Lucid Intervals (2010)

minister and the home secretary to be arrested in the garden, away from cameras, or here in the Cabinet Room?”
    “Arrested?” the man on the left asked.
    “Those are the alternatives,” she replied.
    “Prime Minister,” the man said, “the home secretary and I insist on being present for this . . . conference.”
    “All right,” the prime minister said, “what is the purpose of this meeting?”
    Felicity managed a tight smile. “The purpose is for you to accept the resignations of these two . . . gentlemen ,” she said.
    “On what charge?” the foreign minister demanded.
    Felicity ignored him. “These two persons, having failed to press me into their service, have taken it upon themselves to directly order the assassination of an American citizen, Mr. James Hackett, formerly a British subject and a member of the Paratroop Regiment, in the belief that he was responsible, some years ago, for the deaths of, respectively, their daughter and son.”
    “Can you substantiate that?” the prime minister asked.
    “Mr. Barrington, here, was in the company of Mr. Hackett at the moment of his death from a sniper’s bullet, having heard the whole story from Mr. Hackett. I am advised by the police of the state of Maine that, late last night, they arrested the assassin aboard a boat in the environs of Penobscot Bay and that he is helping them with their inquiries.”
    The prime minister went pale. “I knew nothing of this!” he stammered. “Palmer? Prior? What have you to say?”
    Prior was speechless, but Palmer didn’t miss a beat. “Prime Minister, Mr. Prior and I will have nothing to say until we have had an opportunity to avail ourselves of counsel.”
    “Very well,” the PM said. “I want both your resignations on this table within the hour, and your resignations from Parliament to the speaker of the House before the day is out. Get out, both of you, and through the garden.”
    The two men rose and left.
    “Well, now, Felicity,” the PM said, “was it absolutely necessary to deal with this matter in this manner?”
    “I’m sorry, Prime Minister,” she replied, “but since those two had also ordered my death, I thought it best to go to the top before they were successful. Would you like my resignation now?”
    The PM threw his hands up. “No, no, of course not,” the man replied. “You are invaluable to me.”
    “Then, if you will excuse me, Prime Minister, I will return to my offices. I’ve clearly been absent for too long.” She stood, and the prime minister leapt to his feet.
    “Do you really expect me to have them arrested?” he asked.
    “That has already been seen to, Prime Minister,” Felicity replied. “The director of the Metropolitan Police and his officers met them in the garden.”
    The prime minister seemed to sag. “Good day to you, Dame Felicity, Mr. Barrington.”
    Stone followed Felicity out of Number Ten and into the Bentley. She paused for a moment to advise the media to look to the PM for a statement, then got into the car and gave the driver another address.
    Stone heaved a sigh of relief and mopped his brow.
     
     
     
    A FEW MINUTES later, with Felicity still on her phone, the car was waved through a pair of discreet iron gates and into a small turnaround and then stopped before a pair of large black doors. A man in a severely cut suit waited under a portico.
    “Pop the boot, please,” Felicity said to the driver. Then she turned toward Stone. “Thank you so very much, Stone.”
    “Are you going to be safe now?”
    “Never safer,” she said. She kissed him and got out of the car while the man in the suit held the door. He closed it firmly behind her.
    “Where to, Mr. Barrington?”
    “The Connaught Hotel,” he said, digging out his cell phone and calling for a reservation. What the hell, he thought. He might as well visit his tailor and see some friends while he was here. Then he had another thought. He fished Captain Suzanne Alley’s card from his pocket and dialed the number. He didn’t see why he should spend his evening in London alone.
    Anyway, if he went straight back to New York, he’d have to attend Herbie Fisher’s wedding.

ABOUT THE TITLE
    I have cheerfully stolen the title of this book from a friend, the distinguished Atlanta attorney Robert Steed. Bob has published several collections of short humor, one of them called Lucid Intervals. After reading it, I told him I admired his title and would, one day, steal it.
    “Feel free,”