me? I’d be more comfortable with them on hand.”

“Did you get your application in for the carry permit?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll ask Dino if he can rush it, and I’ll get the knife to you. That’ll have to do until you’re licensed.”

“Oh, all right. I was always better with the knife than the gun when I was in training.”

“By the way, Marisa’s father has said that your medical bills and your stay here are on him, so don’t worry about that.”

“That’s very good of him.”

“You can thank him when you see him. In the meantime, I’ll have a word with Arthur Steele at the Steele Insurance Group and get a full corporate package put together for Triangle, you, and the new employees.”

“You think of everything.”

“I’ll have to, until you’re well enough to think.” Stone said goodbye and went home.

Stone called Ed Rawls, who answered immediately.

“Ed, I need your advice,” Stone said. He told him of Macher’s effort to blow up the St. Clair building. “We don’t have enough evidence to prosecute him. Have you any advice as to how to proceed?”

“Shoot the son of a bitch and don’t get caught,” Rawls said.

“That’s excellent advice, Ed, but I need a way ahead that doesn’t involve life in prison without parole.”

“I said don’t get caught, didn’t I?”

“Ed, I was a homicide detective for a long time, and I never encountered a perfect murder. These days, there are too many kinds of evidence that didn’t exist all those years ago.”

“Yeah, DNA, and all that crap.”

“Right. How do we defend ourselves from somebody with no scruples at all? Somebody who’s willing to do anything?”

“Stone,” Ed said, “if I knew that, Macher would already be dead.”

Stone got to Patroon first and ordered drinks for both himself and Dino. They arrived just as Dino did.

“I’m impressed with your timing,” Dino said.

“You’re easily impressed — I just wanted a drink, and I didn’t want to wait for you.”

“I figured. I just thought I’d make you feel better after what must have been a depressing day.”

“Why would you think it was a depressing day? I got the deal closed, and I’m going to make zillions of dollars from it, eventually.”

“Gee, I don’t know, I thought it might have been depressing for you to come within a second of getting your ass scattered all over the Upper East Side.”

“On the other hand, it was exhilarating for that to not happen. You have to look on the bright side, Dino. Otherwise, who would have had a drink waiting for you?”

Dino took a swig. “You’re right, I feel better already.”

“I’m so glad.”

“Listen, I got some interesting news from my people this afternoon.”

“I’m always interested in the interesting.”

“Turns out the explosive in Macher’s bomb was an experimental batch that contained a trace marker that allowed the manufacturer to have a record of who it was delivered to.”

“You’re right, that is certainly interesting. To whom was it delivered?”

“The CIA.”

“Aha!”

“Don’t aha so fast, my friend, they won’t tell us who — rather, to whom — they issued it.”

“Well, that’s annoying of them, isn’t it?”

“It certainly is, but we have an in with the Agency, don’t we?”

“And who is that?”

“That is you.”

“You think they’d tell me?”

“You’re Lance Cabot’s fair-haired boy — he’d tell you.”

“I question your assessment of the fairness of my hair in Lance’s eyes, so let me rephrase the question. You think Lance would tell me who checked out the explosive, then testify to that in open court? I think he might well express a certain reluctance to participate in that scenario.”

“You have a point, but you’re making it without reference to your gift of persuasion, especially where Lance is concerned.”

“Oh? Kindly quote me an example of when I persuaded Lance to do something for me. It’s always the other way around, and Lance’s persuasion is always tainted with a veiled threat about what might befall me if I should not be persuaded.”

“Okay, you persuaded him to sell you that house in Paris that the Agency owned, and at a minimal price, if memory serves.”

“That was only because Lance desperately wanted something from me.”

“And what was that something?”

“I don’t recall offhand, but it must have been something really important to make him that desperate. Also, it was very expensive for the Agency to maintain the place as a safe house, and they hardly ever used it. I’m sure the General Services Administration was pleased to have it off their books.”

“I forget what point I was trying to prove.”

“You were trying to persuade me that I could persuade Lance to give me the name of the person who signed out the explosive, and then to testify to that in open court.”

“Oh, yes, I remember now.”

“I’m so relieved. I had thought you were exhibiting signs of early-onset dementia.”

“Not in the least. Will you call Lance?”

“Only if we can think of something to give Lance in return, something that he really wants.”

There followed three minutes of silent contemplation.

“I can’t think of a thing,” Dino said finally.

“Neither can I.” Stone got out his cell phone. “I’ll call Lance.”

“Good idea. Put it on speaker.”

Stone did so.

“This is Cabot. Why are you calling me at this time of night?”

“Because I know you work at all hours, Lance.”

“Ah, Stone, to what do I owe this dubious pleasure?”

“I thought, Lance, that you might derive some satisfaction from helping to imprison a former CIA agent, a thoroughgoing rogue who is a contemptible and murderous swine.”

“As inviting as imprisoning a contemptible and murderous swine sounds, I cannot imagine how I could help.”

“Then I’ll clear it up for you. The former agent checked out a quantity of plastic explosive from your technical services division some time back, and after performing whatever task he had in mind, he retained a considerable portion of that explosive until this very morning, when he deployed it in an attempt to murder everyone at a meeting at which I was in attendance, not to mention a few dozen innocents in adjacent buildings on the Upper East Side of this city. We were saved only by a passing Labrador retriever who was skilled in the arts of explosive sniffing.”

“A passing Labrador retriever? One on the sidewalk, sniffing for a place to do his business, who just happened to zero in on some plastic explosive at your meeting?”

“It was a she, name of Bessie, but all right, she was actually attending the meeting, in the company of her owner, when she began barking at the fireplace. The bomb was contained in a wood box next to same, which, at Bessie’s suggestion, I opened just in time to disconnect a cell phone attached to said explosive. A moment later, it rang.”

“I hope you answered it.”

“I did, and on the other end was the aforesaid contemptible, murderous swine, name of Erik Macher.”

“Ah!” Lance said. “I believe I do recall that person, and you have described him accurately.”

“Thank you.”

“And what is it you want me to do to him?”

“Just instruct your director of Technical Services to testify that the explosive was checked out to Mr. Macher, and that he did not return any of it.”

“Forgive my asking, but how would my man determine that the same explosive he issued to Macher was contained in the bomb of your acquaintance?”

