“I don’t know St. Clair,” Stone said, “do you?”

“All I know about him is what I read in the papers, the business press, and the occasional Secret Service report, if he’s dining at the White House.”

“I should think that the latter would contain just about everything known about the man except his vaccination list.”

“It depends on what the President wants to know,” she said. “It could be as simple as ‘The subject has no arrest record and has never threatened the life of the President of the United States,’ all the way up to, and including, a copy of his most recent financial statement, tax return, cardio workup, and proctological exam.”

“Which have you read?”

“The short one. I know that the gentleman is fifty-one years old and the fourth or fifth richest man in the United States, and that his fortune is based on oil, natural gas, renewable energy, and various high technologies.”

“What are his politics?”

“He’s a Democrat who is on, a little left of, the political centerline, depending on whom you talk to.”

“Will you eat his food and drink his wine?”

“If you insist.”

“Okay, you’d better start thinking about what you’re going to wear.”

“That would be an LBD with my best jewelry and flat shoes, since we’ll be aboard a vessel that might move under our feet, and our host is fairly short. What about you?”

“I actually possess a nautical dress uniform,” Stone said.

“And what, pray, does that consist of?”

“You’ll find out.” He texted Saltonstall: Stone Barrington and Holly Barker are pleased to accept.

—

AT CLOSE ENOUGH to six-thirty they left the house by the back door, having first armed the security system, and walked the few yards to the yacht club, next door. As they passed the front porch, where people were gathered for drinks, they were greeted by sporadic applause. Stone gave them a salute. “Well, if anybody didn’t know we were here, they know now.”

They walked out onto the dock, where an exquisitely varnished launch awaited them, with a uniformed crew of three. One held the lines, one assisted them aboard, and the third attended to the helm. A moment later they were slowly under way, mindful of the dozens of boats moored in the little harbor.

“I believe that must be Breeze,” Stone said, nodding toward a very traditional yacht moored in the outer harbor.

“Yes, sir, it is,” a nearby crewman said.

“What’s her length?”

“A hundred and twenty feet.”

“When was she built?”

“Launched this spring, finished her sea trials three weeks ago.”

“I would have put her at about 1935.”

“Mr. St. Clair is a traditionalist,” the man replied. “Although she has the grace of that era, everything else about her is either up to date or ahead of her time.”

“I was expecting more of a superyacht,” Stone said quietly to Holly.