“I mean the video was extraordinarily good. We had half a dozen angles, too.”

“Video? What video?”

“Oh, there are cameras everywhere. Would you like to know what you had for breakfast, or what wine you drank last night?”

“You didn’t tell me that, Felicity. You said there was only audio.”

“I said no such thing. I said the suite was wired. We even got good footage of your time in the shower this morning.”

Stone checked his memory against that statement. “Shit,” he said. “I won’t do that again without some agreed ground rules.”

“Oh, come on, my dear. You came off beautifully—so to speak.”

“Now what?”

“Now you are free to wander London as you will. And there won’t be a bill from the Connaught—our treat.”

“What’s your next move with Rose?”

“Well, we’re following her taxi as we speak, and we’ll check out the Ennismore Mews address. Would you like to have lunch a little later?”

“Why not?”

“I’ll be in your neighborhood. Shall we do it at the Connaught? One o’clock?”

“Fine.” He hung up

—

Stone got dressed and left the hotel. He stopped into his tailor’s, Huntsman & Sons, and had a fitting of some things he had ordered earlier, then he stopped by Turnbull & Asser and chose some neckties and a couple of nightshirts. He arrived back at the Connaught and found Felicity waiting for him in the restaurant.

“What did you do with yourself this morning?” she asked, as he sat down and tucked his shopping bag under the table.

“Tailor, shirtmaker. My goal is to have a complete enough wardrobe here that I don’t have to travel with luggage, except a briefcase.”

“An admirable goal,” she said. They ordered. “Would you like to hear what our surveillance produced?” Felicity asked.

“Yes, please.”

“She went to the Ennismore Mews address, changed clothes, then went shopping. While she was gone, her mail was read by MI-6. Just some catalogs and a couple of utility bills.”

“In what name?” Stone asked.

“Margot Balfour,” Felicity said.

“Nice name.”

“The deed for the mews house is in that name, too, so she owns it.”

“Has it occurred to you that she may be renting from Ms. Balfour?”

“Don’t be annoying, Stone, and don’t underrate us.”

“So, you know that her name is Margot Balfour?”

“We do. She is a real person, as opposed to Dr. Rose McGill. And people named Balfour own a farm in the county of Rutland, and the name appears on the medical register.”

“Where else did she go besides home?”

“Harvey Nicks, Harrods, a couple of shops in Beauchamp Place.”

“Perhaps you can answer me this, without violating the Official Secrets Act,” Stone said. “Can a woman employed by MI-6 afford to shop at those establishments?”

Felicity rolled her eyes. “Yes,” she replied. “If she has a private income.”