“It’s for two nights, so I’d bring some tweeds, a dark suit, and a dinner jacket. That should cover just about anything, except tennis or sailing. The house is on the coast.”

They stopped in front of the hotel, and Stone indicated to the doorman that they would like a taxi. “I’ll be right here at three o’clock,” he said, aiming a kiss at her cheek.

She turned slightly, and he caught the corner of her mouth, and there was just a flick of her tongue.

“Wilton Crescent,” she said to the doorman. “I’ll point out the house.” The doorman told the driver.

Stone put her into the cab and went into the hotel. On the way up in the elevator he thought about John Bartholomew and who he might be. He glanced at his watch. It was only seven o’clock in New York, so he went to his room, undressed, and picked up the telephone. He called Bill Eggers’s home, and a maid answered.

“Oh, Mr. Barrington,” she said, “they’ve gone skiing in Chile.”

“Chile in South America?” Stone asked.

“Yes, there’s apparently snow there this time of the year. They’ll be back on Monday.”

“Thank you,” Stone said, and hung up. He thought some more. Bartholomew had mentioned Samuel Bernard, an old professor of his at NYU Law School. Bernard had been in the OSS during World War II, and he had remained in intelligence when the CIA was founded, serving during the agency’s formative years. He had left at the time of the Bay of Pigs disaster, along with a lot of others, including Alan Dulles. Stone found his address book and dialed the number.

“Yes?” The voice was the same, but older.

“Good evening Dr. Bernard,” he said. “It’s Stone Barrington.”

Bernard’s voice brightened. “Oh, Stone, how are you?”

“I’m fine, and I hope you’re well.”

“I’m better than I could justifiably expect to be at my age,” Bernard replied, chuckling. “I haven’t seen you for a while. What have you been up to?”

“Life has been fairly boring until recently, when it got more interesting.”

“Oh? How interesting?”

“That remains to be seen. A man came to see me a few days ago, sent by Woodman and Weld, but he also mentioned your name; said you had more or less recommended me to him.”

“Strange,” Bernard said. “I don’t recall discussing you with anyone recently. What is the man’s name?”

“John Bartholomew.”

There was total silence at the other end of the line. Finally, Bernard spoke. “John Bartholomew,” he said tonelessly. “How very interesting. Can you describe him?”

“Mid-fifties, tall—six-two or -three, athletically built, salt-and-pepper hair, beaked nose, fierce eyebrows. Do you know him?” Stone asked.

“No one knows him,” Bernard replied.

“I don’t understand.”

“Stone, do you remember an Alfred Hitchcock film called North by Northwest?”