Stone hung up, but ten minutes later his phone rang: blocked caller. “Yes?”

“The PM has just called a national security meeting at six o’clock,” Felicity said. “The son of a bitch.”

“What’s a national security meeting?”

“All the intelligence heads: military, MI-5, MI-6, the signals-and-codes people. All hands on deck.”

“Does this mean there is an emergency?”

“Probably not, or he would have summoned everyone immediately, instead of at six. More likely, the PM just wants to bloviate about something.”

“Well, I guess you’ll have to show. How about tomorrow night? You’ve got me thinking about it.”

“Great minds, et cetera. I can’t plan until I know what happens at the meeting. I’ll call you.”

“I’m not sure how long I can maintain this . . . state of readiness,” he said.

“You just relax, and I’ll attend to that at the earliest possible opportunity.”

“Promise?”

“Swear.” She hung up.

53

Stone hung up in a state of intense desire, and, if it flagged for a moment, it came back when he thought about their conversation. He and Felicity were not new to each other, but somehow, the flame still burned, and it was burning now.

He was in bed, trying to read a book, when his phone rang: blocked caller. “Yes?”

“All right,” she said wearily, “I’m out of the meeting.”

“How did that go?”

“I was right. The PM just wanted to bloviate. This always happens when we give him advice, and he ignores it, then everything goes wrong. His refrain is always, ‘Why didn’t somebody tell me?’ when everybody has told him.”

“I suppose it’s too late to come down here now.”

“I have an eight o’clock meeting tomorrow morning in London, and if I came down there, I’d miss it, because I’d wake up at five o’clock tomorrow morning, find you in bed with me, and want to stay all day.”

“When, then?”

“The weekend is as soon as I can promise.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

“I’ll aim for Friday, seven PM on your dock.”

“Have you ever been fucked on a dock?”

“Probably, but docks have splinters. Your bed is more inviting.”

“See you then.”

“I’ll bring clothes for the weekend.”

“You won’t need them, but bring them anyway, if we should have a sudden urge to dine at the Squadron.”

“Done.” She hung up.

—

On Friday evening at seven, Stone was standing on his dock, waiting, peering into the gloom, when Felicity’s boat emerged from the fog. He took her lines, made them fast, and put her suitcase on the golf cart.

They said little until they were upstairs. “Dinner’s not until eight-thirty,” he said, and they both started shedding clothing and leapt into bed.

“I see I need not have worried about your ability to maintain an operational level of readiness,” she said.

“You make it sound like an MI-6 operation.”