Eagle came in. “Got a minute?”

“Sure.”

Ed dumped his long frame into a chair. “I just called Cessna, and I got lucky. They’ve got a Citation M2 coming off the line in a couple of weeks, and the buyer wants out. I can buy his position at a discount.”

“And you need an airplane, as I recall.”

“Yep. The insurance company has already seen what’s left of the Mustang, and it’s a total loss, so I get the hull value. The training course at FlightSafety in Wichita starts in a couple of weeks, too. You want to do it with me?”

“Why not? My airplane gets delivered the week after next. What’s the course, two weeks?”

“That’s it.”

“You’re on. Tell ’em to book me in the class with you, and I’ll get Joan to book us a big two-bedroom suite at the airport hotel. Is Susannah coming?”

“Yes, she is. She’s qualified to train for a copilot’s rating, and she’s looking forward to it.”

“That’s great, and when you get real old, you can swap seats.”

Joan came in. “They’re ready to show Ed the interview upstairs, then they’ll record his riposte.”

Ed disengaged from his chair and went upstairs.

—

BILLY BURNETT AWOKE early in his San Francisco hotel. After his trip to Napa he had found a room that faced the Grosvenor apartment, and he had a nice view from a block away and one floor above them, with about a thirty-degree angle. He raised the blinds and trained his binoculars on the apartment’s terrace. The angle made it impossible to see into the living room, so he would just have to catch her outside. He had no idea what time she rose, so he would have breakfast facing her building and just wait to get sight of her.

—

BARBARA SLEPT PAST her usual early hour for rising, and when she awoke, she was still rattled by the course the interview had taken. Hugh Gordon had told her not to worry, that he would sit down with Pamela Hale and see that the editing went their way. He was going to try for having the whole second part of the interview cut, but he admitted that was a bit of a stretch.

She got out of bed as Charles emerged from his dressing room in a suit, ready for his day.

“Good morning, my darling,” he said, offering a kiss on the forehead.

“Good morning,” she said listlessly.

He took her by the shoulders. “Now, you’re not still concerned about that interview, are you?”

“I’m still a little shaken,” she said.

“Nothing a buck’s fizz won’t fix.”

That was the British name for a mimosa, equal parts champagne and orange juice.

“Order me breakfast, will you? Just melon and coffee.”

“And a buck’s fizz?”

“Oh, all right, maybe it will help. I’ll be right out.”

—