Lucid Intervals (2010)

her omnipresent attaché case, and Stone held a chair for her. He ordered them Champagne fraise des bois , glasses of Champagne with a strawberry liqueur at the bottom.
    “I’ve heard this place is about to close,” Stone said.
    “What? Why?”
    “The owner is getting very old, and the lease may be a problem, too. It’s been here for more than ninety years and has had only two owners.”
    “How sad.”
    They both looked at the Howard Chandler Christy murals of nubile, nude young women greeting conquistadors in a jungle setting.
    “Have you noticed,” Stone said, “that while the girls have different faces, they all have the same body?”
    “I hadn’t, but you’re right,” Felicity said. “I hope someone will take care of them.”
    “So do I,” Stone replied. “What happened today?”
    “Today has been devoted to keeping things from happening,” she said.
    “Any luck?”
    “All I’ve got to fight with is my resignation, and they know that if they accept it I may talk to other people about why.” Stone began to speak, but she held up a hand. “And I still can’t talk about it,” she said.
    “If they accept your resignation, then can you talk about it?”
    “Maybe.”
    “So I’ll just have to sit on my curiosity.”
    “All right, I’ll tell you some news, but in the strictest confidence.”
    “Of course.”
    “The grave Hackett showed you in the churchyard in Maine is empty. That is, there is no corpse or even a coffin or an urn in it. It’s not a grave at all, in fact, just a headstone.”
    Stone sucked in a breath through his teeth. “So Hackett lied to me about that.”
    “He not only lied to you; he also went to considerable lengths to deceive you by creating a phony grave.”
    “And phony photographs of a corpse and phony fingerprints.”
    “Did you notice that there were no fingerprints in the army service record he sent me?” she asked.
    “Now that you mention it,” Stone replied. “Do your superiors know about all this?”
    “Not yet,” she replied, sipping her Champagne.
    “Are you going to tell them?”
    “I haven’t decided.”
    “If you do tell them, are you going to have to resign?”
    “Very likely so.”
    “I wish I knew some way to get you out of this,” Stone said.
    “Oh, that’s easy,” Felicity replied. “Just deliver a living, breathing Stanley Whitestone to any British immigration officer.”
    “Or his corpse.”
    “If it can be authenticated, and since we don’t have any photographs or fingerprints, that will be extremely difficult.”
    “Whom do we have to convince?”
    “Only the foreign secretary, the home secretary and their appointed authenticators.”
    “Only them?”
    “Only them.”
    “Order dinner,” Stone said, handing her a menu, “while I think about it.”
    They ordered dinner and another glass of Champagne.
    “Have you thought about it?” Felicity asked.
    “Yes.”
    “And have you thought of a way to accomplish this?”
    Stone sighed. “What I need to do is to speak to Jim Hackett and tell him to accomplish this.”
    “Hackett has already tried and failed, which destroys his credibility in the eyes of my masters.”
    “There is that,” Stone agreed.
    “Soon they will begin to erode his company’s position in the UK, and eventually they will destroy his business there.”
    “Does Hackett have important contracts in the UK?”
    “Oh, yes.”
    “Government contracts?”
    “A few. Those will go first, then the government will begin to let Hackett’s clients know that it would be unwise to continue to engage Strategic Services, and the fruits of Hackett’s labors will wither and die on the vine.”
    “Perhaps he should be told that,” Stone said.
    “Perhaps so, though I should be very surprised if he hasn’t already thought of it. Will you call him?”
    “I can’t.”
    “Why not?”
    “Because Hackett has disappeared,” Stone replied.
    “What do you mean, disappeared?”
    “Just that. He’s gone, and I don’t know where. I doubt if anyone else does, either.”
    “Then he may have signed his own death warrant,” Felicity said.

49
    S tone was in his bathroom, brushing his teeth, when the phone rang. He closed the door and sat down on the toilet lid. “Hello?”
    There was a sort of scraping noise, and then a voice seemed to come through a long tunnel. “Stone?”
    “Jim?”
    “Yes. I’m sorry about the quality of this thing, but we’re still working out the kinks. When we do, it will be a