“Perhaps so. I haven’t found any bugs in the suite, though.”

“Shall we look for them?”

“No, let’s entertain the listeners.”

“I don’t really mind your philandering, Stone—even when it’s not with me. We are of similar natures.”

“I know that, and somehow, it always makes our reunions important to me.”

“And to me, too. It reminds me of how crazy I am to work so much, but I was so happy to get the job that I thought I should do it well. Unfortunately, doing it well is, all too often, a 24/7 job. Now tell me about these attempts on your carcass.”

Stone told her about the roasted van and the shotgun incident of the night before.

“I’m impressed that she had the fortitude to fire when the time came.”

“The lady is not lacking in fortitude,” Stone said, “but I was impressed, too. I would have liked an opportunity to speak with the other shooter, though.”

“So they know absolutely nothing about him?”

“Nothing, except what I told you.”

Holly got out of bed, went to her luggage, and came back with a laptop computer. “Let’s try something,” she said, logging on to the CIA mainframe and opening the facial recognition program. “Let’s see. Age, thirties. Height, six feet. Weight, one-eighty. Is that right?”

“Right.”

“Did he speak at all?”

“He never had the chance.”

“Hair color?”

“Light brown, I suppose. He had a rather severe flattop haircut.”

“What was he packing?”

“The Beretta 9mm that’s the standard army sidearm.”

“Lots of those around. You said that he went for the gun with his right hand, but his wristwatch was on his right wrist?”

“Right. I thought that was odd.”

“Let’s type in ‘ambidextrous,’” Holly said, and did so. “Any apparent skills?”

“Burglary and car theft,” Stone said.

“There was no fight?”

“Not that I saw. Apparently, she heard something downstairs and went down there with her grandfather’s shotgun. I got there just in time to see it used.”

Holly clicked on “search” and waited. She did not have to wait long. “Is that the guy?” she asked, turning the screen toward him.

Stone stared into a familiar face. “Holy shit, it is! How’d you do that?”

“The ambidexterity did it,” she said. “Only about three percent of the population has that gift.” She tapped some more and came up with another photograph, this one in the uniform of a United States Marine, with a file attached.

“Name, John Simpson, no middle initial. White-bread all the way through. English descent, born in Gatlinburg, Tennessee, thirty-nine years ago. Attended the local schools, got his high school diploma, joined the Marines on graduation at seventeen, with parental permission, rose to master sergeant, two tours each in Iraq and Afghanistan— Uh-oh. Detached for special service four years ago—that means Special Forces or Navy SEALs . . .”

“Or CIA,” Stone pointed out.

“Oh, Jesus,” Holly said.

19

The two of them sat in bed and stared at the file of John, no middle initial, Simpson. “Is that all there is?” Stone asked.

“In this particular file, yes,” Holly replied. “His service record ended when he was transferred to Special Operations, and a new record was started. That file is heavily encrypted, and only the director of Central Intelligence—and others at his level in the various services—can retrieve it. That explains why his fingerprints and DNA didn’t produce a match.”

“Wouldn’t his whole service record be sequestered, then?”

“Yes, but we didn’t request his record—we made him with the facial recognition program, and I guess that was a back door to his original service record. Watch.” She started over on the mainframe and requested the army service record of John, no middle initial, Simpson. Immediately, she got a response: NO RECORD EXISTS.

“So, call Lance and ask him to retrieve the file.”

“Can’t you think of a reason why we shouldn’t do that?” Holly asked.

Stone thought that over. “Because there’s a chance that Simpson could be CIA?”

“Right, and if that’s the case, Lance might know what Simpson was doing at your friend’s house. And I don’t think I want to ask Lance about that.”

“I see. Suppose Simpson had retired from whatever special service he had been transferred to. Would that make his record more easily retrievable?”

“No, it would be permanently sequestered. I think you’re thinking . . .”

“Suppose he left the service and became a freelancer?”

“Right.”

“The question remains, a freelance what? I figured him for a pro when I looked him over, but I still don’t know a pro what.”

“Suppose he didn’t leave his new service?” Holly said.

“Well, I don’t think Army Special Forces or Navy SEALs would be conducting operations in Mirabelle Chance’s kitchen,” Stone said. “Or committing burglary and grand theft auto in Paris.”

“Good point,” Holly said. “So where do we go from here?”

“How about to Rick LaRose?” Stone suggested.

“Rick is a station chief, like me. He wouldn’t have access to a sequestered service record any more than I do.”

“Maybe not, but he was at the scene. That gives him a good excuse to ask Lance to retrieve the file.”

“That raises another thorny point,” Holly said.

“What’s that?”

“If Simpson was working for the Agency in Paris, Rick, as the local station chief, would be aware of it, and he would know why. And if he doesn’t know, it might be very embarrassing for him.”

“And yet he seems as baffled as we are by the dead guy in Mirabelle Chance’s kitchen.”

“If I were in Rick’s shoes, and I knew about an operation, it would be in my interests to seem to be baffled, too,” Holly pointed out.

“God, I’m glad I’m only a simple, barefoot New York lawyer and not an intelligence agent. It’s too complicated.”

“Now you know why I work all the time,” Holly said. “I have to figure out stuff like this.”

“What the hell,” Stone said. “I’m going to do what an amateur like me would do.” He picked up his phone, dialed Rick’s number, and put the phone on speaker.

One ring. “Rick LaRose.”

“Rick, it’s Stone.”

“Morning. How was the dinner party?”

“Eventful,” Stone said. “Rick, I think I’ve ID’d the corpse in Mirabelle Chance’s kitchen.”

“Oh, yeah? Have you come over all psychic, Stone?”

“Not yet. His name is John, no middle initial, Simpson, thirty-nine, U.S. Army master sergeant, maybe retired.”

“Nah. If he had a service record, we’d have gotten a hit on his prints or DNA.”

“Nevertheless.”

“Nevertheless what?”

“Nevertheless, that’s who the guy is.”

“Where the fuck did you come up with that?” Rick demanded.

“I have friends in high places.”

“Ahah! We’re not talking about this on the phone. I’m coming over there.” Before Stone could respond, Rick had hung up.

“Well,” Holly said, “I guess I’d better put on my knickers.”

—

HALF AN HOUR LATER there was a knock on the door, and Stone answered it. He and Holly had spent their time getting dressed and tidying the suite. Rick came in. “I knew you would be here,” he said to Holly.

“Hi, Rick, how are you?” Holly asked. “How’re things in Paris? How’s the Paris station? How’re the wife and kids?”

Rick went to the bar and found himself a bottle of fizzy water, then took a seat. “Things in Paris are just swell, the Paris station is a barrel of laughs, and you know I don’t have a wife and kids.”

“Mistress and kids? After all, it’s Paris.”

Rick ignored that. “What have you two been up to?”

“You’d better tell him, spy to spy,” Stone said to Holly. “I might leave out something.”

“All right,” Holly said, and she told him.

Rick stared at them in wonder. “How long did all this take?”

“I don’t know, eight or ten minutes,” Holly replied.