48

Meg stared at Stone. “Who is he, and why did we come all this way to avoid him?”

Stone handed her the newspaper, and she read the article, then put it down.

“Selwyn Owaki sells arms to whoever has the money, and he doesn’t care where or how they got it.”

“He sounds charming,” Meg said wryly.

“Actually, he has that reputation, when he’s not murdering his competition. All sorts of people—even people who are very rich themselves—are attracted to and deceived by people who have vast quantities of money.”

“Why is that, do you suppose?”

“It is one of the great mysteries of human nature. Americans, particularly, seem to suffer from this affliction. Haven’t you noticed differences in the way you are treated by others since you became very wealthy?”

“Well, now that you mention it . . .”

“You’ll have to learn to distinguish between people who simply admire your industry and those who hope to take some of it away from you, in one way or another. Selwyn Owaki is one of the latter group.”

“And what does he want from me?”

“The designs and specifications of your self-driving vehicles.”

“You mean he’s the one who bought the stolen files from Gino Bellini?”

“Yes, but he dealt through Stanislav Beria, an official at the Russians’ UN mission. Owaki always deals through others when doing something illegal, immoral, or both.”

“Ah, I think I see now why Mr. Owaki has bought an automobile factory.”

“Yes, and one not five miles from this estate.” Stone tapped out an e-mail to Mike Freeman, asking for protective measures to be taken for himself and Meg. “I’m afraid we’re going to become prisoners in this house until the issue is resolved.”

“Which issue is that?”

“Whether Owaki is able to lay his hands on your data, and whether he will try to kill us in the process.”

“I would prefer not on either account.”

“As would I. Don’t worry, Mr. Owaki has no way of knowing we’re here, and even if he did, by tomorrow morning Strategic Services will have established a cordon around the house to keep out unwelcome visitors.”

Meg rummaged in her purse and came up with a thumb drive. “So what he wants is this?”

“Yes.”

She peered at it. “Sorry, wrong thumb drive.” She went through her bag again and came up with another. “This thumb drive.”

“Right. What’s on the other one?”

“A draft copy of our quarterly report,” she said. “Actually, it could be quite valuable to someone with knowledge of it, since it is very favorable, and the stock price will shoot up when it’s released in a few days.”

“I think we need to put the one containing the designs of the car in a safe place.”

“Where would you suggest?”

“A safe,” Stone replied. “Come with me.” He walked across the room and swung out a picture the frame of which was hinged. Behind it lay a safe with a digital lock. Stone tapped in the code, asking Meg to memorize it as he did, then he opened the door, stepped back, and allowed her to place the thumb drive on a shelf. He locked it and returned the picture to its original position, then they returned to their sofa and their drinks.

“This is a very beautiful house,” Meg said. “How did you come by it?”

“A friend of mine, Dame Felicity Devonshire, who lives just across the Beaulieu River—spelled the French way but pronounced ‘Bewley.’ I was in Rome on business and I got a call from her, asking me to come and visit her in England, that she had something to show me. That something turned out to be this estate.

“It was owned by Sir Charles Bourne, a delightful Englishman who was ill and slowly dying, and he wanted to sell the place to keep it from falling into the hands of either of his two children, both of whom he despised. Felicity brought me here to see the place, which was nearing the end of a complete renovation, paid for with money that would otherwise have gone to his heirs.

“She then arranged for Sir Charles and me to meet for dinner at the Royal Yacht Squadron, England’s oldest yacht club, in Cowes, on the Isle of Wight, which lies a few miles from here across a body of water known as the Solent, an arm of the English Channel. Sir Charles and I got on famously, and at the end of our dinner I wrote him a check for his asking price, which I thought reasonable. The legal niceties were performed later. Sir Charles, who was living in a cottage on the estate during the renovations, died a few months later, sometime after I had moved in.”

“Dame Felicity must know you very well to know that you would want the house on sight.”

“Dame Felicity is director of the British Foreign Intelligence Service, known as MI-6. She tends to know just about everything there is to know about everything.”

“Nevertheless, it was kind of her to steer you to it.”

“Her action was not entirely out of kindness—there was an element of self-service involved.”

“How so?”

“She didn’t want the place to be snapped up by some nouveau-riche hedge fund manager. She and her neighbors wanted someone who was the ‘right sort of person’ to buy it, so she chose a nouveau-riche American lawyer.”

Meg laughed. “That means that she certainly did know you well.”

“We have been friends for many years,” Stone said.

“Why do I think that Dame Felicity is not a ‘lady of a certain age’ and is quite beautiful?”

“Because you are a perspicacious woman.”

Meg laughed. “Will I meet Dame Felicity?”

“The moment she hears we are here she will invite us to dinner—or more likely, invite herself here for dinner—so that she can get a good look at you.”

“And I at her.”

“I warn you, Felicity is something of a carnal omnivore, so don’t be surprised if you find her hand on your knee.”

Meg laughed again. “It’s been quite some time since another woman tried that—at Stanford, I think—and she didn’t get lucky.”

“Just giving you a heads-up,” Stone said.

His phone rang. “Yes? Thank you so much. Goodbye.” He hung up. “At some time during the night our guardians will be in place, so we may rest easily.”

“I’ll look forward to it,” Meg said.