The cabin was tubelike, much smaller than he’d expected, and the seats were no larger than business class, but since the flight was only three hours, it hardly mattered. By the time he’d had a late lunch and read a couple of magazines, they were at Heathrow. He stood in line for immigration, then presented his passport.

“Good evening, Mr. Barrington. Welcome to Britain,” the young female officer said. “Are you here on business or pleasure?”

“Pleasure,” Stone said. “A little vacation.”

“And how long do you plan to stay?”

“Somewhere between a few days and a couple of weeks, I suppose.”

“And are you aware that your passport expires the day after tomorrow?”

He was not. “I’m sorry, I didn’t notice.”

She handed it back to him. “You can renew it at the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square. Enjoy your stay.”

Stone pocketed his passport. “Thank you.” He followed the signs toward baggage claim and retrieved his cases.

Stone made a point of dressing well when traveling; it seemed to smooth the way, somehow, and British customs was no exception. While a slovenly young man ahead of him had his bags searched, Stone walked through the “nothing to declare” gate and found himself staring at a man in a uniform holding up a sign with his name on it.

“I’m Mr. Barrington,” he said to the man.

The man took Stone’s luggage cart. “Please follow me, sir.”

Stone followed him to a large Mercedes, and a moment later they were on their way into central London. Stone reset his watch, noting that it was nearly eleven P.M., London time, and he was not at all tired or sleepy.

The Connaught was small by hotel standards, discreet, and elegant. At the front desk, he merely signed a check-in form; there were no other formalities.

“I believe the concierge has a message for you, Mr. Barrington,” the young man at the desk said. “Just behind you.”

“Mr. Barrington?” the concierge said, before Stone had barely turned. “Mr. Bartholomew rang and said that he had arranged privileges for you at these places.” He handed Stone a sheet of paper.

Annabel’s, Harry’s Bar, and the Garrick Club, Stone read. “Thank you,” he said to the concierge. “Where would you suggest I go for some dinner at this hour?”

“Well, sir, our restaurant has already closed, and room service would only have sandwiches this late. I’d suggest Annabel’s; it’s a short walk, and they go on quite late there.” He gave Stone directions. “If you’d like to go straightaway, the porter will be glad to unpack for you.”