by Stuart Woods
“What do you mean, ‘blackmailer’?” Sir Oswald demanded.
“I don’t think I have to explain the term to you, Ozzie, nor to your faithful companion since your days at Eton.”
“How dare you speak to me that way!”
“I am forced to such daring,” she said, “in the circumstances. Instead of your outrage with me, you should, perhaps, devote your energies to explaining things to the prime minister after Fife-Simpson has put a flea in his ear. I’m sure, given his past, that will be his next move.”
Sir Oswald diverted his eyes and sagged a little. “All right,” he said, “let us be frank.”
“I don’t believe I have been less than frank,” Felicity replied.
He turned back toward her and made a placating motion with both hands. “All right,” he said, “what do you have on Fife-Simpson?”
“Well,” Felicity said. “Let me see.” She was quiet for a moment. “Perhaps you have been regaled, at some point, with Fife-Simpson’s story of how he killed two IRA men and harmed three others in a Belfast public house—this in his youth, of course.”
Sir Oswald sighed. “He made sure someone else told me about that occasion.”
“It never happened,” Felicity said. “At least, not the way he tells it.”
Sir Oswald leaned forward and rested his elbows on his desk. “Tell me,” he said.
So Dame Felicity apprised the foreign minister of the true events on that day and cited her sources.
“Does Tim Barnes know about this?”
“Sir Tim was his companion on that day and saved his life by summoning a team of military policemen.”
“Why were they together?”
“One of them, I’m not sure which, had expressed a keen interest in finding a pub he had heard about which catered to, shall we say, a more effete clientele than that found in your typical Belfast watering hole. They stupidly wandered into the wrong pub.”
“And you think Tim has been a victim of Fife-Simpson?”
“Yes, and I believe he remains so. Why else would he press Fife-Simpson on you and, thus, me?”
“And after Tim saved the man’s life!”
“Quite so.”
“Then he must be dealt with,” Sir Oswald said, slapping his palm on the leather top of his desk.
“Then he should be dealt with carefully,” Felicity said.
“How?”
“I think it would be best for us not to converse on that topic again. We should just let nature take its course.”
“Yes,” Sir Oswald said, “but with a boot up nature’s arse.”
“Quite.” Dame Felicity took leave of the ministry and got into her waiting car. She sat back as she was driven and allowed her mind to wander, in the manner that it wandered when it was required to dream up an operation. Her frontal lobe zeroed in on a house in Cap d’Antibes, in the South of France, which had been in her family since her grandfather’s time. She had used it in an operation a couple of years before, which had allowed her to renovate it and wire it for video and audio at her ministry’s expense, and since to maintain it with a two-person staff. She picked up one of her two phones, the scrambler one, and dialed a number from its contacts list.
“Barnes,” a pleasant voice said.
“Scramble,” Felicity replied.
“Scrambled,” he said, after a moment.
“Tim, it’s Felicity. How are you?”
“I’m quite well, Felicity. We very much enjoyed our evening at Windward Hall, and a note has gone off to Mr. Barrington to that effect.”
“I’m so glad,” she replied. “Tim, I suppose by this time that you have heard of the departure from my service of our mutual . . . acquaintance.”
“Word has reached me. He was very upset, and when he gets upset, unfortunate events sometimes follow.”
“My very reason for calling,” Felicity said. “I believe I have found a way to avoid unpleasantness in this matter.”
“How may I help?”
“Please write down this address and phone number.” She dictated, and he copied.
“Got it. What next?”
“That is the address of a very pleasant house in Cap d’Antibes that we sometimes use as a safe house for friends of our firm who are in jeopardy of one thing or another. It is cared for by a houseman and his wife, a very good cook. I would like you to offer it to our acquaintance for a holiday, sooner rather than later.”
“I can do that, and tell him that it belongs to friends.”
“Yes, and their names are Sir John and Priscilla Dover. You served with him somewhere or other. I’ll leave you to flesh out the details. The caretakers are Marie and Oskar.”
“All right. Then what?”
“Apprise me of his arrival and departure dates at Nice airport. And tell him he will be met by a car and driver. Also, you might mention to him that spa services, including a particularly well-recommended massage therapist, are available on-site. There is a list of phone numbers in the center desk drawer in the library. You may also tell him that food and drink will be provided, and that there is a private beach for his use.”
“You make it sound wonderful,” Barnes said.
“On some other occasion, I would be pleased for you and your wife to use it.”
“Thank you so much, Felicity,” he said.
“Thank you for your assistance, Tim.” She hung up as they pulled to a stop at the rear entrance of her service. Back at her desk she buzzed Mrs. Green.
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Take a letter to Brigadier Fife-Simpson.”
“Please go ahead.”
“‘Dear Sir: Your resignation is accepted with immediate effect and without undue regret. Kindly deposit your credentials and weapons with the commissionaire on your way out.’ Type that up for my signature, then deliver it to him. If he is out, leave it on his desk.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Mrs. Green replied, with a hint of pleasure in her voice.
