“Your birds have flown. Gone to Mexico, according to the staff at their Connecticut estate. We’re trying to verify that.” Margo Banning was watching the speaker, an FBI agent named Peter Mitchell, with particular interest. Not because he happened to be a handsome if badly shaved young man, but because Mitchell was closely observing the man seated right beside Margo, a radio detective and amateur counterespionage agent named Philip St. Pierre. Margo couldn’t turn her head and observe St. Pierre herself; he would have resented something that blatant. If they’d been facing a mirror instead of the agent’s desk, she