Lucid Intervals (Stone Barrington 18)

“I can do that,” Stone said.

“Have her ready to go tomorrow night. You’ll be picked up at nine at the Plaza. Someone will call your suite and ask if the package is ready for pickup. You reply, ‘Not until tomorrow at noon.’ He’ll give you instructions.”

Eighty miles out of Teterboro, Stone tuned in the ATIS and jotted down the information. He loaded the Instrument Landing System for runway 19, and as soon as he was handed off from Boston Center to New York Approach and got his first vector, he activated the approach. He got graduated instructions to descend to 3,000 feet and was cleared for the approach. His was the only airplane on the air at that time of night.

The Mustang’s autopilot flew the airplane down the ILS, and Stone made one of his better landings. Shortly, they were in a Mercedes headed for Manhattan and the Plaza.

57

Stone woke a little after nine and ordered breakfast sent to the suite’s living room, leaving Felicity to sleep. He showered, shaved and dressed, then went downstairs and got a taxi.

He was dropped off in the block behind his house and entered the Turtle Bay Gardens through the rear entrance, then walked to his own back door and let himself into the kitchen. Helene was surprised to see him. “I think Miss Joan has someone waiting to see you,” she said.

Stone grabbed a mug of coffee and went into his office. Joan buzzed him immediately. She always seemed to know when he was there. He pressed the button.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“There’s a Mr. Smith to see you,” she said.

“Send him in.” Stone wondered what Captain Scott Smith was doing in New York.

“I’m going to the bank,” Joan said. “Be back in a few minutes.”

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?”