29
Fife-Simpson was sitting at his desk seething at his treatment by MI-6, the Foreign Office, and the Admiralty, when someone rapped sharply on his office door. Without waiting to be asked to enter, Mrs. Green opened the door and stepped forward, handing him an envelope sealed with red wax.
“What is this?” he demanded of her.
“For your eyes only, Brigadier,” she said. “For immediate action.” She stood waiting.
Fife-Simpson examined the envelope carefully, then broke the seal and unfolded the paper. As he read it, all expression drained from his face, leaving him with his mouth open.
“This way, please,” Mrs. Green said.
He looked up at her. “What?”
“It says, ‘with immediate effect,’” she replied. “This way, please.”
He stuffed the letter into his pocket, got his coat and hat from the closet, and followed her down the corridor. “What about my personal effects?” he asked while they waited for the elevator.
“Cartwright will collect them and have them delivered to your residence,” Mrs. Green replied. The elevator arrived. “Good day,” she said, holding the door for him.
He got out of the elevator on the ground floor and found the commissionaire blocking his exit from the building.
“Credentials and weapons, please, Brigadier.”
Fife-Simpson handed over his ID and pistol.
“Holster and switchblade, please.”
He took off his coat, got out of the shoulder holster, and fished the knife from his hip pocket, then laid everything on the table.
The commissionaire helped him back on with his jacket and coat, then handed him his hat and opened the door for him. Fife-Simpson stepped out into the street. “You are to forget this address,” the commissionaire said, then slammed the door behind him and bolted it.
> Fife-Simpson turned around and found a taxi waiting. His name was on a card taped to the windshield. He got in.
“I have the address,” the driver said, closing the window between them.
* * *
—
Fife-Simpson got out of the cab in front of his building and took the lift up to his flat. He hung his coat and hat carefully in the hall closet, then walked into the drawing room, loosened his necktie, poured himself a large scotch, then poured himself into his favorite chair and drank half of his drink in a single draught.
His telephone rang, and he reflexively picked it up, even though he didn’t wish to speak to anyone. “Brigadier Fife-Simpson,” he said into the phone.
“Will you speak to the First Sea Lord?” a woman’s voice said.
“Of course,” he replied, brightening. This might be something good.
“Hello, Roger,” a familiar male voice said. “It’s Tim Barnes. How are you?”
“I’ve been better,” Fife-Simpson replied.
“Perhaps what you need is a holiday. I have just the thing for you.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Kate and I had planned a holiday at Cap d’Antibes, in the South of France, at a lovely place owned by some friends. However, as all too often happens, the Royal Navy has decided to put itself first, and we have to cancel. We have the house for a week. Would you like to have it, as our guest, starting tomorrow?”
“Ra-ther!” Fife-Simpson replied gleefully.
“All right. I’ll have my plane ticket changed to your name. You’re on British Airways 106 to Nice, tomorrow morning at eleven AM. There’ll be a car and driver to meet you at the other end.”
“Tim, this is just wonderful, and at a moment when it will do the most good.”
“A couple named Marie and Oskar run the place, and she cooks like an angel. The house is stocked with food and drink, on us, and I’ve made an appointment for myself at five tomorrow afternoon for a massage. Shall I leave that in place for you?”
“Oh, yes, please.”
“Very well, then. Have a wonderful holiday, and be sure to drop us a postcard.”
“Thank you again, Tim.”
“Don’t mention it. Goodbye.” He hung up.
Fife-Simpson leapt from his chair, tossed down the remainder of his drink, and went to find his luggage. When he was all packed he ordered in a pizza, opened a bottle of wine, and settled in for dinner.
* * *
—
Dame Felicity buzzed Mrs. Green.
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Find Sims in operations and send him up to me, please.”
“Right away, ma’am.”
* * *
—
Sims was a rangy lad of thirty-five whose suit never quite fit him, but who had a quick mind and a sly nature.
“Take a seat, Sims,” Felicity said, and he did so.
“You remember the little op we pulled off at the place on Cap d’Antibes two years ago?”
“Of course, Dame Felicity. One of our better ones, I thought.”
“All of our video and audio working there?”
“We keep it in good nick,” he replied.
“Good. A man called Roger Fife-Simpson is arriving at the Nice airport tomorrow at two o’clock local.”
“Would that be our brigadier?” Sims asked.
“Yes, our now late, lamented brigadier. Have him met and transported to the house. And, of course, let our people there know to expect him.”
“Yes, ma’am. Do you wish him, ah, entertained?”
“Yes, please. He has been told to expect a massage therapist at five PM. Arrange that.”
“Male or female?”
“Male, and make him handsome, muscular, and well hung.”
“Is the brigadier that way inclined?”
