Stone was doing the arithmetic. She was older than he had thought, but apparent youth was common among the well-tended women of the ultrarich class.

"Do the math, yet?" she asked. "You're blushing. It's so rare to meet a man with blond hair these days; you even have blond eyebrows. What are your national origins?"

"English on both sides, all the way back to the Bronze Age, but I suppose a Viking rapist must have insinuated himself, somewhere along the way."

"I expect it gets blonder in the summertime."

"I'm afraid so."

"I'm Polish, myself," she said. "My maiden name was Murawski."

"A handsome people, the Poles."

She laughed. "I like you, Mr. Barrington."

"Please call me Stone."

"And I'm Barbara. Where did the name come from?"

"My mother's name was Matilda Stone."

"The painter?"

"Yes."

"I've seen her things at the Metropolitan, in the American Wing."

The car drew to a smooth halt in front of 1111 Fifth Avenue, and they got out and went inside.

Barbara Stein lived in a three-story house, it turned out, but it was situated at the top of a fourteen-story apartment building. The elevator opened directly into the foyer, and a butler stood waiting to open the doors to the living room, which was on the top floor.

"There are two other floors downstairs," she said, "but we always enjoyed entertaining up here, because of the terrace. She led him through French doors to a beautifully planted terrace stretching the width of the building, with spectacular views west and south over Central Park and the Metropolitan Museum.

"Breathtaking," Stone said.

"Would you like something to drink? Iced tea, perhaps?"

"Thank you, perhaps another time. I'd really like to get that key and get some people over there as quickly as possible."

"Of course; please follow me." She led him down a floor to a gigantic bedroom and thence to a large, mahogany-paneled dressing room, filled with a man's clothing. She rummaged in the top drawer of a built-in stack and came up with a key. "Here it is." She gave him the address.

"Do you know if he has a safe there?"

"I expect so; there's one here, too, behind his suits."

"Then, if it's not too much of an imposition, I'd like to bring some people back here to go through his things and open the safe."

"Of course; whenever you like."

"In the meantime, you might ask your staff to pack all these things, and they needn't be careful about how they do it."

She laughed. "I'll see that they make a mess of it." She led Stone back upstairs and to the foyer. "Thank you so much for your advice. When can we start on the annulment?"

"First, let me see what we come up with in the search, then we can make a decision."

She rang for the elevator and held out her hand. "I'll look forward to hearing from you." She held onto his hand just a moment longer than necessary.

"I'll phone you later today," Stone said. "Are you in the book?"

"Under B. Stein."

He gave her his card. The elevator arrived, and Stone rode down. On the sidewalk, he phoned Lance.

"Yes?" Lance drawled.

"Meet me at…" Stone looked at the address and read it to him. "Between Lex and Third."

"Why?"

"Because I have the key to Whitney Stanford's apartment at that address."

"Fifteen minutes?"

"Fine, and bring some help and a safecracker. Later, you'll need to go to an apartment on Fifth Avenue, too, where his wife lives."

"Wife?"

"Of some months. She was formerly married to Morris Stein."

"The Morris Stein?"

"The same."

"Good God!"

"Fifteen minutes."

THEY ARRIVED at the building, in the East Sixties, simultaneously, Lance with two companions. It was a small apartment building, with no doorman. They took the elevator to the top floor and let themselves in. "We have Mrs. Stanford's permission, so a warrant won't be necessary," Stone said.

"A warrant is rarely necessary," Lance replied drolly. The place was a two-bedroom floor-through, professionally decorated in an impersonal style, with a roof terrace at the back.

"All right," Lance said, "take the place apart, but this is a covert search; everything must be left exactly as it was. Jim, find the safe and get started on that first." The two men went to work, and so did Stone and Lance.

"Watch me for a minute," Lance said. He donned a pair of latex gloves, went to a desk in the living room, pulled out a drawer, and set it on top of the desk, then he removed and replaced precisely the contents of the drawer. "Like that," he said. "I realize you haven't been trained to do this, so go slowly, and check the bottoms of the drawers, too." He handed Stone some gloves.

He left Stone to the desk and went to another room. Stone went through the drawers very carefully, and under the right-hand top drawer he found a small piece of paper taped in place.

"Lance," he called.

"Yes?"

"You're not going to need to crack the safe; I've found the combination."

Lance returned, looked at the piece of paper once, then went away again. A moment later, he called out, "Stone, come in here."

Stone found his way to the master bedroom and into a dressing room. Lance stood before an open safe.

"My God," he murmured. There were four passports stacked up in a corner of the safe, next to stacks of cash in dollars, pounds and Euros. Stone picked up a stack. "Two-dollar bills," he said, "unused and with consecutive serial numbers. The rest seem to be hundreds."

"Photograph everything," Lance said to his men, "then put it all back. I want an individual, readable shot of every page of every passport. Take down the serial numbers of every bank note."

Lance left them to it while he and Stone went quickly through the other rooms of the apartment. Except for the contents of the safe, not another scrap of paper yielded any useful information.

TWO HOURS LATER they had finished and returned everything in the apartment to its original state. As they were about to open the door, there was a noise from the other side. Lance held a finger to his lips, and he and the other two men produced guns and stood away from the door.

There was a scraping noise that went on for, perhaps, thirty seconds, then the door opened and two men walked in, followed by a woman.

The woman was Tiffany Baldwin.

TIFF STARED AT STONE. "What the hell are you doing here, and who the hell are these guys?" She gestured at Lance and his two men.

Lance showed her his ID. "Allow me to introduce myself," he said, looking appreciatively up and down her. "My name is Lance Cabot."

"How do you do?" she said, then turned back to Stone. "You really are mixed up with the CIA?"

"Mixed up' is a good way to put it," Stone said.

"You haven't answered my question," Tiff replied. She turned back to Lance. "What are you doing here?"

Lance spoke up. "It would appear that we have a mutual interest in the gentleman who resides here. I should think we also have a mutual interest in not disturbing the contents of his apartment. If he knows either of us has been here, he'll bolt."

"I assume you've already turned over the place."

"You assume correctly. The only items of any interest were four passports from as many English-speaking countries and some cash. They're all in a safe, and we left it undisturbed. May I suggest that, if we have anything further to discuss, we do it outside? The man could come home at any moment."

"All right," Tiff said. She led the way out of the apartment. The elevator had to make two trips to get them all downstairs.

On the sidewalk, Lance spoke to her again. "I assume you're after Mr. Stanford for financial crimes?"