Gene Ryan went home to Brooklyn and put his car in the garage, since Barrington already knew what that looked like. He went upstairs and changed into jeans and a black leather jacket over his shoulder holster, then went back to the garage and pulled the tarp off a Honda 350 that he had owned since almost new. He backed it out of the garage, closed the door, connected the battery, put on his helmet, and started the machine. He let it run for a minute to get the oil circulated, then hopped on and drove back to Manhattan. It was late in the day now, getting dark.

Barrington’s street in Turtle Bay was like always—quiet and elegant. He parked between two cars a couple of doors up the block from the house, unsnapped his helmet, and settled down to wait.

—

Stone and Ian were having a drink in Stone’s study. “I’ve been invited to dinner at our ambassador’s residence tonight,” Ian said. “Introductions will be made, and I will be inspected for suitability.”

“Sounds boring,” Stone said.

“It will be.”

“I’d better send you over there in my car. Fred will drive you.”

“Thank you, that’s very kind.”

Stone buzzed Fred and asked him to meet Ian in the garage. “I don’t want Felicity to berate me for putting you in a cab. I’d never hear the end of it if something happened to you.”

Ian laughed. “I know what that’s like.” He looked at his watch: “I’d better be going.”

“Fred is waiting for you in the garage. See you later.”

Ian went to the garage, where Fred was holding the door for him. Fred got behind the wheel, started the car, opened the garage door, and backed out.

Ian rolled down the rear window halfway. “Sorry, stuffy in here.”

—

Gene saw the Bentley backing out. He got the bike started and pulled out of his parking place, then fell in behind the car. He could see Barrington’s head in the right rear seat, so he pulled around to that side, slowed, and reached inside his jacket for the .45, then he braked sharply to a stop, raised the weapon, and fired three shots into the darkened backseat. Quickly, he stuffed the gun into his holster and accelerated down the narrow lane between the traffic and parked cars. He had to slow to get past a delivery truck, and as he did, something slapped at his left shoulder, simultaneously with a loud noise from behind. He threw caution to the wind, accelerated past the truck, and turned into the Second Avenue traffic. He could feel blood running down his back.

Fred Flicker had time to get off only one shot before the motorcycle disappeared around the corner. He opened the back door. “Major Rattle?”

His passenger was sitting up, holding the back of his neck with one hand. “Three shots,” he said. “Only one got me, I think.”