“I don’t know that for a fact, but it’s my strong feeling that you should be, if anyone other than you, me, and Ed Rawls should learn about this transfer.”

“Do you have a malefactor in mind?”

“Mr. Barrington, do you have any concern that your office might be under electronic surveillance?”

“I have enough concern that I have it electronically swept at regular and close intervals.”

“Let’s just say that my suspected malefactors are a very rich man, his protégé, and his private security force.”

“I believe I get the picture.”

“I’m glad of that.” He stood. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to return, posthaste, to my usual dull and uneventful existence.”

“Can I have my secretary call some transportation for you?”

“Thank you, no, I have a car and driver waiting outside, and it’s a long drive to Virginia.” They shook hands; Rutledge took his briefcase and walked out.

Stone sat down, found a small box cutter in his desk, and sliced open the package. He found two bound copies of a book entitled A Great Storm Coming, by Edward Rawls, a longtime officer in the Central Intelligence Agency.

Stone picked up the phone and called Dino.

“Bacchetti.”

“It’s Stone. Are you going to be in your office for the next couple of hours?”

“Yeah, I’m having a sandwich at my desk for lunch.”

“I’m going to send you something that, once you open it, you should treat as if it were a bomb.”

“But it’s not a real bomb?”

“No, but read it as soon as possible, then lock it in your safe and don’t speak to anyone about it, except me.”

“You promise it won’t explode?”

“I promise.” Stone hung up the phone and gave the second copy of the book, in its envelope, to Joan. “Ask Fred to deliver this as soon as possible. He is to place it in Dino’s hands and no one else’s.”

“You betcha,” Joan said, taking the package and leaving his office.

Stone opened his copy of the book and began to read.

44

AT AROUND 3:30 PM Joan came into Stone’s office. “The boxes you told me about are here. Can I have the man bring them in?”

Stone thought about that. “No, there’s a hand truck in the garage. Ask the man to unload them in the front hallway and give him a hundred bucks, then ask Fred to come down here and put them in the wine cellar.”

It was done, and Stone watched the whole time, then locked the wine cellar door himself.

He opened the envelope containing the original documents Rutledge had given him; they were two Virginia birth certificates, one seventeen years old, the other twelve. He checked Rutledge’s phone number on his letterhead, then called him.

“Rutledge & Rutledge,” a man’s voice said.

“Mr. Rutledge? This is Stone Barrington.”

“Yes, Mr. Barrington?”