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FBI, he thought. Bureau agents tended to spend a little more on their clothes. Stone doubted that they were here to escort him to a plane destined for Mexico. The president would not have involved the FBI in something like that. Too many legal roadblocks. The Bureau tended to follow the letter of the law. And the FBI director had the clout to tell the president no. So perhaps the equation had changed once more.
    And maybe this time in my favor.
    As the four people drew closer, Stone could see that his initial observation was correct. He had just spied an FBI Academy ring on one of the men’s fingers. There was also a woman with them, and Stone didn’t think she was FBI. Assessing every feature from her teeth to her facial structure to her walk, she was a Brit, he concluded. MI6 most likely. Tasked for external intelligence, security and investigations.
    This certainly made sense if the British PM was the target. She was either in country traveling with him, stationed here, or she had taken a day flight over, leaving at around two and getting in at about the same time. By the looks of it Stone opted for the latter.
    And it was very clear why they were here. The bullets were one thing, but that bomb had been meant to blow somebody up and Stone didn’t think it was an overweight jogger. And they thought Stone could somehow help them find the truth.
    Ironic, he thought. The truth.
    He kept watching them as they approached his cottage.

CHAPTER 9

    T HE WOMAN WAS INDEED WITH MI6. Her name was Mary Chapman. Up close she turned out to be in her mid-thirties, about five-eight, with shoulder-length dirty blonde hair held back with a clasp. Her eyes were intense and shining. She had a compact jaw, thin lips and a slender, wiry build, though her bare calves were muscled. Her fingers were long and her grip was a vise. In Stone’s opinion the Brit’s features were classically attractive without being overwhelming. Chapman’s eyes were deeply green and active. She would never be described as “cute,” thought Stone. Confident, intimidating even, but never cute.
    “How was the flight across the pond? Little jet-lagged?” Stone said after everyone had been introduced and they’d taken up seats in front of the empty fireplace.
    Chapman gazed at Stone and then made a show of smoothing out a wrinkle on her suit jacket. “No bloody beds in coach, even on dear old British Air.” Within her accent and words Stone detected a sense of humility along with a potential for broad humor.
    “You must be highly thought of for them to fly you nearly three thousand miles here. MI6 has a permanent footprint in D.C., doesn’t it?”
    Chapman eyed the shabby interior of the cottage before settling her eyes back on Stone’s threadbare clothes. “And I thought the Yanks paid their people better.”
    One of the FBI agents cleared his throat. “Agent Chapman is here to assist the Bureau with its investigation.”
    Stone turned his attention to the man. He was beefy though strongly built. A desk jockey, Stone assumed, by the size of hiswaist and perspiring forehead. He was clearly only the messenger and note taker. He wouldn’t be doing any of the heavy lifting on this.
    “I’ve already been to NIC. They beat you to it. They came to the hospital. You were slower, if classier.”
    Beefy looked chagrined by this but plunged on. “And was the meeting helpful?”
    “I thought you were into cooperation and sharing these days.”
    Beefy gazed stonily back at him.
    Stone said, “They weren’t particularly forthcoming. I’m hoping you can do better.”
    Chapman crossed her legs and said, “Sorry if I seem a bit nitpicky, but I didn’t see your credentials.”
    Stone replied in a pleasant tone, “I don’t have any to show you.”
    She looked at Beefy quizzically.
    He said stiffly, “A formality that needn’t interrupt the progress of the investigation.”
    Chapman hiked her eyebrows at this but remained silent.
    “Good,” said Stone. He sat