“Well, it’s all just so perfect, isn’t it? Except for the part about somebody firing three rounds into my car yesterday.”

“We could just wait and see what happens.”

“Gee, that’s a swell idea. If I get dead, then maybe you’ll find a clue.”

“You’re sure it’s not the guys who are after Major Rattle?”

“Felicity and I talked at length about that yesterday: only she, Holly, and I knew that Ian was staying here.”

“Okay, I’ll buy into that.”

“Any other ideas?”

“Maybe Ryan hates your guts enough to do you for free.”

“That would be weird, since we hardly know each other.”

“Not everybody thinks you make a good first impression.”

“It would be interesting to find out if Ryan owns a motorcycle, a .45, and has a shoulder wound. Think some of those flatfoots who work for you could look into that?”

“I guess that’s not the worst use of their time I can think of.”

“Well, send somebody down to the nearest donut shop and roust ’em out, okay?”

“Okay, I’ll get back to you.”

“I’ll wait with bated breath.”

“You do that.”

—

Stone hung up and thought about Ryan. The man did seem to have a short fuse, but after one brief encounter, would he hold a grudge? It seemed far-fetched to him.

Joan came into his office. “Fred and I have talked with the Bentley service department. They’re all agog—they’ve never had a customer with three bullet holes in the backseat.”

“I guess not. What did they suggest?”

“A new backseat. It would take at least a month, what with shipping and all.”

“Tell them to air-freight it.” Joan nodded and left.

Felicity called. “I had breakfast with the ambassador.”

“Did you smooth his feathers?”

“Yes, and even better, I just blamed it all on you. When Ian gets out of the hospital he can move into the embassy residence.”

“That sort of frees you up, doesn’t it?”

“I believe it does. I have some tidying up to do here. Will six o’clock be all right?”

“At the stroke of the cocktail hour—that will be extremely satisfactory. Shall I send the car for you?”

“Thank you, you’re a sweetheart.”

“Until then.” He hung up, buzzed Fred, and arranged it.

Joan buzzed him. “There’s a secretary on the line who says her boss is the ambassador to the UN from Dahai, and he wants to speak with you.”

Bad joke, Felicity, he thought. “Put him on.”

“Line two.”

Stone pressed the button. “This is Stone Barrington.”

“Mr. Barrington,” a woman with a slightly accented voice said, “Ambassador Abdul-Aziz wishes to speak to you.”

“Certainly,” Stone said, “put him on.”

“Mr. Barrington,” a man’s voice said, in a very British accent.

“Yes, Mr. Ambassador?”

“Do you understand who I am?”

“I’m given to believe that you are Dahai’s ambassador to the UN.”

“That is correct.”

“How may I help you?”

“I wish to speak with you on a confidential matter.”

“Go right ahead.”

“I think it would be better if we meet.”

“I’m in my office for the rest of the day.”

“It would be better if you could come to my residence. I’m in the UN Plaza apartment building.”

This was turning into a very elaborate joke; Stone thought he might as well see where it led.

“All right.”

The man gave him an apartment number. “Would six o’clock be acceptable?”

“I’m afraid I have an engagement at six. Four would be better.”

“That will be satisfactory,” he said. “I will see you at that time.” He hung up.

Joan came in. “Was that a practical joke?”

“It could very well be. I’m going to play it out and see.”

—

Stone presented himself at the reception desk at UN Plaza, a handsome building across the street from the UN building that had been built in the 1960s. He remembered a character in a movie saying, “If there is a God, he probably lives in this building.” He gave his name to the desk clerk and was told to go right up, he was expected.

The door was answered by a butler in tails, who led him into a large living room furnished in white sofas and chairs, with a spectacular view of UN Headquarters and the East River.

“May I get you some refreshment?” the butler asked.

At that moment the ambassador appeared. He was a smallish man of about five feet seven inches, dressed in a sharply tailored Savile Row suit. “Good afternoon, Mr. Barrington,” he said, extending a hand.

Stone shook it. “Good afternoon, Ambassador.”

“May I offer you a drink? Alcohol is not prohibited in my residence.”

“Thank you, just some fizzy water.”

The ambassador instructed the butler to bring it, and a martini for himself. “It’s five o’clock somewhere, is that not the adage?”

“It is.”

They sat down and waited for their drinks.

“Before we begin, Mr. Barrington, may I ask, are you acquainted with a Major Ian Rattle?”

“Rattle? Is that a real name?”

“It is, I assure you.”

“No, I am not acquainted with him,” he lied.

“Good, because I wish to bring a lawsuit against him,” the ambassador said.

Gene Ryan was frightened of coming here but more frightened of not coming. He rang the bell in the late afternoon and waited. He was greeted by a chorus of barks, large and small, from somewhere toward the rear of the house. After a count of about twenty-five, a man came to the door, dressed in green hospital scrubs and about three days of stubble. “Yeah?”

“I’m the guy Eddie sent.”

“Right, come on in.”

The walls of the reception area were plastered with photographs of kittens and puppies and the occasional potbellied pig.

“It’s a shoulder wound, right?” the veterinarian asked.

“Right.”

“Take off your jacket and your shirt.”

Gene struggled out of the clothing; his shirt was bloodstained in spite of the makeshift dressing he had applied and the change of clothes. He was directed to sit on the examination table.

The vet ripped off the bandage. “Flesh wound, in and out,” he said. “Missed the shoulder joint.”

“You should see the other guy.”

The vet laughed. “It’s a thousand, cash,” he said, “including drugs.” Gene had the money already counted out and paid him. The vet pocketed the money. “This was what, a few hours ago?”

“Last night. It took some time to locate you.”

“Okay, lie down on your right side, so I can get at this thing.”

Gene stretched out on the table, which was Great Dane–sized.

The vet came at him with a large syringe and a curved, steel pan to catch the overflow. He irrigated the wound from both the front and the back, causing Gene to writhe in pain.

“You got some infection there,” he said.

“You got any novocaine?” Gene asked testily.

“Lidocaine, sure.” He went to a cabinet and came back with a filled syringe, then injected both the entry and exit. “Give it a minute,” he said.

Gene gave it a minute, and he began to feel the pain fade a little. “Okay, it’s working.”

“Good, because I’m going to run a swab all the way through.” He did so.

“Jesus!” Gene cried. “Give the novocaine a little more time, okay?”

“I’m done torturing you,” the vet said. “All I have to do now is stitch, and you won’t feel that.” He swabbed the area with a brown fluid, then attacked both ends with a curved needle and catgut. “There, all patched up.”