Lucid Intervals

by Stuart Woods

  Stone was about to reply when his office door opened, and to his surprise, the little gray man from Felicity’s office walked into the room, closed the door behind him and leaned on it. “Oh, you’re that Mr. Smith,” Stone said.

  “Where is she?” he asked.

  “Where is who?” Stone asked back.

  “Dame Felicity. Where is she?”

  “She checked out of here the day before yesterday,” Stone replied, “and she didn’t leave a forwarding address. I assumed she’d gone back to London.”

  Smith unbuttoned his jacket and introduced a Walther.380 to the conversation. It was equipped with a silencer. “I’ll ask you just once more,” Smith said quietly, “and if I don’t get a satisfactory answer I will shoot you in the head.”

  Stone rather believed him. “I will give you the only answer I have,” he said, “and hope it will be satisfactory. She is back in London at her office, her home or her country house.”

  “That is entirely unsatisfactory,” Smith said, raising the pistol and pointing it at Stone’s head.

  “Would you like to have a look upstairs?” Stone asked. “I suppose she could be hiding in a guest room.”

  “Never mind,” Smith said, and thumbed back the hammer on the pistol.

  As he did, Stone heard the doorknob turn, and the door struck Smith hard in the back, knocking Smith to his knees. Herbie Fisher walked into the office, rubbing a shoulder, and held Joan’s.45 to Smith’s head, while he relieved the man of his pistol. “Joan wasn’t at her desk,” he said, “and you left your intercom on, so I heard what this guy had to say to you. Do you want me to shoot him?”

  “Not yet, Herbie,” Stone said. “Before you do, I’d like to ask him some questions. Mr. Smith?”

  “May I get up, please?” Smith asked.

  “You may not,” Stone replied. “I like you on your knees. Now, why have you come here looking for your boss with a gun?”

  “She is no longer my boss,” Smith replied. “She has been sacked by the foreign minister.”

  “Which foreign minister is that?” Stone asked.

  “The British foreign minister, you twit!” Smith said.

  “Name?”

  “Palmer!”

  “You don’t watch TV or read the papers, do you, Smith?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Well, when you get out of jail, you might read up on what’s been happening at home,” Stone said. “Herbie, do you think you can render Mr. Smith unconscious without fracturing his skull?”

  “Sure,” Herbie said, and he swung the barrel of the.45 at the back of Smith’s neck. Smith collapsed in a heap.

  “Thank you, Herbie,” Stone said.

  “Any time, Stone. Who the fuck is this guy?”

  “I’ve no idea,” Stone said. “See if he has a wallet or a passport.” Herbie went through Smith’s pockets, came up with both and handed them to Stone, who put them in a desk drawer. Then Stone picked up a phone and called Dino.

  “Bacchetti,” Dino said.

  “Morning, Dino. A strange man just walked into my office with a silenced pistol and threatened my life.”

  “Okay, what’s the punch line?”

  “No joke. Fortunately, Herbie Fisher happened in and made him go to sleep. Do you think you could haul him away and let him stew in your very excellent drunk tank for two or three days?”

  “I don’t see why not,” Dino replied. “I’ll be right over.” He hung up.

  Stone hung up, too. “Herbie, did I mention how very glad I am to see you?”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “I am very glad to see you. That little man was about to put a round in my head.”

  “I’d better put Joan’s.45 back in her drawer; she’s fussy about it.” Herbie walked down the hall toward Joan’s office, then returned.

  Stone’s phone rang, and since Joan was out of the office, he answered it. “Stone Barrington.”

  “Mr. Barrington?” a woman’s voice said. “I was expecting Joan.”

  “She’s out at the moment.”

  “I have Mr. Bianchi for you.” There was a click on the line.

  “Hello, Stone?” Eduardo said.

  “Yes, Eduardo. How are you?”

  “I am greatly relieved,” Eduardo replied. “Yesterday, Dolce landed in Palermo and was recognized by some acquaintances of mine who happened to be at the airport.”

  “Happened to be at the airport?”

