“Of course,” Lance said. “Consider it done.” He hung up.

“Do you think he switched everything off?” Stone asked.

“Probably,” Holly said. “Let’s make it very dark in here, though.”

The two of them went around the bedroom, checking that all the curtains were drawn and shades lowered and night lights extinguished, Holly used her detection device, with negative effect, then they got naked and hopped into bed.

“Isn’t darkness wonderful?” Stone asked. “I like feeling my way.”

“I like it, too,” she said.

49

Lance Cabot sat at his desk and looked at stills of the video taken the evening before at the London Russian embassy. His secretary announced Bruce Winn, an Agency analyst on the Russian desk.

“Come and look over my shoulder,” Lance said to Winn, who did so. Lance held the magnifier with one hand and pointed with the other. “We know that these three men are the station chief, the naval attaché, and the ambassador, all with their wives.”

“Yes, Lance, that’s correct.”

“But who is this man?” Lance asked, pointing at a middle-aged male at the table, apparently unaccompanied.

“I confess he is unfamiliar to me,” Bruce replied.

“I want you to run this through the facial identification software and see if we can make him.”

“Right away,” Bruce replied, then left the office.

—

Three hours later, Bruce Winn revisited Lance.

“Did you make him?” Lance asked.

“Yes, but not where we expected to. We ran him against every employee of Russian intelligence known to us, also through the Russian navy and army, and got nothing, so we had to go random, run him against all known faces in Britain.”

“And?”

“We found the face among those attending a convention of rare book dealers in Brighton, two years ago.”

“And who is he?”

“His name is Wilfred Thomas. He has a rare-book shop in Burlington Arcade, London, and he is also a bookbinder, very expensive.”

“I know Burlington Arcade well, and I think I know the shop, too. What do we know about Mr. Thomas?”

“He is British, sixty-two years old, widowed four years ago, wife died of natural causes. He attended Harrow and Oxford, where he read history and languages.”

“Don’t tell me,” Lance said, “among them Russian.”

“Right. Something else interesting: he is the third son of the Duke of Kensington, who is the third-largest property holder in London, after the Duke of Westminster and the Cadogan Estate. His title, which he rarely uses, is the Earl of Chelsea.”

“You’re right,” Lance replied, “that is interesting. Now go back and explore connections between Thomas and Jennifer Sands, the lady with Fife-Simpson.”

“Yes, sir.” Bruce departed.

Lance got his magnifier and looked again at the faces at the table. He thought that two of the diners bore an odd resemblance to each other.

Bruce Winn came back later in the day, looking pleased with himself.

“Tell me,” Lance said.