“I’ll buy that.”

“We talked about Ryan and Parisi the younger.”

“Like I said, from what we hear on our recordings, young Parisi is rich now, and Ryan has been given a payoff and told to go away.”

“Well, it’s all just so perfect, isn’t it? Except for the part about somebody firing three rounds into my car yesterday.”

“We could just wait and see what happens.”

“Gee, that’s a swell idea. If I get dead, then maybe you’ll find a clue.”

“You’re sure it’s not the guys who are after Major Rattle?”

“Felicity and I talked at length about that yesterday: only she, Holly, and I knew that Ian was staying here.”

“Okay, I’ll buy into that.”

“Any other ideas?”

“Maybe Ryan hates your guts enough to do you for free.”

“That would be weird, since we hardly know each other.”

“Not everybody thinks you make a good first impression.”

“It would be interesting to find out if Ryan owns a motorcycle, a .45, and has a shoulder wound. Think some of those flatfoots who work for you could look into that?”

“I guess that’s not the worst use of their time I can think of.”

“Well, send somebody down to the nearest donut shop and roust ’em out, okay?”

“Okay, I’ll get back to you.”

“I’ll wait with bated breath.”

“You do that.”

—

Stone hung up and thought about Ryan. The man did seem to have a short fuse, but after one brief encounter, would he hold a grudge? It seemed far-fetched to him.

Joan came into his office. “Fred and I have talked with the Bentley service department. They’re all agog—they’ve never had a customer with three bullet holes in the backseat.”

“I guess not. What did they suggest?”

“A new backseat. It would take at least a month, what with shipping and all.”

“Tell them to air-freight it.” Joan nodded and left.

Felicity called. “I had breakfast with the ambassador.”

“Did you smooth his feathers?”

“Yes, and even better, I just blamed it all on you. When Ian gets out of the hospital he can move into the embassy residence.”

“That sort of frees you up, doesn’t it?”

“I believe it does. I have some tidying up to do here. Will six o’clock be all right?”

“At the stroke of the cocktail hour—that will be extremely satisfactory. Shall I send the car for you?”

“Thank you, you’re a sweetheart.”

“Until then.” He hung up, buzzed Fred, and arranged it.

Joan buzzed him. “There’s a secretary on the line who says her boss is the ambassador to the UN from Dahai, and he wants to speak with you.”

Bad joke, Felicity, he thought. “Put him on.”

“Line two.”

Stone pressed the button. “This is Stone Barrington.”

“Mr. Barrington,” a woman with a slightly accented voice said, “Ambassador Abdul-Aziz wishes to speak to you.”

“Certainly,” Stone said, “put him on.”