“You going anywhere in particular?” Dino asked from a comfortable rear seat.
“Looking for a tail,” Stone said. “It bothers me that Reeves says I’m already taken care of — makes it sound like I missed it.”
“I’m going to take a nap,” Dino said. “I’m unaccustomed to port at lunch.” He thought about that. “I could get used to it, though.” He lay back on the cushioned headrest and closed his eyes.
Stone loved these country roads: they were beautifully engineered, perfectly drained, and always in good repair. He kept an eye on the GPS navigation display to be sure he was always headed in the general direction of Cliveden.
“You drive beautifully,” Pat said. “Especially right now — and with the steering wheel on the wrong side!”
“Thank you,” Stone said. “I hope we don’t meet too many vehicles coming the other way. My instinct would be to go left.”
“And the instinct of the oncoming driver would be to go right,” she replied. “And that would not be a good thing.”
Stone narrowly missed a baker’s van going the other way.
“Stone,” Pat said, “what do you think Paul Reeves meant when he said you had already been taken care of?”
“I don’t know,” Stone said. “And I don’t want to know. But I have a feeling I’m going to find out.”
He drove on.
Back at Cliveden Stone was given a hand-delivered note on very heavy paper. He read it and turned to the others. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I can’t be with you for dinner, and I’ve been asked not to tell you why. I hope you will forgive me.”
46
Millie had just given up on the cricket match when Ian Rattle called again. “Are you up for a last-minute invitation?” he asked.
“If it’s a good enough invitation,” she replied.
“Dinner at Dame Felicity’s.”
“Dame Felicity’s what?”
“House.”
“Sounds nice.”
“I hope you brought a good dress. It’s black-tie.”
“I did, and I’ve bought two more since I’ve been here.”
“Do I get a choice?”
“I’ll do the choosing, thank you.”
“I’ll pick you up at six-forty-five. May we meet downstairs at that hour? Dame Felicity is a stickler for punctuality.”
“I will be on time. See you then.” She hung up, emptied two shopping bags, and hung up the three competing dresses for comparison. She awarded the prize to a simple black one that would show off just enough of her ample breasts, and with a slight flare just above the knee. It had not required alterations. She checked her watch, called downstairs and asked the concierge to send up a manicurist in an hour, then headed for a shower and shampoo.
Millie was standing under the outer canopy at the front door, all shiny and new, when a steel-gray Jaguar pulled up front. The doorman helped her into the rear seat next to Ian.
“You look perfectly marvelous,” he said, as the car moved away and into Mount Street.
“Where does Dame Felicity live?” she asked.
“I’m afraid you may not know that,” Ian replied, “and if you figure it out, you are sworn to secrecy. Or I can blindfold you.”
“I swear,” she said. They were there in twelve minutes, and she knew it immediately. It was a house in Wilton Crescent, one that backed up onto Wilton Mews, where the Grenadier was situated.
“You know it, don’t you? I can tell by your look.”
“Well, of course I know it, we had lunch right behind it.”
They got out of the car and rang the bell. “I believe this was formerly the home of Edward Heath, a prime minister of his day,” Ian said. There was no more time for history, because a uniformed butler admitted them, and as they entered the drawing room, announced them. “Mr. Ian Rattle and Ms. Millicent Martindale,” he intoned just loud enough to be heard, but not loud enough to bring all conversation to a halt.
Dame Felicity separated herself from a knot of guests and came toward Millie with her hand out. “Good evening, Millie. I’m so glad you could come on such short notice. One of my guests died, figuratively speaking, and you are such a lovely replacement. What a perfect dress!”
“Thank you, Dame Felicity. I’m very pleased to be here.”
Shortly she was conversing with the foreign secretary and his wife. The man leaned in and whispered, “I’ve been briefed on your, ah, project, and I am delighted with the results so far.”
“Thank you, sir,” she replied.
“You are awfully pretty for a spy,” his wife said, giving her husband a sharp look.
“Thank you, ma’am, but I am only a White House staffer, with no cover story.” Over the next few minutes she was introduced to the home secretary and a Sir Edward Antrim, who, Ian whispered, was the director of MI5, Dame Felicity’s counterpart on the domestic side. At seven-fifteen, the prime minister and his wife arrived and took a glass of champagne, then Millie was introduced to them, she being the only guest with whom they were not acquainted. She thought of curtsying, but then thought better of it.
At precisely seven-thirty a silver bell tinkled, and the butler announced dinner. As they were filing into the dining room the doorbell rang, and another guest was admitted, and more introductions were made around the table.
“Millie, this is Stone Barrington, whom you may already know.”
“Only on the phone,” Millie replied, shaking his hand. His place card was on Dame Felicity’s left, and Millie’s was next to his. The prime minister was seated on her hostess’s right.
A first course of sautéed foie gras was brought immediately, and champagne was poured. Millie tasted it and rolled her eyes.
“Do you like it?” Barrington asked her.
“It is the best champagne I have ever tasted,” she replied.
He laughed. “That’s because it is the best champagne ever made: a Krug 1978 — I caught a glimpse of the label.”
“I shall never drink anything else,” she said, taking another sip.
“The best of luck with that,” he replied, then turned to chat with his hostess.
Millie thought that the back of his head looked better than the face of most men.
“Now may I have your attention?” Ian asked in a low voice. “You’re not going to just sit there and wait for him to speak to you again, are you?”
“Of course not,” she replied with a smile, trying not to blush. “I will dance with who brung me.” As it happened, Stone did not speak to her again during dinner — he was too occupied with Dame Felicity and the prime minister.
The foie gras melted in her mouth, and a second course of fried goujons of Dover sole did, too. The main course came: a perfectly cooked fat duckling, and with it a Chateau something-or-other; she couldn’t see the label — but it was wonderful. A mille-feuille was served for dessert, and when everyone had finished, all the women at the table got up and left the room. Millie suddenly remembered the British custom of the men being left to their cigars and port, and she started to rise, but Dame Felicity stopped her.
“Millie, please remain,” she said. “Stone, would you be kind enough to attend to the ladies? We have business.”
“Of course,” Barrington said. He got up and was let out of the dining room by a man with a bulge under his black jacket and a military haircut, whom Millie had not noticed before.
“Now, if everyone has enough port, two of my guests have information to impart. I thought it better to do this at my home rather than attract attention by a more noticeable meeting of you all. First, Millicent Martindale, who is assistant national security adviser to the president of the United States. Millie?”