They landed at Biggin Hill and were driven to Roger’s flat in London. The place had been thoroughly cleaned, he noted.

42

They had breakfast the following morning, then Jennifer said, “We have an appointment at ten o’clock to look at a flat.”

“All right,” Roger said. He had not yet returned to the full realization that he was a free man in his own home. It was best to just follow her instructions.

They arrived at the address, in Eaton Place, and were met by an estate agent, then took the elevator to the top floor. The apartment was large, occupying the entire floor. There was a large drawing room, a separate dining room, a library with a toilet concealed behind bookcases, an office, two en suite bedrooms, and a garage in the basement with two spaces, with an entrance on the street behind.

“Can we afford this?” he asked Jennifer.

“I can afford it,” she replied. “Remember, I’m a wealthy woman.”

Jennifer signed a lease on the spot, and she wrote a check. “Come,” she said, “we must begin packing your things and arrange for removals.”

Late in the afternoon of the following day, they occupied the new place, and while Roger unpacked and placed his things in his new dressing room, Jennifer went shopping. The day after that, things she had bought began to arrive: furniture, pictures, sculptures—all of it from antique shops. Within a few days, the place looked as if they had always lived there.

—

On Saturday morning, Roger’s iPhone rang for the first time. “Hello?”

“Is this the laundry?” a female voice asked.

“I’m sorry, you have the wrong number,” Roger replied, and she hung up. Shortly, the phone made a chiming noise, and he checked the text messages. The single message gave an address in Hampstead.

“I’ve had a call,” Roger said to Jennifer, who was unpacking kitchen utensils.

“You must go armed,” she replied.

Roger consulted his London A to Z Guide, then planned his route. He caught a cab in the street, took it as far as Trafalgar Square, then walked several blocks, bought a Daily Telegraph, and got another cab. He got out a block short of his destination and walked to a spot on Hampstead Heath, taking care that he was not followed to his destination: an empty park bench. He sat down and opened his paper. Ten minutes passed before a man sat down at the other end of the bench. He didn’t look at the man.

“Good morning,” said a voice that he recognized as Alex’s.

Roger said nothing, but nodded.

“Look up and slightly to your left,” Alex said. Roger did so. “You see the little street, with row houses?”

“Yes.”