  “At my request,” Eduardo replied. “In any case, she is now sequestered in a safe and comfortable place, and is no longer a threat to you or anyone else.”

  “I’m very happy to hear that, Eduardo,” Stone said.

  “I wish to apologize for any inconvenience she may have caused you. I saw to the hospital bill of the gentleman she, ah, perforated and reached an immediate settlement with him, so he will not be a bother to you.”

  “Thank you again, Eduardo.”

  “If you will forgive me, I am rushing off to a board meeting.”

  “Of course, Eduardo.”

  “Come and have lunch in a couple of weeks. I’ll call.” He hung up.

  Stone hung up, too, relieved.

  Dino walked into his office, followed by two burly detectives. “This the guy?” he asked, indicating Smith, who was awake now and trying to get up. The two detectives helped him, and one of them introduced him to handcuffs.

  “That’s the guy,” Stone said. “I’ve no idea who he is or what he wants, but he did point that gun at me.”

  Dino took the Walther from Herbie with two fingers. “This Walther?”

  “The very one.”

  “Check him for ID,” Dino said to the detectives.

  “Nothing on him, Lieutenant,” one replied.

  “My name is Smith,” Smith said.

  “Sure it is,” Dino replied. “I’m Jones.”

  “I have a British diplomatic passport,” Smith said.

  “Well, just show it to me and we’ll forget this ugly little incident,” Dino replied.

  “It’s in my inside coat pocket,” Smith said.

  “No it ain’t,” a detective replied.

  “I had it when I came here.”

  “You had this gun when you came here,” Dino said, “and we frown on that in New York, unless you’ve got a permit.”

  “He ain’t got a permit on him,” the detective said.

  “And we don’t issue permits for silencers,” Dino pointed out.

  “I protest!” Smith said.

  “You go right ahead, but do it quietly,” Dino said, “or somebody will put you to sleep.” Dino made a motion with his head, and the two detectives dragged Smith, still protesting, out of the office.

  “Okay,” Dino said to Stone, “who is he?”

  Stone took Smith’s wallet and passport from his desk drawer and handed them to Dino. “One of Felicity’s,” he said, “who has turned unfriendly. Can you lose him for a couple of days?”

  “Sure,” Dino said. “Elaine’s tonight?”

  “I have to leave town, but I’ll be back soon. I’ll call.”

  Dino left, and Stone turned to Herbie. “What’s up?”

  “I wanted to invite you to my wedding.”

  “When is it?”

  “The day after tomorrow, at the Pierre. It just reopened after a big renovation. Stephanie’s parents live there.”

  “I’m sure it’s very elegant, Herbie, but I’ll be out of the country tomorrow.”

  “Maybe next time?” Herbie asked.

  “Sure, next time. Put me down for it.”

  58

  Later that day Stone packed Felicity’s remaining bag and one for himself, then walked through the garden to the street and found a cab.

  He walked into the Plaza suite to find Felicity parked in front of the TV, watching MSNBC. “Hey, there,” he said, kissing her on the neck.

  “Good afternoon,” she said tonelessly. Her eyes never left the TV.

  “I had an encounter with
your minion, Smith, this morning.”

  She turned and looked at him for the first time. “What sort of encounter?”

  “One reinforced with a silenced pistol. I believe he intended to use it on me, because I wouldn’t tell him your whereabouts, but Herbie Fisher interrupted him. God bless the boy.”

  “Where is Smith now?”

  “In the drunk tank at the Nineteenth Precinct.”

  “Dino?”

  “You betcha.”

  “How long will he be incarcerated?”

  “Since he doesn’t have any identification, probably two or three days. Has Smith gone off the reservation?”

  “Either that, or I have.”

  “He seemed to be laboring under the misapprehension that Palmer has sacked you.”

  “At least one of your television networks seems to be laboring under the same misapprehension,” Felicity replied. “Something has gone horribly wrong, and I don’t know what it is.”

  “Don’t make any phone calls,” Stone said.