“Because the manufacturer of said explosive took part in an experimental program to add trace markers to their product, and they have a record of having delivered explosive containing that marker to your own estimable agency, and the NYPD has identified the marker. All we need is the Agency’s confirmation that it was issued to Macher and none was returned.”

“Stone,” Lance said, “I believe you are well acquainted with the level of secrecy under which we operate, are you not?”

“I am, but I don’t see how getting a contemptible, murderous swine off the streets would compromise that secrecy.”

“Because the world at large is not aware that our technical services division even exists, let alone the name of its director, nor does it know for certain that we sometimes find uses for explosives. We do not wish to implant that information in the consciousness of unsuspecting citizens, which might later emerge to bite us on the ass in a congressional hearing, or other such venue, which it surely, as night follows day, would. Please give my warm regards to Bessie, and I bid you a pleasant good evening.” Lance hung up.

“You see?” Stone asked Dino.

“You weren’t persuasive enough,” Dino replied.

Stone arrived at the Carlsson Clinic just before noon and opened the door to Charley’s room to find Charley and Kaley close together, both a little breathless and flushed.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” Stone said, dragging a chair up to Charley’s bedside.

“Of course not,” Charley panted.

“I was just leaving,” Kaley said, checking her appearance in her compact mirror and refreshing her lipstick. She kissed Charley and left.

“You got here just in time,” Charley said. “I might have expired.”

“Lovely way to go,” Stone observed.

“I’d just as soon hang around for more,” Charley replied.

“I thought I’d bring you up to date.”

“Shoot.”

“First of all, I checked with Ed Rawls and asked his advice on how best to quietly remove Macher from the scene.”

“And what did Ed suggest?”

“He suggested shooting him in the head and not getting caught.”

“You know,” Charley said, “that’s not a bad idea.”

“I gave Ed the benefit of my experience as a homicide detective in a past life and explained that I had never encountered a perfect murder.”

“But wait,” Charley said, “in a couple of days I’m going to be ambulatory. I could creep out of here, off Macher, and creep back in. I’m an invalid — no one would ever suspect me. How perfect is that?”

“Imperfect,” Stone said. “You forget that we have no idea where Macher is, or whether he is predisposed to getting shot in the head by an invalid, who would probably pop his sutures and bleed to death in the street before he could creep back into the Carlsson Clinic.”

“There is that,” Charley said, looking sad. Then he brightened. “I could get Kaley to shoot him. She’d like that, and God knows, she’s been trained for it.”

“Right,” Stone said, brightening, too, “and she could take the rap for it, as well. You and I would go scot-free. I like it.”

“All right, that was a little unchivalrous of me.”

“It was.”

“Still...”

“Put it out of your mind, Charley.”

“You know the three most important things about a successful murder, Stone?”

“Like real estate — location, location, location.”

“Well, yes, but...”

“What were your three things?”

“I’ve forgotten.”

“That may be the best idea of all,” Stone said, “just forget it.”

There was a knock at the door, and a nurse entered with an envelope. “This was just hand-delivered to you by a policeman,” she said, handing it to Charley.

Charley opened the envelope and examined the contents. “It’s my carry license,” he said, beaming.

“I spoke to Dino about it.” Stone pulled the little Colt Government .380 he had loaned Charley from his pocket and handed it to him. “There you are, and all legal.”

“I feel much better,” Charley said.

“And that greatly simplifies our problem,” Stone said. “All we have to do now is to pull all your guards off, wait for Macher to come in here to kill you, then you can shoot him.”

“Great!”

“If you don’t fall asleep while you’re waiting for him to show up, in which case he will kill you.”

“You’re such a killjoy,” Charley said.

“Remember, that thing is loaded, and there’s one in the chamber. Is six rounds enough to dispatch Macher when he shows up?”

“I should think so.”

“It’s a light caliber — go for a head shot. We don’t want him lumbering about the clinic like a wounded bear, knocking over things.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Charley said.

“Okay, I’ll get out of here, then. I’m having lunch with Marisa at her apartment upstairs.”

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“Or haven’t just done.” Stone left and took the elevator upstairs to Marisa.

She gave him a big kiss. “I haven’t seen Charley today,” she said, “how is he?”

“Well enough to accept a little fellatio from Kaley,” Stone replied. “I nearly caught them at it.”

“What a nice idea,” Marisa said. “Are you up for a little fellatio? Or cunnilingus? It’s a smorgasbord — take your pick.”

Stone grabbed her. “A little of everything, please.”

She fended him off. “It will have to wait until after work. I have an appointment with a patient in twenty minutes.”

“I’ll make it fast.”

“You’re forgetting lunch.”

“You’re lunch.”

“Think of me as a canapé at the cocktail hour.”

“I can’t wait around here all day, waiting for the cocktail hour.”

“Let’s have lunch, then you go home, and I’ll join you at the cocktail hour for a smorgasbord. I’ll undress in the cab on the way, so there’ll be no waiting.”

“I like that. I’ll try to contain myself until then.”

They had lunch, and he went home, atingle with anticipation.

At the end of Charley’s first week as an invalid, he was examined by his surgeon, Nihls Carlsson, and discharged as a patient. “Just be careful,” Nihls said, “no abdominal exertion, no running or exercise program. Move about gingerly for another week, then we can start rehab.”

Charley readily agreed, and he was met by Fred in the Bentley outside. “Where’s Kaley?” Charley asked.

“Waiting for you at home,” Fred replied, and drove away.

Charley closed his eyes and relaxed, and when Fred opened the door for him, he found himself in front of the St. Clair mansion, and Kaley was waiting for him on the doorstep.

Fred offered his arm, and Charley climbed the steps, one at a time, embraced Kaley, and then was whisked upstairs in the elevator.

The apartment had been transformed from St. Clair’s to Kaley and Charley’s. Several pieces of comfortable, but less flamboyant pieces of furniture replaced some of those St. Clair had chosen, and there were flowers everywhere. The beautiful pictures remained where St. Clair had hung them.

Kaley began unbuttoning his shirt. “Now you should get into bed,” she said, “doctor’s orders.”

“What else did the doctor order?” Charley asked, and Kaley showed him. When he was completely relaxed and she had helped him into a pair of new silk pajamas, she picked up a remote control and made the bed sit up.

