Stuart Woods: Lucid Intervals

“When did you arrive in New York?”

“About an hour before the dinner,” she replied, “and I am quite shattered. I’ve been traveling since dawn this morning, London time.”

“Then we must put you right to bed,” Stone said.

She placed a hand on the inside of his thigh and squeezed lightly. “I should bloody well hope so.”

THE DRIVER UNLOADED her bags and, at Stone’s instruction, took them to the third floor in the elevator. A man emerged from a car behind them. “What are your instructions, ma’am?” he asked.

“Stone, this is Mr. Pickles, one of my security detail. He or one of his colleagues will be required to be in the house when I am here. Don’t worry-he will be quite invisible.”

“As you wish,” Stone said. He showed the man how the security system operated and where the kitchen was. “There’s an entrance to the common garden from the kitchen,” he said.

“I know,” the man replied. They were the only words he spoke.

Stone put Felicity’s cases in the dressing room opposite his, then went to his own. There was a note from his secretary, Joan Robert-son, on his dresser.

Stone, you really must put your hands on some money if you are going to preserve your credit rating. The bills are piled high.

Stone hated getting notes from Joan, but he knew she was right. He wondered how long it would take him to pry Felicity’s hundred thousand pounds from Her Majesty’s grasp.

The bedroom was dark when he emerged from his dressing room, with only a shaft of moonlight through a window to light his way. Felicity was already in bed and, as he discovered, already naked.

She drew him to her. “I want to sleep until noon,” she said. “Make me even more tired than I am.”

Stone did his very best.

THE FOLLOWING MORNING Stone awoke early, snuck out of bed and left a message on Joan’s phone not to buzz him during the morning. Then he returned to bed to be there when Felicity awoke. He was sound asleep when he felt a hand run down his belly.

Stone opened an eye. “Did you sleep well?”

“Extremely well,” she replied, rolling on top of him and giving him a wet kiss.

“It’s not noon yet,” he said.

“Then let’s use our remaining time well,” she said, straddling him and helping him inside her.

AT NOON, STONE’S housekeeper, a Greek woman named Helene, sent up breakfast for two in the dumbwaiter. She must have had a conversation with Mr. Pickles, he thought.

They sat up in bed and ate the large English breakfast off trays.

“Now,” Stone said, when they were on coffee, “just what is it you want done?”

Felicity took a dainty sip of her coffee and set the cup down. “There is a person called Stanley Whitestone,” she said, “or at least that’s what he used to be called back when he worked for us.”

“What is he called now?” Stone asked.

“I haven’t a clue,” she replied.

“Do you have a photograph of him?”

Felicity reached for her briefcase on the bedside table, opened it, produced an envelope and handed it to Stone.

Stone opened the envelope and extracted a photograph-two photographs, actually, a head-on shot and a profile-of a man, apparently in his thirties, with short, dark hair and an aquiline nose. “He’s pretty nondescript, isn’t he?”

“My service has always preferred nondescript types,” Felicity replied. “Perhaps that is why I haven’t married.”

“Are you required to marry someone in your service?”

“No, but that is the preferred arrangement. It makes security so much simpler if both spouses are employed; then they can tell the same lies about their work to their acquaintances.”

“How old is this photograph?” Stone asked.

“Twelve years,” she said.

“So he could look quite different now?”

“I would be very surprised if he didn’t,” she said. “It was one of his gifts to look different when required.”

“And what did Mr. Whitestone do to make you willing to pay a hundred thousand pounds to get your hands on him?”

“Quite simply, he betrayed us,” she said. “Oh, not to the Soviet Union or the People’s Republic of China but to Mammon.”

“So he liked money. What else is new?”

“What’s new is that he did not retire from our service to make a fortune in the City,” she said, referring to London’s financial district. “Instead he remained in the service for years while selling information that made him very wealthy.”

“To whom?”

“To whomever would pay him for it, presumably.”

“I see. And why didn’t you have him arrested and tried?”

“He vanished a moment before we knew what he had done,” she said, “and, in any case, a trial would have been out of the question.”

“A great embarrassment?”

“A great humiliation,” she replied. “He had risen to near the top. A public recounting of his sins might have destroyed the service.”

“Destroyed it? How could that happen?”

“Believe me, it could have happened. Actually, it still could.”

“What other information do you have about this man?” Stone asked.

“He has been seen twice only a few blocks from here: in the lobby of the Seagram Building, at Park Avenue and Fifty-second Street,” she said.

Stone was well acquainted with the building, since the law firm for which he was of counsel was housed there, as was one of his favorite restaurants, the Four Seasons.

“What does he do there?” Stone asked.

“I’ve no idea,” she said. “He could work there, he could have been visiting someone who worked there-we just don’t know.”

“Who saw him?”

“A member of Parliament who once worked for our service.”

“And what description did he give you?”

“None,” she replied.

“I don’t understand. If he saw the man, why didn’t he describe him?”

“He called our firm and reported the sighting but didn’t wish to discuss it on the phone. He made an appointment to meet with a member of my service who works in our UN delegation, but he didn’t keep it.”

“You make that sound sinister,” Stone said.

“It is sinister,” she replied. “The MP has not been seen again by anyone.”

“You’re right,” Stone said. “That is sinister.”

“I am happy you perceive it as such,” Felicity said, “because I am fond of you, and I would not wish you to suffer for a lack of caution.”

“So, let’s summarize,” Stone said. “Stanley Whitestone is smart, wily, nondescript in appearance and inclined to kill rather than be discovered.”

“That is correct.”

“Surely there is something else you can tell me about him,” Stone said.

Felicity looked thoughtful. “He is fond of women, fine dining and most of the arts-the opera in particular.”

“Is there anyone in your service in New York who might recognize him on sight?”

“I might; I knew him as a young agent. He had a peculiar way of walking, as if he had had some childhood disease that slightly crippled him.”

“A limp. That could help.”

“Not a limp, exactly, just an odd gait. He could walk normally for short periods, if he concentrated, but he always reverted to the gait.”

“I’ll add an odd gait to his list of traits,” Stone said. “You haven’t told me what to do with him if I find him.”

“Invite him to this house,” she said, “then sit on him until I can get here.”

“In this country, we call that kidnapping.”

“Well, yeessss,” Felicity drawled, “there is that. Try not to get caught doing it, or I will have to deny all knowledge of your activities.”

“I see,” Stone replied, and he did.

Felicity dressed and departed in her borrowed Rolls, and Stone dressed and went down to his office. There was little on his desk to demand his attention. He began thinking about where he might borrow a couple of hundred thousand dollars to square his more pressing debts.