“Don’t think too long,” Stone said. “And since I’ll deny that this conversation ever took place, I’d be grateful if you’d do the same, because it’s very dangerous for me to be associated with you in any way.”

“Well, I think I can promise you that,” she said. She gathered up her handbag and shopping bag. “I’m going to be leaving you now, and I don’t expect we’ll be meeting again. You finish your beer. Finish mine, too, and take at least fifteen minutes to do it.” She stood up.

“Goodbye, then.”

Her voice changed to something mid-Atlantic. “Goodbye, Mr. Barrington, and thank you for your concern. I’m very grateful to you.”

She walked to the rear of the room and disappeared through the kitchen door.

Stone finished his beer, and hers. He knew from her attitude that he’d set out on a fool’s errand. She was going to do exactly what she’d intended to do all along.

38

Stone and Carpenter met at the Box Tree, a small, romantic restaurant near his house. They settled at a table, and Stone ordered a bottle of Veuve Clicquot La Grande Dame, his favorite champagne.

“What’s the occasion?” Carpenter asked, when they had clinked glasses and sipped their wine.

“An entire evening, just the two of us, free of the cares of work. What we in America call a ‘date.” ’

She laughed. “And what were we having before?”

“What we in America call ‘wham, bam, thank you, ma’am.” ’

“I didn’t think American men objected to that sort of relationship.”

“It’s not a relationship, it’s just carnal fun—not that I have any objection to carnal fun.”

“So I’ve noticed.”

They looked at the menu and ordered. The waiter poured them more champagne.

“Tell me about yourself,” Stone said.

Carpenter laughed again. “Isn’t that my line? Why is it that our roles seem to be reversed?”

“Roles are reversible, in certain circumstances.”

“What circumstances?”

“When the male has an interest in the female deeper than carnal fun.” Stone thought he caught a blush in her cheeks. “Tell me about yourself,” he said.

“What you mean is, why do I do what I do. Isn’t that right?”

“What people do is often the most important thing about them.”

“What I do is not the most important thing about me,” she said.

“What is?”

“Who I am.”

“And who are you?”

She looked at the table, then around the room for a long moment. “All right, what I do is the most important thing about me. It’s who I am.”

“Imagine that, through no fault of your own, you were unable to continue in your career. Who would you be, then?”

She took a deep draught of her champagne. “That is an unthinkable thought.”

“Surely you’ve seen people sacked from your service, turned out into the cold.”

“Occasionally.”