“Mr. Barrington,” a man’s voice said, in a very British accent.

“Yes, Mr. Ambassador?”

“Do you understand who I am?”

“I’m given to believe that you are Dahai’s ambassador to the UN.”

“That is correct.”

“How may I help you?”

“I wish to speak with you on a confidential matter.”

“Go right ahead.”

“I think it would be better if we meet.”

“I’m in my office for the rest of the day.”

“It would be better if you could come to my residence. I’m in the UN Plaza apartment building.”

This was turning into a very elaborate joke; Stone thought he might as well see where it led.

“All right.”

The man gave him an apartment number. “Would six o’clock be acceptable?”

“I’m afraid I have an engagement at six. Four would be better.”

“That will be satisfactory,” he said. “I will see you at that time.” He hung up.

Joan came in. “Was that a practical joke?”

“It could very well be. I’m going to play it out and see.”

—

Stone presented himself at the reception desk at UN Plaza, a handsome building across the street from the UN building that had been built in the 1960s. He remembered a character in a movie saying, “If there is a God, he probably lives in this building.” He gave his name to the desk clerk and was told to go right up, he was expected.

The door was answered by a butler in tails, who led him into a large living room furnished in white sofas and chairs, with a spectacular view of UN Headquarters and the East River.

“May I get you some refreshment?” the butler asked.

At that moment the ambassador appeared. He was a smallish man of about five feet seven inches, dressed in a sharply tailored Savile Row suit. “Good afternoon, Mr. Barrington,” he said, extending a hand.

Stone shook it. “Good afternoon, Ambassador.”

“May I offer you a drink? Alcohol is not prohibited in my residence.”

“Thank you, just some fizzy water.”

The ambassador instructed the butler to bring it, and a martini for himself. “It’s five o’clock somewhere, is that not the adage?”

“It is.”

They sat down and waited for their drinks.

“Before we begin, Mr. Barrington, may I ask, are you acquainted with a Major Ian Rattle?”

“Rattle? Is that a real name?”

“It is, I assure you.”

“No, I am not acquainted with him,” he lied.

“Good, because I wish to bring a lawsuit against him,” the ambassador said.

Chapter 31

Gene Ryan was frightened of coming here but more frightened of not coming. He rang the bell in the late afternoon and waited. He was greeted by a chorus of barks, large and small, from somewhere toward the rear of the house. After a count of about twenty-five, a man came to the door, dressed in green hospital scrubs and about three days of stubble. “Yeah?”