“They’re at her father’s house in Brooklyn; one of his people is driving Ben to school every day for the duration.”

“They couldn’t be safer, then.”

“Yeah, I’d like to see the guy get past those people. Call me tonight.”

Stone hung up and returned to his ham sandwich.

Later in the afternoon, Stone went down to the cellar. He chose a Masi Amerone ’91, which filled Sarah’s wine order, then he went down to the end of the racks, where he had a few very special bottles. He found a bottle of champagne—a Krug ’66—that he’d been saving for an occasion, then went up to the kitchen and put the champagne on ice. At seven-thirty, he found some tissue paper, wrapped the two bottles, and put them into a small shopping bag. He dressed in some cavalry twill slacks, a cashmere turtleneck, soft kid loafers, and a light tweed jacket; then he opened his bedside drawer, took out a 9mm automatic pistol, placed it in the bag, and covered it with more tissue paper. He picked up the shopping bag and let himself out of the house.

He looked up and down the street. There were a few people in the block, and he recognized two cops in a plain sedan across the street. He walked up to Third Avenue and hailed a cab, constantly checking behind him. It was what the perp would expect him to do.

Stone got into the cab. “Here’s what I want you to do,” he said to the driver. “I want you to take a right on Fifty-ninth Street, go across the bridge, then make a U-turn, come back across the bridge, then take First Avenue up to Seventy-ninth, over to Fifth, and I’ll direct you from there. There’s an extra ten bucks in it if you don’t ask me why.”

The driver gave an elaborate shrug, clapped a hand over his mouth, and, miraculously, did as he was asked. When they were on Fifth Avenue, Stone asked to be let out a block before Sarah’s building, tipped the driver extravagantly, and, shopping bag in hand, walked casually down the east side of Fifth Avenue. Traffic was heavy going downtown, and there were a lot of people on the street. He couldn’t spot anyone following him.

Stone found the address, and the doorman opened the door for him. Inside was a desk, and two uniformed men stood behind it. The younger one, Stone noticed, was a little too large for his jacket, and there was a bulge under his left arm.

“Yes sir?” the older man asked. He looked worried.

“My name is Barrington,” Stone said. “I’m here to see Miss Buckminster.”

The man picked up a phone, announced Stone, then told him he could go up.

Stone recognized the elevator operator. “Evening, Andy,” he said when the door was shut. “The uniform suits you.”