“They would have milked him dry for names. So it wouldn’t surprise me that yours would come up, especially since Fife-Simpson knows you to be a friend of Felicity’s.”

“She brought him to dinner at my house,” Stone said.

“Then they certainly would have extracted that event from him, and your name as well.”

“Do you want me to do anything at this end?”

“No, you’re not trained for this sort of thing. I would like to know if anything unusual happens that you could attribute to Fife-Simpson: if you should bump into him on the street in London or get a phone call from him, for instance. If his name comes up in a conversation with someone outside of Felicity’s circle.”

“That’s a very wide circle,” Stone said.

“Granted. You’ve opened a new channel of investigation for us, Stone, and I’m grateful. This is the sort of thing that made me want to bring you inside.”

“Well, I’m just sort of lying here,” Stone said, “not exactly doing anything.”

“Let me know if someone pokes you in the ribs,” Lance said. “Bye-bye.” He hung up.

Stone thought his new status at the Agency was already making his life more interesting.

45

Roger Fife-Simpson had finished the Daily Telegraph and was working on the crossword when the phone on the table beside him rang. He stared at the thing, not sure if he should answer it. Before he could make a decision, Jennifer walked over and picked it up.

“Hello? Ah, yes. Where are you now? We’ll be right down.” She hung up, grabbed Roger’s hand, and pulled him to his feet. “Come with me,” she said, leading him out the door and to the elevator.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

“It’s a surprise.”

Fife-Simpson didn’t much like surprises, and he viewed this one with suspicion. They got off the elevator on the ground floor, and she led him to the garage. “I’ve bought you a surprise,” she said. They turned a corner, and a white Mercedes convertible greeted them. “What do you think?” she asked. “Or would you prefer something more reserved?”

Roger grinned. “I would not,” he said, opening the car door and climbing in. The interior was red leather.

“It’s the S550 version,” she said, “the larger one, with the V8 engine.” She dropped the key into a cup holder. “It’s keyless starting,” she said. “Foot on the brake, press that button.”

He did so, and the engine leapt to life.

“Press this button,” she said, pointing to a row of three on the bottom of the rearview mirror.

He pressed it, and the garage door opened.

“The gear lever is on the steering column,” she said. “Press down to go forward, up to reverse, and push it in for parking.”

He pressed down and drove out of the garage. It was an unseasonably warm and sunny day.

“Stop,” she said.