“We got a call from Lance Cabot’s office, saying that they want to install some equipment here tomorrow. What’s that all about?”

“Lance has asked me to spend more of my time consulting with the Agency. I’m called a ‘senior adviser to the director’ now. I expect that work will be a secure line to the Agency.”

“And a dedicated computer link, too,” Holly said.

“I heard that. Holly’s there, is she? My regards.”

Stone passed that on. “By the way, you will soon undergo a background check for a security clearance, so I hope there are no skeletons in any of your closets.”

“Not that they’ll ever find,” Joan replied.

“I wouldn’t count on that. You’ll have forms to fill out, so don’t lie about anything, even to protect me.”

“Who else knows about this?”

“Dino and Viv, but it’s not a secret. There won’t be a public announcement, so you won’t have to field any questions from the media.”

“The rumor is out there: I’ve already had calls from the Times and the Washington Post. I told them I didn’t know what the hell they were talking about.”

“You’ll have to apologize the next time they call.”

“Oh, all right. Anything else?”

“I’ll call if I think of anything. We’re going to bed now.” He hung up and turned his attention to Holly, burrowing under the covers.

“Another minute, and I’d have been asleep,” she said, reaching for him.

37

Brigadier Roger Fife-Simpson arrived at his usual pub, the Grenadier, in Wilton Row, as the five o’clock crowd had begun to diminish. He hated it when all the Millennials were jammed into the small bar after work; it was more pleasant in the early evening.

He sat down and motioned to Tom, the barman of many years’ standing, for his usual large scotch, and it was delivered.

“Brigadier,” Tom said, setting down the glass.

“Tom,” he replied.

They chatted briefly, then a woman sat down a stool away from Fife-Simpson. She tried to hang her umbrella on the bar, but it slipped and fell to the floor.

“Let me get that for you,” Roger said. He picked up the umbrella and handed it to her.

“Thank you so much,” she said.

“May I offer you a drink?”

She smiled. “Thank you. A gin and tonic, please.”

Tom brought the drink.

“I haven’t seen you here before,” Roger said. “Are you a local?”

“I’m a new local,” she replied. “Just moved into the neighborhood yesterday.” Her accent was straight, old-fashioned BBC—no detectable regional accent.

“Well, you’ve chosen the right pub,” he said.

“And the right neighbor,” she replied, offering her hand. “My name is Jennifer Sands.”

“Roger Fife-Simpson,” he said, taking the hand. She was blond, buxom, fair-skinned—late thirties, he thought. “Where did you live before?” he asked.

“In the country,” she replied. “Oxfordshire.”