“Well, I’m not getting in the middle of this,” Stone said.

“Just sit there in your chair and don’t say anything, and it’ll be all right.”

“Okay. I’ll just sit here.”

“Stone?” Dino was looking over Stone’s shoulder, toward the door.

“Yes?”

“Have you seen Lance Cabot lately?” Cabot was the newly appointed deputy director for operations of the CIA. Both Dino and Stone had done consulting work for him.

“Not lately.”

“Well, he looks like shit,” Dino said. “He’s aged years.”

“How do you know this?”

“Because I’m looking at him right now.”

Stone turned and looked toward the door. Lance Cabot stood there, looking, as Dino had said, years older. He was also a bit disheveled, needed a haircut, and had at least a three-day growth of beard. His face was bruised.

“Good God, you’re right,” Stone said.

Lance was, ordinarily, the most fastidious of men, always perfectly dressed and groomed. Stone watched as Frank, one of the two headwaiters, greeted him and led him to a table at the rear of the restaurant.

“He didn’t even look at us,” Dino said. “Something’s wrong… Uh-oh,” Dino said.

“What now?”

“Genevieve.”

Stone turned to see the beautiful Genevieve enter the restaurant and head for their table. They both stood, while Dino held her chair, a sure sign of fear.

“How are you, Genevieve?” Stone said, giving her a kiss.

“I’m very well, Stone,” she said, ignoring Dino. “How was your Malibu training?”

Stone shot a glance at Dino, who was looking very uncomfortable. “Hard work and great fun. The new airplane is faster, smoother, and quieter, only it’s not a Malibu anymore; it’s called a JetProp.”

“I remember,” she said.

“I’m going nuts,” Dino said.

“What?”

“Lance just came in again, and he looks perfectly fine.”

Stone turned and looked, and there he was, younger, undisheveled, unbruised, and perfectly groomed. “We’re both going nuts,” Stone said.