“Is he English?”

“Very much so—the third son of a duke.”

“An aristocrat!”

“Quite so. He’s also very likely to be my father. Did you notice a resemblance?”

“No, but now that you mention it . . .”

“He and the man who was supposed to be my father, Eli Sands, were at Oxford together, and they both married there.”

“But Alex—excuse me—Wilfred and your mother were having it off?”

“It certainly seems so. He goes out of his way to take care of me in a paternal way. He refers to himself as ‘Uncle Wilfred.’”

“Did he recruit you?”

“Yes, but he waited a long time.”

“How long have you two been . . . associated?”

“Professionally, a little over four years, since his wife died. I always saw a lot of them, especially after my father died. Wilfred stepped into the breach.”

“Did his wife know about you?”

“She’d have been a fool not to. I look a lot more like Wilfred than Eli.”

“Is it odd for me to meet him at his shop?”

“It’s unusual. I’ve only been there a few times in the past four years. I think he wants to make you more trusting of him by exposing himself a bit. We will need to be especially careful about being followed.”

“That’s what he said.”

A little after ten they went down to the garage. “I’ll drive today,” she said, and he got into the passenger seat. “Now, put your head in my lap and keep it there, until I let you out. If we’re under surveillance, we want them to think I’m alone and you’re back at the flat.”

He followed her instructions.

—

In a van a block from the Eaton Place flat, a voice came over the radio. “The Wren is out of the nest. She’s alone. What news from the flat?”

“The TV is on, but I don’t hear anyone moving about. Stay on her.”

—

Jennifer drove the car twice around Hyde Park Corner, then turned into Piccadilly, then left into Mayfair. She stopped behind a construction dumpster. “Out, quick,” she said.

Roger got out, keeping low, and ducked behind the dumpster. He waited five minutes before walking back to Piccadilly and hailing a taxi. “The Savoy Hotel,” he said to the driver.

When the cab pulled into the tunnel that led to the hotel entrance, he got out of the cab and into another, headed in the opposite direction. “Savile Row,” he said, “the middle.” In Savile Row he walked slowly up one side and down the other, peering into the tailors’ windows, checking reflections, then he made his way slowly to the Burlington Arcade with ten minutes to spare.