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“Okay,” Boyd said. “I give up, Mastermind.”

Malone wished Boyd would stop using that nickname. The fact was — as he, and apparently nobody else, was willing to recognize — that he wasn’t anything like a really terrific FBI agent. Even Barbara thought he was something special.

He wasn’t, he knew.

He was just lucky.

“Her Majesty informed me,” Malone said.

“Her—” Boyd stood with his mouth dropped open, like a fish waiting for some bait. “You mean she knew?”

“Well,” Malone said, “she did know the guys in the Buick weren’t the best in the business — and she knew all about the specially-built FBI Lincoln. She got that from our minds.” He knotted his tie with an air of great aplomb, and went slowly to the door. “And she knew we were a good team. She got that from our minds, too.”

“But,” Boyd said. After a second he said: “But,” again, and followed it with: “Why didn’t she tell us?”

Malone opened the door.

“Her Majesty wished to see the Queen’s Own FBI in action,” said Sir Kenneth Malone.