“Well, there is nothing here that would allow us to mount a defensive operation.”

“That is my opinion, as well.”

“All I can do is warn Stone and Felicity to exercise care in their movements. I will make those calls.”

“Lance, may I ask: Why is Barrington of interest to you?”

“He has been very useful in the past, and I expect him to be more so in the future.”

“To the extent of giving him the deputy director rank?”

“In my judgment, yes. It gives him credibility.”

“But you’ve not made an official announcement.”

“Word will get around quickly,” Lance said. “I’ve seen to that.”

English slapped his knees and rose. “Well, then,” he said, “I suppose I will just have to rely on your judgment.”

“That is so,” Lance said.

“Good morning, then.”

Lance waited for the door to close behind him, then moved to his desk and called Stone on his Agency iPhone. The phone rang six times, then there was a beep.

“Call me,” Lance said, then hung up. He could not leave a longer message because Stone was not at the other end to scramble.

—

Stone asked for the gelding and rode alone around the property and that of the adjoining country hotel, which he looked upon as an extension of his estate. The weather was glorious and promised to be until Saturday evening, when a front would move in. Finally, he turned back toward the house and rode slowly, to cool down the animal.

—

At noon, Lance, having not heard back from Stone, called him again and again got no answer. He waited for the beep, then said, “Urgent.”

—

A van marked BRITISH GAS pulled up at the rear of the house, and a man in a work uniform got out carrying a canvas bag and went to the kitchen door, which stood open. He stepped inside and found the workspace deserted. He looked carefully around and his eye fell on two bottles of wine on a corner counter.

He slipped on a pair of latex gloves and walked over to the corner. Clearly, they were old and quite dusty. He picked up a bottle and wiped the label with his thumb; it was very old. He set the bottle down, reached into the canvas bag and withdrew a small, zippered leather case, then unzipped it. It held a syringe containing a colorless liquid and a capped needle. This particular needle would not be long enough to penetrate the corks of the bottles, so he replaced it with a longer, thinner needle.

He held the syringe perpendicular to the cork and slowly pushed it through the lead capsule and into the bottle. He pressed the plunger and squirted half the liquid into the bottle, then he began to slowly withdraw the needle. His fingers slipped momentarily, and the needle snapped off, leaving half of it in the cork, its end concealed by the capsule. “Shit!” he said.