Stuart Woods - Lucid Intervals

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 should 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.

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.”

The PM’s eyebrows shot up. “And where did she go?”

“The man is following in his own car, and he says her car was met at the gate by several members of the media, and she seems to be headed for Whitehall, should arrive in about twenty minutes.”

“Call the foreign minister and the home secretary and tell them I want them here now and to use the rear entrance, through the garden.”

“Yes, Prime Minister.”

THE BENTLEY DROVE past Buckingham Palace and down the Mall, through Admiralty Arch and past Trafalgar Square to Whitehall, where it came to a barrier at the entrance to Downing Street. Felicity put down her window and offered her identification to the policeman on guard there. “They’re with me,” she said, hooking a thumb in the direction of her media escort.

They pulled up in front of Number Ten, and another police officer opened the rear door.

“Just a moment,” Felicity said to Stone. “Let’s let our friends get into position.”

Half a minute later, cameras were pointed at the Bentley, and Felicity got out, signaling to Stone to follow. Lights were switched on.

“Dame Felicity,” a woman with a microphone said, “what is the occasion of your visit to Number Ten today?”

“I’m here at the invitation of the prime minister,” Felicity said, “and I’m sure he’ll tell me when I am inside.” She brushed past the cameras with Stone in tow and flashed her identification to the policeman guarding the front door. “The gentleman is with me,” she said. He rapped sharply on the door, and it was opened wide. The PM’s private secretary was waiting in the foyer.

“Good morning, Dame Felicity,” he said. “The prime minister is expecting you in the Cabinet Room.”

Felicity didn’t even slow down, and another minion barely got the door open for her in time. She swept into the Cabinet Room with Stone close behind. Three men sat at the long table, and they stood as she entered.

“Good morning, Prime Minister,” she said, ignoring the other two. “May I present Mr. Stone Barrington, of the New York law firm of Woodman and Weld, who is present as my legal adviser. And as my witness.”

The three faces fell a bit as Stone pulled out a chair for Felicity, then took one for himself.

“Prime Minister,” Felicity said, “would you prefer the foreign minister and the home secretary to be arrested in the garden, away from cameras, or here in the Cabinet Room?”