“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.”

“Please. I’d like a steak, medium rare, and a baked potato laden with whatever they have to offer. Wine, too.”

Stone ordered the same for both of them and a bottle.

Felicity turned down the volume on the TV but left it on. “I believe I’m being sought on both sides of the Atlantic,” she said, “and I won’t survive being found.”

“Why do you think that?” Stone asked.

“Your Smith story, for one thing,” she said. “He’s a fairly timid man, and he wouldn’t be pointing guns at you, unless he’d been so instructed. I think that, if I’d been there, he’d have shot me.”

“Then your government has turned on you,” Stone observed.

“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.