“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?”