“Wow,” Charley said. “Does your side do the same?”

“Yes, it does.” She pressed another button and a huge TV set rose from the floor before the fireplace. “Now you can watch the game while we wait for lunch to be served by the staff.”

“What game?”

“Whatever game.” She handed him the remote control. “You choose. It’s satellite, there are a zillion channels.”

Charley found a game.

They cruised the whole of the afternoon and, as the sun was low in the sky, they picked up a mooring in Edgartown Harbor, near the yacht club. The harbor was not as crowded in the early autumn as in mid-summer, but there were still many yachts about, and they received the admiring attention of those passing. Mike Freeman handed a triangular flag to a crewman and requested that it be flown at the bow of the yacht.

“What’s the flag?” Charley asked.

“It’s the burgee of the New York Yacht Club,” Mike replied, “of which I am a member, so we are entitled to fly it. It occurs to me that you and Stone, since you are yachtsmen, should be members, as well, and I would be delighted to propose you both.”

“I accept,” Charley said, and Stone agreed.

The following morning after breakfast they weighed anchor and left Edgartown Harbor for the forty-mile run to Nantucket.

Stone visited the bridge, where the captain was alone, monitoring their progress under autopilot.

“Good morning, Mr. Barrington,” the captain said.

“Good morning.”

“Is everything all right?”

“I don’t know,” Stone said, “is it?”

“Is there some problem?”

“I took a stroll last night and came across your crewman on the top deck, sound asleep.”

The captain winced. “That’s Yancy Tubbs. I should have given someone else the first watch,” he said.

“Has he not been otherwise satisfactory?”

“Lazy, mostly. Also, he was tight with Mr. Macher, and I don’t know if that’s a good thing.”

“It is not a good thing,” Stone said. “Perhaps he could fly home from Nantucket.”

“He’s already gone,” the captain replied. “He volunteered to go under the yacht for a look at the hull, which surprised me, but I let him do it, then I broke the news to him and sent him ashore.”

“That’s a relief,” Stone said. Then he thought about it for a moment and said, “Captain, please stop the ship.”

“What?”

“I want her dead in the water right now, and I need a wet suit, a snorkel, and flippers. Also, some wire cutters.”

“Mr. Barrington, what’s wrong?”

“I have a feeling your ex-crewman might not have done a good enough job in looking at the hull.”

The captain switched off the autopilot and pulled the throttles back to idle. The yacht slowed, then finally stopped.

They spent two nights in the Nantucket marina, enjoying good weather, then Stone summoned the helicopter to meet them at the airport. By midday they were back in New York, and Fred met Stone at the East Side Heliport, while the others took cabs home.

“Dinner tonight?” he asked Marisa.

“I’d love to, but I have to pack for Sweden. I have a morning flight.”

He dropped her at the clinic and Fred drove him home. Stone dined alone at home that evening, already missing Marisa.

Stone was at his desk the following morning when Joan buzzed him. “Dr. Carlsson is on line one for you.”

“Okay, I’ll bite — which Dr. Carlsson?”

“Oh, sorry, the patriarch of the clan.”

Stone picked up the phone. “Paul, good morning.”

“Good morning, Stone. I’ve been talking with my sons, and we think it’s time to return our security status to normal. They find the presence of guards uncomfortable, and some of our patients have commented on it as well.”

“Well, Paul, the worst seems to be over for the clinic, so a return to normal might be all right, but there are still risks. What if we reduced the presence by half? That could still give you a margin of safety. Then, in a week or two, we could end it.”

“All right, then,” Carlsson said, “a fifty percent reduction immediately, and in another week, we end it.”

“I think that’s a good move. Have you heard from Marisa?”

“Ah, yes,” Carlsson said, seeming to hesitate.

Stone had had two e-mails, and she sounded cheerful enough. “Is everything all right in Sweden?”

“Everything is always all right in Sweden,” Carlsson said, laughing. “Stone, I’m not sure you understand how strong our bond is with that country and its language.”

“Perhaps not,” Stone replied.

“We all feel at least half Swedish, and we make a point of visiting our ancestral home as frequently as we can find the time. We even have a smaller version of our clinic in Stockholm.”

“I didn’t know that,” Stone said. “Marisa never mentioned it.”

“Perhaps she should have,” Carlsson said. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’d better get back to work. Will you speak to Mike Freeman on my behalf about reducing the security presence?”

“Of course, Paul. Thank you for calling.” Stone hung up and called Mike Freeman.

“Good morning,” Mike said. “I suppose you’re calling about Erik Macher’s continuing presence in New York.”

“No, but Dino spoke to me about it. Macher is apparently living at the Lombardy.”

“That’s our information. You should keep that in mind when moving around the city.”

“I’ll do that. Mike, Paul Carlsson just called me, and he wants to reduce the security presence at the clinic.”

“And what’s your opinion on that?”

“I suggested a fifty percent reduction immediately, and if the week passes with no problems, then an end to it — unless a new threat develops.”

“All right, I’ll get that done right away.”

“Paul would appreciate that.”

“Anything else?”

“Keep me posted if there’s anything new on Macher.”

“I will, certainly.” The two men hung up.

Stone checked his e-mail and found one from Marisa.

That news wasn’t good and he was concerned by the lack of expressed affection in the letter. He found it businesslike, and not much more, except for the perceived invitation to have as much sex as he wanted.

Joan came in. “Are you having lunch at your desk? Shall I order you something from Helene?”

“Yes, thanks, a sandwich will do.”

“What kind of sandwich?”

“Tell Helene to surprise me.”

“Boss, is something wrong? You look a little unwell.”

“No, I’m just fine, thanks.” He was a bit surprised to find that he wasn’t.

Kaley Weiss left the offices of Strategic Services at 11:30 to go and prepare lunch for Charley, something she did each day, even if there was a cook on duty at the mansion.

She started across Park Avenue, but the light caught her on the center island, and she had to wait there for it to change. As she did, she saw a stopped car on East Fifty-seventh, headed west, waiting for the light to change. She recognized the driver from photographs: it was Jake Herman. That must mean that the man sitting next to him in the front passenger seat was Erik Macher. As she watched, the light changed, and the car drove across Park Avenue. She noticed a hanging garment bag and a suitcase in the rear seat, as if the trunk must be full. She turned and watched the car proceed up East Fifty-seventh Street, and she watched it from a distance until it disappeared, going west.

