“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.”