The Porsche started easily.

Jeremy burst out the front door and yelled, “Goddammit!” as she backed out of the driveway. She rolled down the window and waved.

At the airport, she called Carruthers and Stevens and told the receptionist where she had parked the Porsche. The first flight to the East Coast left in ten minutes, but it was to New York. Close enough, she thought, and bought a ticket.

Orült szerzetes, she repeated to herself at thirty thousand feet, when she was safe in her seat, alone. The mad monk. What an alias for a jewel thief!

But was the thief Mac Stevens?

Or Bartholomew Wakefield?

Or, somehow, both?

Allan Carruthers calmly pinched dried leaves off the Swedish ivy that hung in the floor-to-ceiling window of his sparsely furnished office while his son paced, cursing. Allan was fairer in coloring than Jeremy, not as tall, and his eyes were an even lighter shade of green. At home in La Jolla, he and his wife were avid gardeners, and they often exchanged cuttings with Elaine Stevens. They had two sons. The younger, Matthew, had no interest in law and worked at a ski resort in Aspen. Sometimes Allan thought his elder son should have made a similar career choice.

Without turning from his plant, Allan said, “Would you care to explain what the hell’s going on around here?”

“I’m not sure I can.” Jeremy tried not to snap at his father, not to blame him because Ashley Wakefield had stolen his car and snuck off to God knew where and he had failed Mac. Nor to blame Allan Carruthers because he, Jeremy, had impulsively promised Elaine Stevens he would find her husband, no matter what.

A knight on a white horse I’m not, he thought irritably.

“Meaning?” his father asked.

“Meaning I’ve made a lot of promises.”

“It’s Mac, isn’t it?” Allan brushed a handful of dried leaves into his wastebasket. “Jeremy, Mac called me this morning.”

“What? You, too? You know what’s going on?”

“Hardly. He said he’d be in touch with me periodically to find out how you were doing with Ashley Wakefield, if her uncle’s tried to contact her. He wants you both out. It’s good advice.” Allan straightened up, his expression grave. “That’s all he said. Jeremy, he knew I wouldn’t ask any questions, and I didn’t.”

Jeremy stood very still. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying there’s something I know about Mac his own wife doesn’t even know. I’ve known it for years, and I have no right to tell you, even now.” He paused, and Jeremy could see he had already come to a decision. “But I will. Jeremy, before Mac and I founded this firm, he worked for the State Department.”

“Legal work,” Jeremy said, his voice hollow. “In Washington.”

Allan shook his head, turning back to his plant. “Mac was in Eastern Europe, not Washington.”

“In the fifties? Good God. Do you know what you’re saying?”