Jim Hackett had been the founder and sole owner of the firm, which served many corporations around the world in security matters of all sorts. He had been shot to death while in Stone’s company, on an island in Maine, by a sniper employed by two senior members of the British cabinet who believed Hackett to be someone else.

“Thank you again,” Stone said.

“I want you to know—and I realize I’m saying this in front of a witness—that if the growth of the Strategic Services account continues as I believe it will, then by this time next year I may very well be recommending you for a partnership at Woodman & Weld,” Eggers said.

Stone was once more dumbstruck. That this might happen had never, in his years of service to the firm, entered Stone’s mind. Furthermore, he knew that a partnership in Woodman & Weld would bring an annual income that would be a considerable multiple of the check in the envelope he held. Stone had always been an outsider at the firm, only occasionally visiting its offices and listed as “Of Counsel” only at the bottom of its letterhead.

“I will take your silence as evidence of shock,” Eggers said.

Stone nodded vigorously and downed half his drink while signaling for another.

“Make it three,” Eggers said to the waiter, “and let me see the list of special wines.”

Stone had seen the list of special wines, but he had never once ordered from it, because the wines started at $500 a bottle.

“Well,” Dino said, raising his glass again, “I’m happy I could be here on this special occasion.”

“Dino,” Eggers said, “you’ve done Stone many favors on our behalf over the years, so I’m happy you could be here, too.”

“Feel free to add me to the bonus list,” Dino said wryly.

“Only should you die in our service,” Eggers said pleasantly.

“I figured,” Dino replied.

Eggers opened the wine list, glanced at it, then closed it. “Order something that will go well with a Château Pétrus 1975,” he said, opening his menu.

Stone turned to the waiter, who was braced beside the table, holding his pad and pencil ready. “I want one of Barry’s secret steaks, medium rare,” Stone said, “and I’ll start with the French green bean salad, hold the peppers, use truffle oil.”

“Same here, rare,” Dino said.

“Make it three,” Eggers echoed, “and mine medium.”

The waiter dematerialized.

“Tell me,” Eggers said to Stone, “have you figured out why Jim Hackett was murdered?”

“I’ve never said this to anyone before,” Stone replied, “but I am under the constraint of the British Official Secrets Act and am, therefore, unable to respond to your question.”

“You’re shitting me,” Eggers said.

“I shit you not,” Stone replied. “You will recall that my client, at that time, was an arm of Her Majesty’s Government. They made me sign the Act.”

More specifically, Stone’s client had been a lovely redhead, who also happened to be the head of MI6, the foreign arm of British Intelligence.