Kaley called Stone Barrington.

“Yes, Kaley?”

“Good morning, Stone,” she said. “I’m at the corner of East Fifty-seventh and Park Avenue, and two men in a Mercedes S550 just drove past me, heading west. The driver was Jake Herman, and I’m assuming the front-seat passenger was Erik Macher. The backseat had luggage in it, which I take to mean that the trunk was full, and that car has a pretty big trunk. I watched them drive all the way west, as if they were headed for the bridge or the tunnel.”

“That’s an astute observation, Kaley,” Stone said. “I expect they’re leaving the city to drive back to D.C., where Macher has a condo, across the river in Arlington.”

“Then that’s good news?”

“It is. How’s Charley doing?”

“Better and better. I’m headed over to the mansion now to fix his lunch and to make sure he isn’t doing too much yet.”

“That’s good of you, and thanks for the information.” He hung up.

Erik Macher arrived at his office an hour earlier than his small staff, after a fitful night’s sleep. Barrington was an itch he couldn’t seem to scratch, and the thought of him, alive and well in New York, was too much to bear.

He went into his office, locked the door, and opened the walk-in safe in a corner of the room. His firm’s weapons were kept there — handguns, holsters, assault rifles, and a couple of fully automatic machine guns. In a rear corner was a wooden case, and he opened that. It was half-full of plastic explosive bricks, each weighing one kilogram, or 2.2 pounds. Next to that box was another, containing detonators and timers.

He spread a plastic cloth on his desk, pulled on a pair of latex gloves, and retrieved two of the explosive bricks, setting them on the plastic sheet on his desk. This time he was taking no chances.

He pressed two detonators into the plastique and attached wires from them to an empty battery holder, then attached another two wires running from there to the terminals on a timer. He didn’t set the timer yet. He pressed a fresh lithium-ion battery against his tongue and felt the tiny shock. Good battery. He clipped it into the holder, and he had himself one hell of a bomb.

He stepped outside into the alley, where a box held packaging materials, and selected a heavy, two-ply cardboard box and a bag of foam peanuts, then took them back into his office. He laid a layer of foam at the bottom of the box, then pressed the two bricks into the yielding material, then filled the box with peanuts, leaving only the timer exposed. For added impact, he took two boxes of double-ought shotgun shells from the safe and with a craft knife cut each of the two dozen shells open and poured the shot into the box. He also scattered the powder over the foam.

He found a shipping label in a storage cabinet and snipped off the return address and waybill number, then affixed it to the top of the box, then he sprayed the container with Windex to remove any fingerprints or DNA. All that remained was to set the timer, tape the box shut, and send it on its way. He heard the outside door to the building open and close, and someone tried his office door, then knocked.

“Erik,” Jake said, “it’s me.”

Macher let him in. “Sit down, Jake,” he said.

Jake sat. “What’s in the box?”

“Think of it as a gift.” He went back to the safe and found an explosive-suppressing woven steel blanket and set it on his desk. “What we’ve got here is two kilos of plastique, a lot of buckshot, and a timer,” he said.

“You’re going to try this again?” Jake asked doubtfully.

“Just once — once and for all,” Macher replied.

“And you want me to deliver it?”

“No, I don’t want that, you’re going to need an iron-clad alibi.”

Jake looked relieved.

“Name a man who can be trusted to deliver this and to do it right.”

“Swenson,” Jake said without hesitation. “He’s young, but reliable. He did two tours in Iraq and Afghanistan, and he knows what it means to follow orders precisely.”

“All right, Swenson,” Macher said. “He’s single, isn’t he? Lives alone?”

“Yes. How do you want him to handle this?”

“I want the package placed outside the street entrance to Barrington’s office, which is downstairs in his house.”

“Right.”

“I want it set in place at three tomorrow morning. That will give Swenson plenty of time to drive up there, place the package, and drive back, arriving at work at his usual time.”

“Got it. What’s the steel blanket for?”

“I want Swenson to wrap it around the box on the street side, like this.” Macher demonstrated how to do it. “That will help direct the explosive force away from the street and into Barrington’s office. There’s enough explosive here to destroy the secretary’s office near the street, then push into Barrington’s office, destroying it and him, and I anticipate that the force of the explosion will cause his house to collapse on top of his office. That way, in the unlikely event that he survives the explosion, he’ll die in the rubble while the fire department is trying to dig him out.”

“That sounds thorough, Erik. I assume you’ve taken steps not to leave any prints or DNA on the box.”

Macher held up his gloved hands.

“Got it,” Jake said.

“When we had his house under surveillance before, our men determined that Barrington’s secretary gets to her office around eight-thirty, and that Barrington comes downstairs between nine and nine-thirty, so I’m setting the timer for ten.”

“Suppose someone tries to enter from the street and discovers the box?”

Macher grabbed a pencil and pad. “The front of the office entrance protrudes from the house, like this.” He drew the outline. “There are concrete flower boxes under the windows on either side of the entrance. I want Swenson to pull one of them out far enough to place the package behind it, along with the steel blanket. The flower box will hide the package from the street and help the blanket do its job.”

“I see.” Jake sat immobile and silent.

“What is it, Jake?”

“I’m just running through it in my mind. When the secretary comes to work, she might notice the new position of the flower box.”

“She lives next door, and she enters the Barrington house from there and goes into her office from inside the house. Should FedEx or some other person get buzzed in from inside, he won’t notice the position of the concrete flower box.”

“That’s good,” Jake said. “You appear to have thought of everything.”

“I believe I have,” Macher replied. He got up from his seat, opened the box, and began to set the timer. “I’m setting the timer now, for ten AM, tomorrow’s date.” He did so, then closed the box and taped it securely shut.

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.” Macher handed him a box of latex gloves. “Now put these on and take the box and the blanket down to your office. You can explain it to Swenson there, and make sure he has gloves for handling the material. All he has to do is stop at the curb, get the box out of his trunk, place it and the blanket, and he’s out of there in a minute or so. Also, while he’s at it, tell him to tape his license plate and leave the tape on until he’s well clear of the house.”

