“No, MI-6 is having Fife-Simpson followed, and my people are following MI-6. You know that.”

“That’s right, I do. Fife-Simpson said he was trying out a new car and drove down here.”

“He wasn’t lying. We checked it out, and Ms. Sands bought it for him, though it’s registered in her name. She must not feel entirely confident of his continuing affection.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re following MI-6, instead of me.”

“Is Holly with you?”

“Yes.”

“Did she meet Fife-Simpson?”

“Yes, he invited us to share his table, but we elected to lunch inside.”

“Just as well. I wouldn’t want you photographed with those people.”

“Do you think the Russians are following him, too?”

“No, the woman is, effectively, the Russians. She’s living with him, so there’s no need for other surveillance on their part.”

“Do the Russians rent expensive flats and buy expensive cars for all of their foreign agents?”

“They do not. But Ms. Sands is wealthy and she seems to be in love.”

“Go figure.”

“I have nothing else for you. Do you have anything for me?” Lance asked.

“Alas, I am bereft of gifts.”

“Goodbye.” Lance hung up.

“How the hell did Lance know about this so fast?” Holly asked.

Stone explained about the pursuits by MI-6 and the CIA.

“Why do I feel that we’re in some sort of spy comedy?”

“Perhaps we are. Who knows? Can I interest you in an after-lunch nap?”

“Yes, as long as there’s no sleeping involved.”

“There won’t be.”

—

Roger and Jennifer got back to their flat in the late afternoon, and the phone was ringing.

“You’d better get that,” Roger said.

She did. “Hello? Yes, we just got in. I bought him a car, and we went for a drive down to the south coast. Guess who we ran into? Stone Barrington and the American secretary of state, Holly Barker. It’s only a coincidence. It doesn’t matter if you hate them, they happen anyway. Dinner when? I suppose so. Is that a good idea? All right, six-thirty for drinks.” She hung up.

“Alex?” Roger asked.

“Yes. We’re invited to a dinner at the Russian embassy tomorrow evening, black tie.”

“Is that a good idea?” Roger asked.

“Alex says it will be just family, which means nobody who isn’t Russian. I think he wants to show you off for his boss.”

“Who is his boss?”

“The London station chief, Leonid Bronsky, who is on the embassy’s rolls as cultural attaché. He’s a very slick article.”

“I always think of Russians as ham-handed oafs,” Roger said.

“Did you find Alex either ham-handed or oafish?”

“Well, no.”

“He is typical of these people, as you will learn tomorrow evening. There are no Leninists or Stalinists left—no commissars, either. The ambassador is the most elegant man I’ve met in London. By the way, you do own a dinner suit, don’t you?”