Stone lay in bed, the Times on his lap and the television murmuring. It was nine-thirty, and he had not stirred himself. Instead, he had allowed guilt to make him slothful. Willa had gone to work, and it was time he did, too, he thought, so he showered, shaved, and went down to his office, still feeling guilty. Finally, he decided to take Willa’s advice. He picked up the telephone and called an old flame, Tiffany Baldwin, who happened to be the United States Attorney for the Southern District of New York. He was put through immediately.

“Why, hello, Stone,” Tiffany said, transmitting both surprise and interest. “Long time.”

“Yes, it has been, hasn’t it?” Stone replied. “I have a tip for you.”

“Stone, you know I don’t play the ponies.”

“Not that kind of tip.”

“What kind of tip?”

“A tip about the possible occurrence of a crime.”

“What crime?”

“You remember the business with Jack Gunn’s investment firm losing a billion dollars temporarily?”

“Yes, I was all over it. It was resolved.”

“Well, it may be about to happen again, and if it does, it won’t be resolved.”

“Stone, I’m busy. Tell me what you’re talking about.”

“Jack Gunn’s son and daughter, David and Stephanie, may be about to decamp to the island of Attola in the Pacific with a great deal of the firm’s money.”

“What evidence do you have to support this?”

“My client is married to Stephanie. He has overheard fragments of telephone conversations in which she is discussing Attola and making travel arrangements.”

“Go on.”

“That’s it.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes.”

“Stone, why are you wasting my time?”

“I thought you might want to instruct the FBI to investigate this.”

“Investigate what? No crime has been committed.”

“Well, not yet. Don’t you investigate crimes that may be about to be committed?”

“No, we don’t, and we don’t ask the FBI to do that, either, not without some sort of solid evidence on which to proceed. I’m surprised at you, Stone; you know better than this.”

“Okay, Tiff,” Stone said, “I’ve done my civic duty. Now I’m going to attack the work on my desk and forget all about this.”

“What a good idea!” she said, laughing. “Dinner?”

“I’m seeing somebody.”

“Who?”

“Oh, no, we’re not going there. Bye-bye, Tiff.” Stone hung up. He felt that a burden had been lifted from his shoulders. Now he could attack the work on his desk.

Except that there was no work on his desk.

Joan buzzed him. “Lance Cabot on one.”

Stone picked up. “Good morning, Lance.”

“I’m afraid not,” Lance said. “Pablo has disappeared.”

“Lance, there are eight men from Strategic Services guarding him; he can’t disappear.”

“Nevertheless,” Lance said.

“How did this happen?”