Roger shrugged. “It was the normal thing to do, in the circumstances. Fortunately, they didn’t accept the invitation.”

“You must report this to Alex when you next speak to him.”

“All right, but it’s just a coincidence. Barrington’s house is down this road, I think.”

“You were there before, weren’t you? Aren’t you sure where it is?”

“On that occasion we approached the house from the river, on Dame Felicity’s boat,” he said.

“Believe me, Alex will not see this as a coincidence.”

—

Perhaps fifty yards away, on the road, the MI-6 surveillance crew had stopped and were arguing.

“We’ve got to go on and get an eye and an ear on them,” one said.

“Fuck that,” the driver said. “We’d be made in a flash. We’ll wait for him to finish his lunch, then pick up the car.”

—

Further back, the CIA team had stopped, too. “Let’s drive slowly by the pub and get some footage of it,” the leader said.

The driver put their van into gear and moved slowly forward, while the cameraman got into position to shoot through a port.

“Faster,” the leader said. “Don’t attract attention.” As they came up to the pub a Porsche parked and a man and a woman got out of it and walked toward the pub.

“Get those two on film!” the leader said.

“Why?”

“Because one of them is our secretary of state! Are you blind?”

“Then who’s the guy?” the cameraman asked, adjusting his shot.

“Get the plate number on that Porsche, and we’ll find out.”

46

Roger and Jennifer got back into the convertible and continued down the road toward the sea. They came upon a driveway. “See the sign saying Windward Hall? That’s Barrington’s place.” He slowed so they could look through the gates.

“A handsome house,” Jennifer said.

“Handsome inside, too.” Shortly they passed a van at the side of the road, and a minute later, it fell in behind them, a quarter-mile back.

—

Stone and Holly finished their lunch and walked back to their car. Fife-Simpson and his lady had disappeared. They drove back to the house, and as they entered the library, a phone was ringing. It was his Agency iPhone, sitting on the coffee table. Stone picked it up. “Hello?”

“Scramble.”

“Scrambled. What is it, Lance?”

“What were you doing at the same pub as Fife-Simpson and his paramour?”

“What a charmingly old-fashioned thing to call her,” Stone said.

“Explain, please.”

“We went to a local pub for lunch. So did Fife-Simpson, apparently, and they got there first and sat outside. We greeted them, then went inside. That’s about it.”

“I dislike coincidences,” Lance said.

“It doesn’t matter if you dislike them,” Stone replied, “they happen anyway.”

“Nevertheless . . .”

“Lance, how the hell did you know about this? We just came back. Are you having us followed?”