If you find typographical or editorial errors in my book and feel an irresistible urge to tell someone, please write to Sara Minnich at Penguin’s address above. Do not e-mail your discoveries to me, as I will already have learned about them from others.

A list of my published works appears in the front of this book and on my website. All the novels are still in print in paperback and can be found at or ordered from any bookstore. If you wish to obtain hardcover copies of earlier novels or of the two nonfiction books, a good used-book store or one of the online bookstores can help you find them. Otherwise, you will have to go to a great many garage sales.

Excerpt from TREASON

Keep reading for an exciting excerpt from the next Stone Barrington novel, TREASON.

1

Stone Barrington was sitting up in bed watching last night’s recording of the Rachel Maddow Show, while skipping Joe Scarborough’s rant during the first half hour of Morning Joe, which was on a subject he had heard too often: small government. His cell phone rang, and he picked it up. “Hello?”

“Scramble,” a female voice said.

He paused. This was the secure cell phone on which he only got calls from Lance Cabot, the director of the Central Intelligence Agency, who always scrambled. It was a CIA iPhone, given to Stone when he was appointed special adviser to the director, with the putative rank of deputy director, though he was no such thing.

“Scramble, goddammit!” she said.

Stone pressed the button. “Scrambled,” he said. “Now who the hell is this?”

“It’s Holly, you complete ass,” she said. “You don’t recognize my voice anymore?” They had been lovers for years.

“Of course I do, but how did you get this number?”

“You gave it to me,” she said, “to use for the most confidential calls, and all of my calls to you are most confidential.”

“Oh,” he said. Holly was the secretary of state and about to announce a run for the Democratic nomination for president. She was very, very careful about being seen or heard communicating with Stone; the press would have far too much fun reporting ad nauseam that she was sleeping with someone.

“‘Oh’?” Is that all you’ve got to say?”

“Yes,” he replied. “Now it’s your turn: What have you got to say?”

“I’m coming to New York, and I want to spend the night at your house, doing what we always do there.”

“Oh.”

“Oh, what?”

“Oh, of course. I look forward to seeing you. What time?”

“We’re landing at the East Side Heliport at noon. Can Fred meet me?” Fred Flicker was Stone’s factotum, a pint-sized veteran of Britain’s Royal Marines Commandos.

“Sure. What did you mean by ‘we’?”