Jake picked up the box. “I’ll keep thinking about it and see if there are any other possible hitches.”

“You do that,” Macher said. He sat down, feeling much better than he had an hour before.

Dan Swenson was sitting at his desk, reading a gun magazine, when his phone rang. “Swenson.”

“Dan, it’s Jake Herman. Come to my office, will you? I have an assignment for you.”

“Be right there, Jake,” Swenson said, excited. He had been sitting around for weeks with little or nothing to do, and he hoped for an assignment of some consequence.

Swenson knocked on Herman’s door.

“Come!”

Swenson opened the door and walked in. “Good morning, Jake.”

“Good morning, Dan. Take a seat.”

Swenson did so.

“I expect you must be itching for something to do,” Jake said.

“You bet I am.”

“This involves driving to New York, setting a package in place outside a town house, then driving back here in time for work tomorrow morning.”

“I can do that.”

“If you do this job exactly as instructed, some bad people are going to get hurt.”

“I don’t have a problem with that,” Swenson said, meaning it.

Jake reached across the desk and handed him a pair of latex gloves. “Put these on.”

Swenson did so.

“You are to wear those at any time when your hands come in contact with this package,” Jake said, indicating the box on his desk. “It’s entirely for your protection.”

“I understand,” Swenson said.

“You are to depart here at ten PM tonight and drive to this address.” He pushed an index card across the desk. “At approximately three AM, you will park at the curb in front of the house, take the box and the accompanying steel blanket from the trunk of your car, and go to the downstairs, street door, which has a brass plate on it with the name of a law firm engraved, ‘The Barrington Practice.’”

“I see.”

“To the left of the door, under a window, is a concrete flower box. You are to slide the box out enough to admit the package, set it there, then wrap the street side of the box in the steel blanket, then push the flower box back in place to hold the package there.”

“I understand,” Swenson said.

“You are then to return to your car, close the trunk, and put masking tape over your license plate, then drive away. When you are several blocks away, you are to remove the masking tape, then drive back to your home in time to leave for work at your usual hour. Is there anything you do not understand about these instructions?”

“No, Jake.”

“Repeat them to me,” Jake said.

Swenson did so flawlessly.

“After you have successfully completed your mission, there will be a ten-thousand-dollar cash reward paid to you for service above and beyond the call.”

“Thank you, Jake, that’s very generous. I would have done it for nothing.”

“Remember this — you are not to put the cash into any bank account. You may keep it in your safe at home or your office or in a safe-deposit box at your bank, and use it as you see fit, but it must not pass through any bank account. Is that clear?”

“Of course — a normal precaution.”

“You should put the box in your car trunk now, before the rest of the staff get here.”

Swenson put on the latex gloves, set the steel blanket on top of the package, picked it up, and walked it to the alley behind the building, where the company cars were parked. He set the box in place and put the blanket beside it, then went back inside, got a roll of masking tape from his desk, and returned to the car, where he set it beside the box and closed the trunk, locking it.

“You forgot this,” a voice said from behind him, causing him to jump. Jake was standing there holding an index card. “It’s the address. You might put it into your car’s GPS, but don’t forget to delete it after your mission is completed.”

“Got it,” Swenson said, pocketing the card.

Stone was sleeping soundly when he was awakened by a distant popping, sounding like gunshots. He listened for a moment more, then drifted off again.

Erik Macher was on his way to the office, listening to satellite news, when he heard the report.

“Last night in New York City, in the wee hours, an NYPD patrol car came across a man in the East Forties putting tape over his license plate. When the two officers questioned him, the man drew a pistol and shot them both, then was shot in return by the two officers. A police spokesman said that both officers were wearing ballistic vests and are not seriously injured, and the shooter is at Bellevue Hospital and talking to officers. He is expected to recover.”

Macher called Jake Herman on his cell.

“Yeah?”

“Have you heard the news?”

“Barrington is dead?”

“No, but Swenson is in Bellevue with two gunshot wounds, and he’s talking.”

“Oh, shit.”

“You’d better not come to work, and don’t go home, either.”

“I’m at home now.”

“Well, get out of there and call me at mid-morning. I’ll deal with the police.”

“Where am I supposed to go?”

“Go get some breakfast or something, just go!” Macher hung up. He drove to his office and parked out back, then let himself into the building and ran to his office. He opened his safe, pulled on some latex gloves, and put his timers and detonators into the box containing the remainder of his explosives, then took it out of the safe and into the alley. He walked fifty yards away and put the box carefully into a neighbor’s dumpster, then returned to his office and had a good look around for any trace of the explosives. He went to Jake’s office and did the same, then he went back to his desk and sat down.

Jake Herman got to the house first. He found the junction box for the alarm system and disconnected it, then he picked the lock on the back door, went in, unlocked the other doors, and made himself some coffee in the kitchen. The phone rang, but it soon stopped.

He liked the house, particularly the study, and he made himself at home in there with the Washington Post and the New York Times, which he had picked up at the diner.

Jake read one of Rawls’s books for a while but felt antsy. It was nice outside, so he went for a little walk. The first nip of autumn was in the air, and there was a hint of color in the trees around the house.

As he strolled around the ample backyard he noticed a pile of dirt behind the garage. Closer inspection revealed a brand-new propane tank set in the hole, and an old, rusty one on the ground beside it. The new tank appeared to be connected, and the heat was on in the house. A backhoe stood beside the hole. Apparently, the tank had been installed and the backhoe operator had left until the plumber arrived to make the connection.

He strolled on until he came to a barbed-wire fence that seemed to separate Rawls’s property from the farm beyond. A few dairy cattle grazed beyond that. He felt a hunger pang and wished Macher would hurry up.

On his way back, he inspected the garage, found it unlocked and an old Mercedes inside. He thought it would be a good idea to get his own car out of sight, so he moved it into the garage and closed the doors.

Stone, directed by Ed Rawls, found a spot to park in some high weeds, within sight of the house. Stone left the satellite radio on a jazz station so they wouldn’t have to talk, but Rawls wanted to talk anyway.

“This is like old times, in my younger days with the Agency,” he said. “Except I would be on my belly in the grass, instead of sitting in a comfortable chair and listening to good jazz from the sky.”

“Did you like those days?” Stone asked, just to keep him going.