  “Do you think I’m mad?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “I may be able to fix this once we’re back in the UK,” she said.

  “May be able to?”

  “I don’t know what’s going on,” she said. “The afternoon papers in London didn’t carry the story. I’m beginning to think that the Official Secrets Act may have been imposed.”

  “The one I signed?”

  “One and the same. The PM can impose it, and nobody can report the story.”

  “What about the American afternoon papers?”

  “Nothing there, either. There was a piece in The New York Times this morning reporting Hackett’s murder but few details.”

  “You hungry?” Stone asked. “They’re not coming for us until nine; we have time to order some room service.”

  “Please. I’d like a steak, medium rare, and a baked potato laden with whatever they have to offer. Wine, too.”

  Stone ordered the same for both of them and a bottle.

  Felicity turned down the volume on the TV but left it on. “I believe I’m being sought on both sides of the Atlantic,” she said, “and I won’t survive being found.”

  “Why do you think that?” Stone asked.

  “Your Smith story, for one thing,” she said. “He’s a fairly timid man, and he wouldn’t be pointing guns at you, unless he’d been so instructed. I think that, if I’d been there, he’d have shot me.”

  “Then your government has turned on you,” Stone observed.

  “Some of my government, at least: that part of it who are afraid of Palmer and Prior.”

  “And where is the PM in all this?”

  “That remains to be seen.”

  “Are you going to be safe in London?”

  “As long as no one knows I’m there,” Felicity replied. “Or everyone.”

  DINNER ARRIVED, AND they dined in front of the TV, but the only new story was one saying that a morning London paper had gotten the story wrong, that Palmer and Prior-or the two P’s, as the press called them-were still in their offices. Stone, not understanding all the ins and outs of current British politics, was baffled, but Felicity didn’t seem inclined to explain things to him. She was obviously thinking hard.

  At a quarter to nine the phone rang, and Stone picked it up. “Yes?”

  “Is the package ready for pickup?” an unfamiliar voice asked.

  “Not until tomorrow at twelve.”

  “A bellman will come for the luggage first, then someone will come for the two of you.”

  “All right.” The line went dead. Five minutes later the doorbell rang, and Stone saw a uniformed bellman through the peephole. He opened the door, allowed the man to retrieve their luggage from the bedroom, tipped him and closed the door.

  At nine o’clock the bell rang again, and a check of the peephole revealed a man in what appeared to be an airline uniform with a raincoat over his arm and a large bouquet of flowers in his other hand. Stone opened the door.

  “Mr. Barrington?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Don Quint, the first officer for your flight.” The man handed him the raincoat. “There’s a folded hat in the pocket. Please put them both on.”

  He turned toward Felicity. “Dame Felicity?”

  “Yes.”

  He walked over and handed her the flowers. “If we encounter anyone, anyone at all, on the way out, please hide behind these.”

  She accepted the flowers, and the two of them followed the man down the hallway, away from the main elevators. They took a service elevator to the ground floor, which opened into a kitchen, then followed the man through a scullery and out into East Fifty-eighth Street, where a black stretch Mercedes with darkened windows awaited.

  The man in the airline uniform opened the rear door for them and relieved Felicity of the flowers. Then he got into the front passenger seat.

  Mike Freeman was already in the car, sitting in a jump seat. “Good evening,” he said, and the car drove away. “Take the tunnel,” he said to the driver.

  “Thanks for your help, Mike,” Stone said.

  “I’m happy to be of service,” he replied. “I think you should both know that something odd has happened in the reporting of this story in London.”

  “We noticed,” Felicity replied.

  “Then you’ll know that it seems to be quashed and that the government has resumed the appearance of normalcy.”

  “Quite.”

  “What are your intentions on arrival?” he asked her.

  “I haven’t entirely decided,” she replied. “I assume we’re going to an airplane.”

  “Yes, at Teterboro. It’s our company jet, a Gulfstream 550.”

  “May I assume it has a satellite phone aboard?”

