“I’m very sorry, Mr. Barrington,” the concierge said, “but this message arrived for you last evening, and it was somehow misplaced.” He handed Stone a yellow envelope.

Stone opened it and extracted the message. I’m on my way, it said, and that was all. “Who is it from?” he asked the concierge.

“I’m afraid that’s just how it came, sir; there was no name. We thought you’d know who it was from.”

“Man or woman?”

“I’m sorry, sir, I wasn’t on duty last evening, so I don’t know.”

Stone stuffed it into his pocket and went upstairs. He didn’t care who the fuck it was from, he was too pissed off. He let himself into the suite, hung up his jacket, and picked up the London papers. He went quickly through the Times and the Independent, looking for further mention of the two dead “Greeks” but saw nothing. There was a small piece about the explosion at the antiques market, but it had, apparently, been attributed to a gas leak.

He soaked in a hot tub for nearly an hour, grateful for the solitude, then ordered some sandwiches from room service and turned on the TV. He watched CNN for a while and, after he began seeing the same stories for the third time, began channel surfing. There was an Italian soap opera, a bad 1930s movie, a children’s show, and a soccer match. Stone had always thought that soccer would be a better spectator sport if the field were half as long and the goals twice as wide. Finally, he settled on a cricket match and for an hour tried to make some sense of it. He finally concluded that cricket was an elaborate joke that the Brits played on American tourists; that they probably played the same taped match over and over. He dozed.

He was awakened by a heavy knock on the door. Still in a stupor, he gathered the terrycloth robe around him and went to the door. Nobody there. The hammering came again, and it seemed to be coming from his right, where there was a door, always locked, apparently leading to a second bedroom adjoining his suite. He listened at that door and jumped back when the hammering started again. Very weird. Gingerly, he unlocked his side of the door and opened it. Behind it was another door, and someone hammered on it again. “It’s locked on your side!” he yelled.

The latch turned, and the door opened. Dino Bacchetti stood in the adjoining room.

“Jesus,” Dino said, “are you deaf? I’ve been knocking for ten minutes.”

Stone was completely nonplussed. “What the hell are you doing here, Dino?”

“I’m hungry; get me a room-service menu.”

“Press the button over there that says ‘waiter,’ ” Stone instructed. Dino pressed it.

“Dino, what are you doing in London?”

“Didn’t you get my message?”