“I did,” Rawls replied. “In fact, I loved them. I was serving my country and at the same time, venting my hatred of the Soviets and the harm they were causing in the world. Every time we hurt them I felt genuine satisfaction.”

“What about later, when you were running agents instead of being run?”

“Running others was harder than being run. The only safety I could give them was in the planning. Once they were out in the field, all I could do was worry, and I did.”

“Did many of them not come back?”

“A few. I could name their names and tell you their records, which I memorized. We hardly ever got to bury them. They’re just stars on a wall at Langley, not even their names.”

“You said you’d heard of Macher while you were still in harness. What did you hear?”

“I told you some of it — a propensity for violence, whether called for or not. He’d shoot the opposition if he had the chance. It caused a backlash from the Soviets and the East Germans that did not react to our benefit. For that, I hate the son of a bitch, to this day.”

“Do you mean to kill him tonight?” Stone asked.

“If he gives me an excuse that will work with the cops. I’m not willing to go to jail for it. Are you going to back me?”

“If I can,” Stone replied.

“That’s very reassuring,” Rawls said sarcastically.

“After all, he’s tried to kill me a couple of times — tried hard, too. I just got lucky.”

“I should think that would be reason enough just to put two in his head,” Rawls said. “What does it take to get you riled enough to do something about it?”

“I haven’t figured that out yet,” Stone replied.

“Well, you’d better think on it, because if we get within range of these two, I think we can count on rounds coming our way.”

“That would certainly call for a response,” Stone said.

They sat quietly for a while, waiting for dark.

Rawls finally spoke again, and his voice was without its hard edge. “You know, I’ve known a lot of people in my life — still know a lot of them — but I think you’re the only friend I’ve got.”

“Why do you think that is?” Stone asked, genuinely curious.

“Kate used to be my friend,” Rawls said. “I was her mentor, and I was a good one, too. But when I had my trouble, she took great personal offense, and we weren’t friends anymore.”

Stone knew about that.

“Since that time, you are the only person who has laid it on the line for me, and I want you to know I’m grateful for that.”

“You’re welcome, but let’s not overstate the case.”

“I’m not overstating nothing. Who else would be with me here right now?”

Stone didn’t have an answer for that.

They were silent for a while, and Stone began to doze a bit. Some time later, he wasn’t sure how long, Rawls poked him in the ribs.

“What?” Stone asked.

“A light just went on in the house,” Rawls said. “In my study, I think.”

“Nothing else?”

“Nothing else.”

“Then that would mean they’re both in your study, wouldn’t it?”

“No,” Rawls said, “that would mean that at least one of them is in my study. The other could be upstairs, asleep, or napping on the living room sofa. Let’s drift down there and see.”

As the car began to move an outdoor light came on behind the house.

Stone had passed the house, now. He made a U-turn, and Ed told him to park in the weeds again.

“He’s going to need sleep,” Ed said. “Let’s let him settle in awhile.”

“And then what?” Stone asked.

“Then we can capture us a murderer,” Ed replied. “Whichever one it is, then we call the cops.”

“You’re still making this up as you go along, aren’t you?” Stone asked.

“Yep. Let’s get a little sleep ourselves.” He laid his head against the seat back and seemed instantly asleep.

Stone dozed, too, and when he awoke the moon had set, and it was pitch-dark: no lights in the house. As he shifted his weight, Rawls woke, too.

“Ah, good,” Ed said, “I feel better rested now.”

“What’s your plan?” Stone asked.

“I want to get a look inside that Mercedes,” Rawls said.

“What if it’s locked?”

“Who would lock his car out here in the wilderness?” He got out of the car, closed the door softly, and, followed by Stone, crossed the road and walked toward the house. At the entrance to the driveway, which was paved, Rawls stopped and took off his shoes, and Stone followed suit.

“Don’t use your flashlight unless you have to,” Rawls said. He walked silently up the driveway, stopped, and signaled for Stone to wait, then he went to the driver’s-side door of the Mercedes, shone his light inside briefly, and the trunk lid opened without a sound.

Rawls walked to the rear of the car, set his shoes inside the trunk, then played his light around the interior. He seemed to open a box, then he set down his light and worked for perhaps a minute at something, then he switched off the light, picked up his shoes, silently closed the trunk lid, and joined Stone.

“Let’s go have a look behind the garage,” Rawls said.

Stone followed him, keeping the garage between them and the house. Ed waited until they were standing on the edge of the dark pit before he switched on his flashlight. “Well,” Ed said, holding the beam steady, “you wouldn’t notice unless you were looking for him, would you?”

“No,” Stone replied, “you wouldn’t.”

“Let’s go back to our car,” Rawls said.

Stone followed him back to the road, where they put their shoes back on and walked the few yards to the car. “Why aren’t we rousting Macher?” he asked.

“Well,” Rawls said, “I’d rather not tiptoe into the house and up the stairs to the bedroom, where he’s likely sleeping with a gun next to him. It’s an old house, and it’s creaky in places. I’d rather wait until he comes downstairs in the morning and gets into his car. I’ll give him the option of running.”

“I’ll take the backseat,” Stone said, opening the door and crawling in. He was, shortly, fast asleep.

Stone and Rawls sat across the kitchen table from a Captain Sawyer, chief of the Virginia State Police Bureau of Criminal Investigation, who looked tired and a little baffled.

“Mr. Rawls,” Sawyer said, “I have to tell you, in thirty years of serving in law enforcement, that is the most complicated story I have ever heard.”

“That’s the way it happened,” Rawls replied. “Sometimes life is complicated.”

“Life is usually complicated,” Sawyer replied, “but not that complicated.” He looked at Stone, who had remained mostly mute. “Mr. Barrington, is that the way you saw it happen?”

“Captain, I’m Mr. Rawls’s attorney. I wouldn’t let him lie to a law enforcement officer.”

“Well, I spoke to Commissioner Bacchetti, in New York, as you suggested, and he backs you up about the threat constituted by Jacob Herman and Erik Macher. After hearing about them, I’m not surprised there were explosives in the trunk of Macher’s car.”

“I was surprised,” Rawls said. “I was aiming at his right rear tire, not his trunk.”

Stone kicked him under the table.

“But that’s all I’ve got to tell you,” Rawls said.

Stone breathed a sigh of relief.