  “Yes, and a high-speed Internet connection. Both numbers are blocked, so no one you call or e-mail will know where the transmissions are coming from.”

  “Very good. I’ll make my arrangements in the air, then.”

  “As you wish. You’ll be landing at a general aviation field southwest of London, called Blackbush.”

  “I know it,” she replied. “Good choice.”

  “A car will be waiting to take you wherever you wish to go. Stone, the airplane will wait for you at Blackbush to return you to New York. If you find you’ll be in London for more than forty-eight hours, please call me at this number, and I’ll make arrangements for your return whenever you wish.” He handed Stone a card.

  “Thank you, Mike.”

  They were through the tunnel now and on the way to Teterboro. When they arrived at the airport, they were driven through an opened gate to the airplane, which sat on the tarmac, its engines already running.

  “Your baggage is aboard,” Freeman said, getting out of the car and having a look around. “Let’s do this quickly.”

  Stone and Felicity were out of the car in a second, and in another, up the stairs with the door closed behind them. They were greeted by a uniformed flight attendant, and the man they had traveled with was in the copilot’s seat. In a matter of half a minute, they were taxiing.

  The flight attendant showed them to their seats. “My name is Nancy White,” she said. “Please take your seats and fasten your seat belts. The captain would prefer it if you kept them loosely fastened after takeoff.” As they taxied, she showed them the controls for television and music, and indicated a laptop, which could be used for e-mail. “There is a private cabin aft with twin beds,” she said, then went forward and buckled herself into her own seat.

  A moment later the engines spooled up, and they were rolling, then flying. Half an hour later, when the screen on the bulkhead showed that they were well east of Long Island and at flight level 510, another uniformed woman left the cockpit and walked back to where Stone and Felicity sat.

  “Good evening,” she said, “I’m your captain, Suzanne Alley.” She was tall and quite beautiful. “We’ll have a nice tailwind tonight and clear weather. We s
hould arrive at Blackbush at nine a.m., local time. Is there anything I can do for you?”

  Stone resisted an affirmative reply. “Thank you, Suzanne. I don’t think so.”

  “Nancy will take good care of you,” she replied. “Let her know if you’d like some dinner.” She returned to the cockpit and closed the door behind her.

  Nancy returned. “Can I get you anything?” she asked.

  “I’d like a glass of Champagne,” Felicity said, “and a telephone.”

  “Certainly,” Nancy said, and she brought both.

  Felicity was still on the phone when Stone went aft to the private cabin, removed his jacket, loosened his tie and quickly fell asleep on one of the compact beds.

  59

  As soon as the airplane rolled to a full stop and the engines were cut off, Nancy had the door open. Stone and Felicity, freshly showered and dressed, came forward to where Captain Suzanne Alley awaited them at the stairs. She handed Stone a card.

  “Please call me when you know your return plans, and we’ll be ready,” she said.

  Stone thanked her, and slipped the card into his pocket. He and Felicity descended to a waiting Bentley Arnage and were driven away.

  “Do you want to tell me what you’re going to do?” Stone asked.

  “No,” Felicity replied. “If I recount my plan to you, just hearing it might cause me to… What’s the American expression? Chicken out?”

  “That’s it,” Stone said. “Come to think of it, I’d rather not know.”

  As they approached the airport gate, Stone saw a television van with an antenna on top and two other cars waiting there, and they fell in behind the Bentley.

  The driver lowered the glass partition and asked, “Excuse me, madam, to what address would you like to be driven?”

  “To Number Ten Downing Street, please,” Felicity replied.

  Stone looked at her askance, but she said nothing.

  AT NUMBER TEN the prime minister’s secretary knocked on the door of the Cabinet Room.

  “Come!” a voice growled.

  The man opened the door and stepped in. “Please excuse me, Prime Minister,” he said, “but we’ve had rather an odd report from Blackbush Airport.”

  “What is it?”

  “A Treasury officer, who was arriving there by aeroplane, called to say that he is certain that he saw Dame Felicity Devonshire alight from a jet and get into a chauffeured car.”