“That remains between the brigadier and his psychotherapist,” she said, “but don’t bother with seduction, just give him a nap and use the opportunity to take some holiday snaps of the two of them in living color and in poses I’ll leave to you and the masseur.”
“Understood. And what disposition of the photographic material shall I make?”
“Everything for my eyes only, and don’t hang on to the negatives. I want it all.”
“I’ll need a signed work order,” he said. “How shall I characterize the operation?”
She handed him the blank form, signed. “Call it therapeutic.” She sent him on his way.
30
Brigadier Fife-Simpson stepped out of customs in Nice and into the main hall. He immediately spotted a man in a dark suit holding a sign bearing his name. He checked his watch. His flight had been forty minutes late, and customs had taken longer than he had expected. Roger handed the man his luggage and followed him outside to the curb, where a Mercedes awaited.
A half hour later, after a drive past many beautiful houses, the car turned into a driveway guarded by a high hedge and drove to the front door of a charming cottage, where two servants met and greeted him effusively and took his luggage inside. He was shown to a large, comfortable bedroom, where a massage table had been set up.
He was offered food and drink and opted for the drink, in order to keep the champagne buzz from the flight going.
“Your massage therapist is due in half an hour,” Marie said. “There is a robe in your bathroom.”
He unpacked, changed into the robe, and was seated in a cushy chair when Marie returned with his large whisky. “Enjoy,” she said.
A few minutes later, his whisky gone, there was a knock on the door and a handsome, muscular, young man in a tight-fitting polo shirt entered, carrying a case. Fife-Simpson had expected a woman, but what the hell.
“Good afternoon,” the young man said. “My name is Pierre.” He set his case on the floor and indicated that Roger should mount the massage table, facedown. “Are you well today?” Pierre asked, helping him get comfortable.
“I’m a bit tired,” Roger said.
“Perhaps what would help is a small injection of vitamin B-twelve,” Pierre said. “I am licensed to administer it, and it will greatly enhance your massage experience.”
“Oh, all right,” Roger replied.
“Just a little pinch,” Pierre said. Roger felt a stab in a buttock. “There, now just relax.” He lowered the sheet and began rubbing Roger’s back.
Roger took a few deep breaths, then drifted off.
Pierre pinched his other buttock, hard. “Feel that?” No response. Pierre went to the bed and pulled back the covers, then he lifted Fife-Simpson bodily and carried him there. He took note of the camera positions in the crown molding, then put on a baseball cap, the bill of which would shield his face from view. He stripped off his own clothing, massaged himself until he was engorged and camera-ready, then turned Fife-Simpson on his belly and began posing him in various positions.
* * *
—
Roger came slowly awake, lying on his back, as the masseur massaged his legs, then pulled the sheet over him.
“There,” Pierre said. “Did you enjoy your massage?”
“Yes,” Roger muttered. “Very nice.”
“I will go now, and you may continue to rest, if you wish. Marie will put away the massage table later.” Pierre closed his case, picked it up, and departed.
* * *
—
In London, back at the Circus, Sims opened the door to the operations room and admitted Dame Felicity.
“How did it go?” she asked.
“Perfectly,” Sims replied. “Pierre gave us everything we could possibly want, not to mention what he gave the brigadier.”
“Let me see the tapes.” She took a chair and watched the array of monitors before her, each aimed at the massage table from different angles. The masseur entered t
he room, Fife-Simpson climbed onto the table, and, after a moment, the injection was administered, and he seemed to fall asleep.
Felicity watched with amazement, her eyes flicking from one monitor to the next, while Pierre, who had the largest penis she had ever seen, turned his attentions to his client. “My God,” she said, after half a minute of this, then she stood up. “All right, I’ve seen quite enough,” she said. “I’ll leave you to it.”
“Thank you for joining us, Director. Now we’ll edit the raw footage, you should excuse the expression, into a harmonious whole and transfer it to our special website. Once done, I’ll give you the code and password.”
“Jolly good,” she said. “I’ll see the final cut on the website when you’re done.”
“I’ll call you,” Sims said.
* * *
—
Back in her office, Felicity phoned Admiral Sir Timothy Barnes. “Scramble,” she said.
“Scrambled,” Barnes replied.
“The brigadier arrived pretty much on schedule, and things went very much as planned,” she said.
“I’m glad it went well.”
“Tell me, Tim. Is Roger likely to come back to you for a favorable reassignment?”
“I think that’s quite likely,” Barnes replied, “given his past conduct.”
“I think it might be appropriate if you found him a post in a setting somewhat less comfortable than the Scottish Highlands—something more remote, perhaps.”
“I’ve been thinking about that,” Barnes replied, “and we have an upcoming vacancy. Something that might cause him to consider retirement.”
“Anything available at either the north or south poles?” Felicity asked, archly.
Barnes laughed heartily. “I wish,” he said. “Oh, I wish.”
“I’m sure whatever you have in mind will do very nicely,” she said. “Let me know of his final disposition.”