“Lieutenant,” Sawyer said to the uniformed officer leaning against a kitchen counter, “I’m satisfied with Mr. Rawls’s and Mr. Barrington’s accounts of what happened here. You may remove Mr. Herman’s body to the state crime lab. Have you found any of Mr. Macher?”

“A few charred pieces of bone,” the lieutenant replied. “I guess everything else was just vaporized.”

“I’m not surprised,” Sawyer said. “That must have been some explosion. We got nine-one-one calls from miles around. Most folks thought there had been a plane crash.”

“I’m not surprised,” Rawls said.

Sawyer slapped his palms on the table. “Well, I’m outta here, Lieutenant. You got anything else?”

“That’s it for us, Captain.”

The officers shook hands with Stone and Ed and filed out of the house. A moment later, the last of their vehicles had left the property.

“I’m glad that’s over,” Stone said, then he jumped as there came a knock on the door.

Rawls answered it and found a man in work clothes standing there.

“Mornin’, Mr. Rawls,” he said. “Is it okay now if I fill up that hole and get my backhoe outta here?”

“Go right ahead,” Rawls said, “and send me a bill.” He came back and sat down at the table.

“I thought you were going to talk us right into prison,” Stone said.

“I’ve always been a good explainer.”

“I wish I had a transcript of what you said, in case they ask me any more questions.”

Rawls removed a small recorder from his shirt pocket. “I’ll send you a transcript,” he said. He got up, went to a drawer, and came back with a thick envelope. “And speaking of manuscripts, here’s mine. There are letters from three publishers inside. They saw one of the earlier ones we disseminated a while back. Will you call them and get me a deal?”

Stone picked up the envelope and weighed it. “It seems to have grown a bit.”

“I added a few things.”

“Sure, Ed, I’ll get it done. Now, I’ve got some calls to make and then do you mind if I borrow a bed? I need a few hours of sleep.”

“Top of the stairs, to your left,” Ed said. “In fact, I’m headed up to my bed now.” He got up and headed for the stairs.

Stone conferenced in Mike Freeman and Charley Fox and gave them an abbreviated version of Ed’s account to the police. “It’s okay to pull all your people out of the Carlsson Clinic, Mike,” Stone said. “I’ll let them know.”

“Done,” Mike said, “and congratulations on a good outcome.”

Stone called Paul Carlsson and told him he would shortly be free of security guards.

Carlsson seemed to speak a little hesitantly. “Ah, Stone, have you, ah, read your e-mails this morning?”

“No, Paul, I’ve been kind of busy.”

“Well, Marisa has decided to stay on in Stockholm and run our clinic there. She’ll explain everything in her e-mail.”

“Thank you, Paul,” Stone said, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“And thank you, Stone, for everything you’ve done for us.”

The two men hung up, and Stone went to his e-mail: there it was.

His shoulders slumped, and he realized he had been half expecting this. He’d just have to get over it. He was about to call Joan when his phone rang; private call.

“Hello?”

“Hi, it’s Holly.”

Stone brightened. “Hi, there, how are you?”

“Very well, thanks. Listen, I know this is short notice, but Kate is in town overnight from the campaign trail, and she and Will want to talk to you about something. Can you fly down here and stay the night in the family quarters?”

“As it happens, I’m down here already, at Ed Rawls’s house, near Langley, and I’d love to.”

“Wonderful. I’ve gotta run right now, but we’ll catch up later. Use the West Wing entrance, and they’d like you there around six o’clock.”

“See you then.” He hung up, feeling much better, and called Joan.

“The Barrington Practice.”

“Hi, I’m going to be in D.C. overnight. I should be home around midday tomorrow. I’ll give Fred an ETA in the morning, and he can meet me at Teterboro.”

“Okeydoke.”

“Anything going on there?”

“Dino called and said he talked to the Virginia police, and not to call him until tomorrow. He’s in meetings all day today.”

“Okay. See you tomorrow.” He hung up, then trudged upstairs and found the guest room. He stretched out on the bed, fully clothed, and pulled a quilt over him. As he did, his phone rang again.

“Hello?”

“Stone, it’s Ed Eagle. How are you?”

“Just fine, Ed.”

“There’s something you need to think about.”

“What’s that?”

“You know the Dudleys, from Dallas, who have a place next door to you?”

“Never met them.”

“Well, they have three acres, a beautiful piece of land, with a house on it that’s smaller than yours. They want to sell, and the price is right. If you combine the two, you’d have five gorgeous acres and a big guesthouse. Interested?”

“Ed, I don’t have room in my brain for that right now, but I’ll think about it. Can I call you tomorrow?”

“Okay, but don’t wait any longer or they’ll give it to an agent to sell.”

“Thanks, Ed. Talk to you tomorrow.”

Stone stared at the ceiling. He felt relief at having Macher out of his way, and regret over Marisa’s decision. It didn’t take long for him to convince himself that it was better this way.

He drifted off into an untroubled sleep.

Stone entered the White House through the West Wing, was escorted upstairs to the family quarters by a Secret Service agent and installed in the Lincoln Bedroom. He freshened up, shook the wrinkles out of his blue blazer, and presented himself in the living room, where Kate and Will Lee and Holly were already on their first drink. A little boy was playing in front of the fireplace, and a glass of ice and a bottle of Knob Creek bourbon sat on the coffee table. All the domestic comforts.

Will shook his hand, and Kate and Holly offered warm hugs and kisses, then Will poured his drink. “Good God,” he said, “is that your tiny baby?”

“Bill is three and a half now,” Kate said.

Stone had never picked up a child, so he just tousled his hair. “Hello, Bill,” he said. Bill ignored him.

“What have you been up to, Stone?” Kate asked.

“It would take me at least an hour to explain that,” Stone said, “so I’ll spare you.”

“I assume you’ve heard about Holly’s new job to come,” she said.

“I heard a very interesting rumor,” Stone replied.

“Well, it’s true, but not for spreading around just yet. Even though we’re ahead by double digits everywhere that matters, I don’t want to appear overconfident by making new cabinet appointments before the election.”

“I understand perfectly,” he said.

Will spoke up. “Before we get any drunker,” he said, “there’s something we want to talk to you about.”

“Please do.”

