“Come to think of it, they both had dark skin—not very dark, but a little, and black hair.”

“Describe the three men who interrogated you.”

“They were seated behind the lights in the room, in shadows, so I could only see silhouettes.”

“Tell me about the silhouettes.”

“The two on the ends were just shadows, lumps, but the one in the middle—the one doing the interrogating—was bald, with a bullet-shaped head. That was all I could see of him, really.”

“That’s interesting; you were very good to pick that up, in the circumstances.”

“Thank you. Now give me a good reason why I should continue to work for you while this sort of thing is going on.”

“Two reasons. First, this won’t happen again; they believe they have everything you know. Second, I’m doubling your hourly fee.”

Nobody had ever doubled his hourly fee before; Stone was impressed, still . . . “That won’t do me any good, if I’m dead.”

“They’re not going to kill you.”

“Why not? What’s their motive for keeping me alive?”

“These people are from a foreign country—probably a foreign intelligence service, or at least some clandestine group. It’s a lot of trouble to kill people and dispose of their bodies, and they won’t do anything that will call attention to themselves. Anyway, if they’d wanted you dead, you’d already be dead.”

“I don’t know . . .”

“Think about it; what do you know that you haven’t already told them?”

“Not much, just your name.”

“Exactly, and they don’t believe you know that. They believe they’ve milked you dry, so you’re of no further use to them. They’ll leave you alone, now.”

“If you say so,” Stone replied doubtfully.

“Trust me,” Hedger said.

Yeah, sure, Stone thought. But double his hourly fee sounded awfully good. It wasn’t until Hedger had left that Stone remembered that he had forgotten to mention the two Arab names he’d been asked about. What were they . . . Ali and Sheherezad, also known as Sheila? He couldn’t remember the last names.

30

STONE’S NEXT THOUGHT WAS TO HAVE the same discussion with Lance Cabot that he’d had with Stanford Hedger. Rain had begun to beat against the Connaught’s windows, so he retrieved his new raincoat and umbrella from his suite, and the doorman got him a cab. It was only a short way to Farm Street, but Stone was not going to dance over there in the rain.

The cabbie was just turning into Farm Steet, when Stone stopped him. “Just hold it right here for a minute,” he said. Lance Cabot and the couple he’d met with in the village pub were leaving the house, getting into a cab of their own. “Follow that cab,” Stone said, “but not too closely.” He could see the driver in the rearview mirror, rolling his eyes.