Stuart Woods - Lucid Intervals

“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.”

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.