She was sitting in a barely furnished office kept for visitors in the New York headquarters shared by MI5 and MI6, neither of which was supposed to have a presence in New York. She was tired, out of sorts, and hungry, and she wanted Stone to take her to dinner, and he wasn’t cooperating. She grabbed her coat, signed out at the front door, and was buzzed out of the building. P. J. Clarke’s was only a couple of blocks away, and she headed there. She didn’t give a thought to the notion that she might be followed.

It was nearly eight o’clock, and the dining room was busy. “We’re not going to have anything for forty-five minutes,” a waiter told her, “but if you’re really hungry, you can order at the bar.”

She went back to the bar and looked it over. At one end were two construction workers, still in their hard hats, who apparently didn’t want to go home. In the middle was a clutch of admen who seemed to be ordering a fourth drink, and at the other end was a woman alone, taking off her coat. She took a seat two stools down from her and ordered a Wild Turkey, remembering to use her American accent.

“A bourbon drinker?” the woman next to her asked. “You must be from the South.” She was dressed in business clothes, and a combination briefcase and handbag rested on the bar beside her. She was reading Page Six of the New York Post.

“Nope, Midwesterner,” Carpenter said, not unhappy to have somebody to try her legend on.

“Been in New York long?”

“Actually, I live in San Francisco. I’m just here on business.”

“One of my favorite cities,” the woman said.

“One of everybody’s,” Carpenter replied, smiling. “What do you do in the city?”

“I’m a lawyer.”

“What firm?”

“I left a job last week, and I’m just starting the search.”

“Any luck so far?”

“I had two interviews today. One looked fairly promising. You know a firm called Woodman and Weld?”

“I know about them. I have a friend who does some work for them.” Carpenter sipped her bourbon and asked the bartender for a menu. “Join me?” she said to the woman. “I’m eating here, since there’s not a table available.”

“Sure,” the woman said, looking at the menu. “I think I’ll have the strip steak, medium rare, with home fries. I’m hungry.”

“Me too,” Carpenter said. “Two strip steaks, medium-rare, home fries,” she said to the bartender. “And a bottle of a decent Cabernet. You choose.”

The bartender nodded and went away to place the order.

“I never thought I’d hear a Californian let a bartender choose a wine for her,” the woman said, laughing. “Every left-coaster I know has a mental list of boutique wines that nobody east of Las Vegas ever heard of.”