“How do we know this is the device you promised?”

“I would have thought that your people would have been smart enough to send someone with the skills to authenticate it.”

He handed the device to his companion, who inspected it for, perhaps, two minutes, then nodded.

“All right,” the first man said, “we are ready to make the transfer.”

“I think, perhaps, you should put that away,” Lance said, nodding at the device and pushing the catalogue case across the table. When the device was safely in the case, Lance pressed the button.

The bank officer returned with a file folder and sat down at the table. “Have you successfully completed your transaction?” he asked.

“We will have when the funds have been transferred,” Lance said.

“I have made out the paperwork as per your instructions,” the banker said. “Five million dollars to be transferred to your numbered account.”

“That’s correct,” Lance said.

The banker laid the documents before the two Middle Easterners. They examined them, and one of them signed.

“I’ll just be a moment,” the banker said. He took the documents and left the room.

Lance sat and looked at the two men, who impassively returned his gaze. No one said anything.

Presently, the banker returned. “Gentlemen, your transaction is complete.”

The two men rose and left the room without a word.

“Will there be anything else, sir?” the banker asked Lance.

Lance thought for a moment. “Yes,” he replied.

Ted Cricket stood in a light rain outside the Guinea pub and restaurant, in a mews off Berkeley Square. It was nearly eleven o’clock. The door to the restaurant opened, and Cricket stepped back into the shadows and looked around. The mews was empty.

Hedger left the restaurant alone, weaving a little, and started up the mews toward Berkeley Square. He walked right past Cricket, no more than six feet away.

Cricket stepped from the shadows, reached out, cupped a hand over Hedger’s mouth, and ran the slim blade into his back, thrusting upward. Hedger’s knees gave way, and when Cricket released him, he collapsed onto the wet cobblestones.

Cricket looked up and down the mews again; empty. He rolled Hedger over, switched on a tiny flashlight, and shone it into Hedger’s face. He was still alive. “This is for Bobby Jones,” Cricket said. He placed the knife point on Hedger’s chest, over the heart, shoved it through the flesh, twisted it ninety degrees, and pulled it out, wiping the blade on Hedger’s fine Savile Row jacket. Hedger coughed up some blood, then was still.

Cricket walked up the mews into Berkeley Square, then around the square and into the warren of streets that was Mayfair. He waited until he reached Park Lane before hailing a taxi.

The telephone was ringing as Stone let himself into the house.

“Hello?”

“It’s Sarah,” she said. “I’m at Monica’s gallery; Erica is here, and she’s very upset.”