“The next four years are going to bring some important changes in our lives — in fact, they’ve already started. To begin with, our personal attorney, Kerwin Smith, is retiring, and his firm is merging with another, and we’re not really going to know the people there anymore. Kate and I would be very pleased if you would become our personal attorney.”

“Why, thank you, Will, I’d be delighted. You don’t feel the need of a Washington lawyer?”

“In the long run, we won’t be spending a lot of time in Washington after Kate’s second term. We’ll be making some big changes.”

“What sort of changes?”

“To begin with, my mother died a few months ago.”

“I saw the obituary, and I was sorry to hear it.”

“Thank you for your kind note. As a result, we’ve sold about five hundred acres of her land and her herd of cattle, along with the mail-order steak business. We’re auctioning her bulls, not wishing to stay in the bull semen business, and they’re bringing big prices on the market. We’re keeping the house and about a hundred acres, and mine and Kate’s presidential libraries will be built there. I’ve also sold Dad’s and my law practice in Delano to our other partner.”

“Where are you going to live when you’re free people again?”

“We’ve got the apartment at the Carlyle in New York, and we’ll probably sell that and buy something on Fifth Avenue, with a view of the park. Also, we want to buy a house in Santa Fe and spend a lot of time there.”

“As you say, lots of changes.”

“Kate’s son, Peter Rule, has moved back from London and he’s working for New York’s Senator Saltonstall as his chief of staff. He’s thinking of running for the other Senate seat at the midterm elections, as Senator Slade will be retiring.”

“Great idea.”

“I think he wants to be the new Ted Kennedy,” Kate said.

“What will you do with the Georgetown house?” Stone asked.

“Peter seems to think it’s too much house for him, so, unless he changes his mind, we’ll sell it, I guess.”

“May I make a recommendation?”

“Of course.”

“Why don’t you rent it to Holly, with an option to buy. We can’t have a secretary of state living over an antiques shop on Pennsylvania Avenue.”

“What a good idea!” Kate enthused.

“I like that, too,” Will said.

“Is anybody going to ask me?” Holly said.

They ignored her.

“Maybe later,” Stone said, “if Peter doesn’t want to live there, I’ll buy it and give it to the State Department as a permanent home for the secretary of state.”

“I love it!” Kate said. “Actually, Peter already has a Georgetown house. When his father, Simon, died, he inherited that and everything else handed down by Simon’s family, including a New York apartment and a place in the Hamptons and a pot of money.”

“Lucky boy.”

“Smart, too.”

“Something else,” Stone said, “as you know, I bought a house in Santa Fe a few months ago, and I think I went a house too far, since I can’t spend much time there. It might suit your purposes very well. It has a nice master suite, a study, and a library, where you and Will can work on your memoirs, plus four guest bedrooms, two of them in a guesthouse, all on about two acres. And I heard yesterday that the property next door, which is about three acres, with a small house on it, is for sale. It might make a good headquarters for your Secret Service detail.”

“Well,” Kate said, “we’re going to be in Santa Fe next week for a fund-raiser. Why don’t we take a look at it?”

“Better yet,” Stone said, “why don’t you stay at the house? Ed Eagle can arrange for you to discreetly see the property next door.”

“Perhaps,” Will said, “we could do some sort of property swap — your Santa Fe place for our Georgetown house.”

“That’s an interesting idea,” Stone said. “I know your house, of course, but after you’ve been to Santa Fe we can talk more about that. Also, a client of mine, Laurence Hayward, bought a magnificent penthouse on Park Avenue, with Central Park views, and I think he’s bitten off more than he can chew. He has houses in Santa Fe, Palm Beach, and in England. Perhaps you could take a look at his penthouse.”

“Why not?” Will said, and Kate was nodding furiously.

“Something else you can do for us,” Will said, reaching into a pocket and retrieving a loop-shaped piece of metal with a USB plug on one end. He handed it to Stone.

“What’s this?” Stone asked.

“It’s a thumb drive containing volume one of my memoirs, which runs from my birth in Georgia to Kate’s election as President. I’ve been working on it for three years, and I’d like you to find me a publisher and make a deal.”

“I’ll look forward to reading it,” Stone said, slipping the device into his pocket. “We could make the deal even more attractive if we include Kate’s memoirs.”

“What a good idea!” Kate said.

“And, of course, I could also offer Holly’s book.”

Holly looked startled. “What book?”

“Your memoirs, dummy,” Kate said.

“I’m writing my memoirs?”

“Trust me,” Stone said, “it will be a great read.”

Holly shrugged. “Okay, I’m in.”

“Suddenly, I’m a literary agent,” Stone said.

“You’ll be a great one,” Will replied.

“I’ll bring in my team at Woodman & Weld to handle your legal matters,” Stone said. “I already have sort of a firm within the firm that handles a couple of other clients’ accounts.”

A butler appeared and called them to dinner.

“This is wonderful,” Kate said. “All our problems solved before dinner!”

“We do what we can,” Stone said.

Stone and Holly lay entwined in Lincoln’s bed, or at least a reasonable facsimile.

“Things are moving fast, aren’t they?” she said.

“Blindingly fast,” Stone replied.

“Thank you for suggesting I rent Will and Kate’s house. It’s a wonderful place, and I’ll have space to entertain after I take office.”

“We’ll find a way for you to live there as long as you’re in Washington.”

“Am I going somewhere else, after I’m booted out of Foggy Bottom?”

“We can think about that some more. We’ve talked about it, if you remember.”

“I can’t make any decisions now, there’s too much ahead.”

“Neither can I, so we’ll both have lots of time to think about it.”

“You’ll come and visit, won’t you?”

“Do you think we can get away with shacking up in Georgetown while you’re secretary of state?”

“I think we should find out,” she said.

“I think we should run that by Will and Kate, but not until after the election.”

“Fair enough.”

“Are you sleepy yet?”

“No, do you want to do it again so soon?”

“Well, sure, but I want to tell you about the past few weeks — a lot has happened.”

“Shoot.”

Stone began with St. Clair’s attempted takeover of the Carlsson Clinic, omitting details of Marisa, and continued until the present day. “There,” he said. “Now you’re all caught up with me.”

Holly replied with a small snore.

“Holly?”

Nothing.

Stone freed his arm, which was getting numb, turned over, and fell asleep himself.