Nigel Mann had known Ian Fleming? Well, f**k me.
I thought of the three-shelf bookcase in my own apartment, and the books that were in there that I rarely had time to read, and I turned away.
A glance at my watch told me Mann’s flight was about an hour out of Dulles. I had plenty of time before I set the stage for the next act in our little play. I went upstairs to see what his bedroom looked like.
Maybe I’d even play Goldilocks.
* * * *
It was well past midnight when I heard a cab pull into his drive. Good thing I’d re-armed his security system. He let himself in and automatically punched in the code that reset it once the door had been closed again.
Even though it was less than thirty-six hours since I’d last seen him, the difference was unbelievable. His face was almost gray with
