“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.
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.
59
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.”