?re going to learn about Mr. Timmons.”
“Why is that?”
“His dossier was in the same state as Hackett’s: sodden. Only the photograph survived.” She emptied the glass of Scotch and signaled a waiter for another. “I’m increasingly baffled by all this.”
“Let me suggest the simplest explanation,” Stone said.
“Please do.”
“Some addled clerk in the regimental offices inadvertently stapled the same photograph to two dossiers.”
“That’s too simple,” she said. “He affixes the same photograph to the dossiers of two men who were friends, later business partners? I don’t like coincidences.”
“Like them or not,” Stone said, “they happen.”
“There’s more,” Felicity said. “In addition to faxing my people Hackett’s dossier, I snipped slivers from the folder and several pages and had them analyzed.”
“And?”
“And they were identical in makeup and age to the folders found in storage at Camberly.”
“So the dossier is authentic?”
“Either that or Hackett has gone to a great deal of trouble to make it seem so.”
“I gather you’re inclined to the latter explanation.”
“Well, yes, I am,” she said, sipping the new Scotch.
“Felicity,” Stone said, “I think there is only one way for you to proceed in this matter.”
“And what is that?” she asked.
“Since you are unwilling to accept any evidence that Hackett is Hackett and not Whitestone, you will just have to operate on the basis that they are one and the same. Otherwise, you’ll go crazy.”
“I may have already gone crazy,” she said. “I reported to my superiors this evening that Hackett is very likely Whitestone.”
“And you’re having second thoughts?”
“And third and fourth thoughts.”
“Have you had their reaction to this report?”
“No. They’ll read it first thing in the morning, when they arrive at their desks in London.”
“And what is their reaction likely to be?”
She pulled at the Scotch again. “I’m not sure,” she said. “And I’m very worried about that.”
“Are you afraid of what they will ask you to do about Hackett/ Whitestone?”
“Yes, very much.”
46
Stone and Felicity lay, sweating and panting, in each other’s arms. They had awakened at daylight and had made love in various ways until they had both crashed and burned in an overwhelming mutual orgasm.
A noise pervaded the otherwise silent room. Stone frowned; he knew that noise. It was the clanging of an old British telephone, old enough that it didn’t have a volume control and, thus, loud enough to play havoc with an eardrum.