Stone was about to reply when his office door opened, and to his surprise, the little gray man from Felicity’s office walked into the room, closed the door behind him and leaned on it. “Oh, you’re that Mr. Smith,” Stone said.

“Where is she?” he asked.

“Where is who?” Stone asked back.

“Dame Felicity. Where is she?”

“She checked out of here the day before yesterday,” Stone replied, “and she didn’t leave a forwarding address. I assumed she’d gone back to London.”

Smith unbuttoned his jacket and introduced a Walther .380 to the conversation. It was equipped with a silencer. “I’ll ask you just once more,” Smith said quietly, “and if I don’t get a satisfactory answer I will shoot you in the head.”

Stone rather believed him. “I will give you the only answer I have,” he said, “and hope it will be satisfactory. She is back in London at her office, her home or her country house.”

“That is entirely unsatisfactory,” Smith said, raising the pistol and pointing it at Stone’s head.

“Would you like to have a look upstairs?” Stone asked. “I suppose she could be hiding in a guest room.”

“Never mind,” Smith said, and thumbed back the hammer on the pistol.

As he did, Stone heard the doorknob turn, and the door struck Smith hard in the back, knocking Smith to his knees. Herbie Fisher walked into the office, rubbing a shoulder, and held Joan’s .45 to Smith’s head, while he relieved the man of his pistol. “Joan wasn’t at her desk,” he said, “and you left your intercom on, so I heard what this guy had to say to you. Do you want me to shoot him?”

“Not yet, Herbie,” Stone said. “Before you do, I’d like to ask him some questions. Mr. Smith?”

“May I get up, please?” Smith asked.

“You may not,” Stone replied. “I like you on your knees. Now, why have you come here looking for your boss with a gun?”

“She is no longer my boss,” Smith replied. “She has been sacked by the foreign minister.”

“Which foreign minister is that?” Stone asked.

“The British foreign minister, you twit!” Smith said.

“Name?”

“Palmer!”

“You don’t watch TV or read the papers, do you, Smith?”

“Sometimes.”

“Well, when you get out of jail, you might read up on what’s been happening at home,” Stone said. “Herbie, do you think you can render Mr. Smith unconscious without fracturing his skull?”

“Sure,” Herbie said, and he swung the barrel of the .45 at the back of Smith’s neck. Smith collapsed in a heap.

“Thank you, Herbie,” Stone said.

“Any time, Stone. Who the fuck is this guy?”