Felicity polished off her Rob Roy. “I wish to engage you,” she said.
“I’d be delighted,” Stone said.
“Not in that capacity,” she said.
“In my capacity as an attorney?”
“In one or more of your capacities,” she replied, “although Her Majesty can’t compete with Mr. Fisher’s generosity.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“Well, we can do this one of two ways,” she replied. “At your hourly rate-two hundred dollars, isn’t it?”
“Five hundred,” Stone replied.
Felicity blinked.
“Everything has gone up,” Stone said.
“Apparently.”
“What was the other way we could do this?”
“I had in mind a more result-oriented arrangement,” Felicity said.
“What sort of result, and what sort of arrangement?”
“The result would be complete success, and the arrangement would be a payment of one hundred thousand dollars upon achieving it-to include all your expenses and any subcontractors you may require.”
“And what is the assignment?”
“The location and disposition of a weasel,” Felicity said.
“Have you tried the pet shops?”
“A weasel in the person of a disloyal former employee.”
“More information, please. What do you mean by ‘disposition’?”
“I mean putting him into my hands or those I may designate. You don’t have to kill him. I’m afraid that is all I can tell you until you have signed this,” she replied, removing a document from her briefcase.
Stone looked at the title. “The Official Secrets Act?”
“You read well.”
“Doesn’t this apply only to British subjects?”
“It applies to anyone who signs it,” she replied.
“Pounds,” Stone said. “Not dollars.”
Felicity uncapped a large fountain pen and handed it to Stone.
“I assume this is filled with blood,” Stone said.
“Yes, but not yours. Pounds, it is.”
Stone signed the document. “All right, tell me about it.”
Felicity’s osso buco arrived. “In the morning,” Felicity said, attacking the veal shank.
3
Felicity put down her fork, having demolished her osso buco and most of the bottle of Chianti. “That was superb,” she said. “Now let’s go to your house.”
“Delighted,” Stone replied. He had forgotten how blunt she could be.
“Would you be delighted to have me as your guest for an indeterminate period?” she asked. “I’m not speaking of years or even months, perhaps a week or two.”
“Absolutely delighted,” Stone said.
“Then let’s be off,” Felicity said.
As it turned out, “off” didn’t mean in a cab but in a large, somewhat elderly Rolls-Royce.
“Nice ride,” Stone said when they were settled into the leather rear compartment and on the way downtown to his home in Turtle Bay.
“That sounds like something one would say about a hunter,” Felicity replied, “meaning a horse.”
“I know what a hunter is,” Stone replied. “How did you acquire this transport?”
“It belongs to the British ambassador to the United Nations, who is, at the moment, in London being instructed. He has placed it at my disposal while he is away, and I represented him at the dinner earlier this evening.”
“When did you arrive in New York?”
“About an hour before the dinner,” she replied, “and I am quite shattered. I’ve been traveling since dawn this morning, London time.”
“Then we must put you right to bed,” Stone said.
She placed a hand on the inside of his thigh and squeezed lightly. “I should bloody well hope so.”
THE DRIVER UNLOADED her bags and, at Stone’s instruction, took them to the third floor in the elevator. A man emerged from a car behind them. “What are your instructions, ma’am?” he asked.
“Stone, this is Mr. Pickles, one of my security detail. He or one of his colleagues will be required to be in the house when I am here. Don’t worry-he will be quite invisible.”
“As you wish,” Stone said. He showed the man how the security system operated and where the kitchen was. “There’s an entrance to the common garden from the kitchen,” he said.
“I know,” the man replied. They were the only words he spoke.
Stone put Felicity’s cases in the dressing room opposite his, then went to his own. There was a note from his secretary, Joan Robert-son, on his dresser.
Stone, you really must put your hands on some money if you are going to preserve your credit rating. The bills are piled high.
Stone hated getting notes from Joan, but he knew she was right. He wondered how long it would take him to pry Felicity’s hundred thousand pounds from Her Majesty’s grasp.
The bedroom was dark when he emerged from his dressing room, with only a shaft of moonlight through a window to light his way. Felicity was already in bed and, as he discovered, already naked.
She drew him to her. “I want to sleep until noon,” she said. “Make me even more tired than I am.”
Stone did his very best.
THE FOLLOWING MORNING Stone awoke early, snuck out of bed and left a message on Joan’s phone not to buzz him during the morning. Then he returned to bed to be there when Felicity awoke. He was sound asleep when he felt a hand run down his belly.
Stone opened an eye. “Did you sleep well?”
“Extremely well,” she replied, rolling on top of him and giving him a wet kiss.
“It’s not noon yet,” he said.
“Then let’s use our remaining time well,” she said, straddling him and helping him inside her.
AT NOON, STONE’S housekeeper, a Greek woman named Helene, sent up breakfast for two in the dumbwaiter. She must have had a conversation with Mr. Pickles, he thought.
They sat up in bed and ate the large English breakfast off trays.
“Now,” Stone said, when they were on coffee, “just what is it you want done?”
Felicity took a dainty sip of her coffee and set the cup down. “There is a person called Stanley Whitestone,” she said, “or at least that’s what he used to be called back when he worked for us.”
“What is he called now?” Stone asked.
“I haven’t a clue,” she replied.
“Do you have a photograph of him?”
Felicity reached for her briefcase on the bedside table, opened it, produced an envelope and handed it to Stone.
Stone opened the envelope and extracted a photograph-two photographs, actually, a head-on shot and a profile-of a man, apparently in his thirties, with short, dark hair and an aquiline nose. “He’s pretty nondescript, isn’t he?”
