by Stuart Woods
“I shall do so,” Barnes replied.
She heard a knock on her door. “Hold on a moment, Tim,” Felicity said. “Come in!”
Sims entered and handed her a slip of paper. “Here are the entry code and password to the website,” he said. “Everything will be up and running by five PM. And, by the way, we’re adding some dialogue to the audio—grunts and ecstatic groans.”
She turned back to her phone conversation. “Tim?”
“I’m here.”
“I’m going to read you the entry code and password to a highly secret website, created especially for this event. After five o’clock, you’ll be able to view the brigadier’s holiday video.”
“That’s grand, Felicity. I’ll pass it on to the First Lord of the Admiralty and the foreign minister. I don’t think it will need to go any further than that.”
“That should be quite far enough,” she replied. “When it has done its work we’ll archive it, just in case it’s needed in the future.”
They both said goodbye and hung up.
31
Brigadier Fife-Simpson arrived back at his London flat, checked his mail, and found a request from the First Sea Lord that he appear at the Admiralty the following day for a reassignment interview.
* * *
—
At the appointed hour, dressed in his uniform, he reported to Admiral Sir Tim Barnes as instructed. He was greeted warmly by his old friend and given coffee, then Sir Tim got to the point.
“Roger,” Sir Tim said, “I’ve been looking through our vacancy lists for a new assignment for you.”
“I’m raring to go, Tim,” the brigadier replied, being so bold as to address him familiarly, since they were alone.
“I’ve found you something—a command, actually, that while it may seem a bit farther south than what you’re accustomed to, might be just the sort of assignment that could lead to greater things in the future. After all, a hardship post can look very good on one’s record when, in the future, one comes before an Admiralty board. I expect you’re aware that, now that you are of flag rank, promotions and reassignments require board approval.”
Hardship? Fife-Simpson thought, a bit alarmed. “Farther south, did you say?” he asked.
“The Falklands, actually. That’s as far south as one can go. You’d be in command of the detachment there.”
The brigadier frowned a little. “How large a detachment?” he asked.
“Twelve officers and seventy of the lower ranks. All men, I’m afraid. The First Lord thought it best, for his own reasons, not to send women down there.”
“And what does the detachment do there, sir?” He thought it best not to be familiar again.
“They guard the Falklands,” Sir Tim replied.
“From what, sir?”
“Why, from reinvasion of the Argentinians, of course. You’ll remember how hard it was dislodging them after they took the islands back from us the last time. We don’t want that happening again, do we?”
“And the Admiralty believes it could prevent a reinvasion with eighty-two men?”
“Oh, we’re much better armed and more responsive these days than back then,” Sir Tim replied. “We could reinforce your contingent in days, not weeks.”
“And how long is the posting, sir? It’s temporary, I assume.”
“No, it’s a normal two-year rotation, possibly three, should difficulties arise.” Sir Tim looked at him, frowning. “Is something wrong, Brigadier?”
“Not quite what I hoped for, sir,” Fife-Simpson replied.
“Well, in these days of peacetime, our numbers have shrunk, and so have the number of postings available. I might be able to find you something in West Africa, but the climate there is, shall we say, inhospitable, and the risk of tropical infections formidable.”
“Thank you, sir, I don’t think so. May I ask: Do I have another alternative?”
“Well, there’s always retirement, I suppose.” He looked at the file before him. “You’ve another year before being eligible for a full pension, though. Perhaps I could fudge that a bit, if you wish me to.”
“May I have a few days to consider my options, sir?”
“Of course, Roger. Ring me as soon as you can and let me know your wishes in the matter. In the meantime, I’ll see what might be done about the pension.” He stood, signaling that the meeting was at an end. “I might be able to do something without board approval.” As he spoke he tilted the file in his hand, and an index card fell out onto the coffee table. Sir Tim picked it up and looked at it. “Oh, yes, I was given this to hand to you by the First Lord. It appears to be a website. Something to do with the Falklands, I imagine.” He handed it to the brigadier, who tucked it into a pocket, then saluted and left the room.
* * *
—
It had begun to rain. It took the yeoman at the front door a few minutes to find him a cab. By then it was coming down so hard that he got quite wet while getting into the taxi, which did not help to lift the depression that had befallen him on hearing of his new posting. The Falklands, for God’s sake! It was the other end of the earth! Bleak and with no women. And two years of it, perhaps three!
* * *
—
Back at his flat, he shucked off the tunic and hung it in his closet to dry. As he did, he came across the card Sir Tim had given him. He flopped down in his chair. Retirement? What would he do in retirement? He had no civilian connections whatever, and no training that would qualify him for a job in the city or in the courts. He’d sold the family’s country property after his father’s death, and he still had that money, so he could live. He imagined his existence, and that depressed him further.
It became clear to him as he sat there that he was going to have to bring some pressure to bear on old Tim; it had worked before, it could work again. Maybe some administrative post at the Admiralty; that would be bearable. He picked up his laptop and turned it on.
As the screen came up it was occupied by a message, demanding a user name and a password. He was expecting nothing like that, so he attempted to exit and go to his e-mail, but it would not budge. He restarted the computer to clear it, but got the same message.
He looked at the card Tim had given him and tried typing in the entry code and password it contained. Instantly a photograph appeared: it was a medium shot of himself, naked and in bed with a man, whose face was obscured. He scrolled down and found half a dozen other photos, from different angles and himself in different poses. He shrank away from the computer, as if it were a poisonous reptile.
Mercifully, the video ended, but there was another on-screen message: Consider your options.
Fife-Simpson fell back into his chair. What he had seen on screen had shocked him to the core. It was no longer a criminal act, but for an officer of flag rank, it would be a career-ender; whoever had sent the video was clearly threatening that it could get out.
Retirement was beginning to look better to him. Certainly, better than the Falkland Islands.
32
Stone and Lance took a ride together at mid-morning. After jumping the wall Lance pulled up under a tree and got down from the saddle. Stone followed him. Lance sat down with his back against the tree. “Join me?” he asked.
Stone joined him.
“This might be a good moment for a little chat,” Lance said. “I don’t suppose the horses or their tack are bugged, are they?”
“I think not,” Stone replied.
“I was thinking about our relationship,” Lance said.
“‘Relationship’?”
“Between you and the Agency. I think it has been valuable to both of us on occasion, has it not?”
Stone thought about that in terms of what Lance had done for him, not what he had done for the Agency. “I suppose so,” Stone said. “At widely separated intervals.�
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“I was thinking that the relationship might be more satisfying, if the intervals were shorter.”
“What, exactly, do you have in mind, Lance?” He was curious, but guarded, as he always was with Lance.
“Well,” Lance said, “you have homes in places where we do business, so to speak—New York, Los Angeles, England, and Paris. Perhaps it’s just as well that you disposed of your Connecticut property.”
Stone remained silent.
“Allow me to elucidate.”
“Please do,” Stone said.
“Because of your widespread holdings and your apparent ability to do business while visiting them, while doing not much work for Woodman & Weld . . .”
“Let me stop you right there,” Stone said. “I do a great deal more work for the firm than you are, perhaps, aware of.”
“I’m aware of a great deal,” Lance said. “It’s in the nature of what I do.”
“You are sometimes underinformed, Lance,” Stone said.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to cast aspersions on your practice of the law.”
“Didn’t you?”
“I’m merely pointing out that, in spite of being an important partner at your firm, you manage to have a great deal of flexibility in the way that you do your work.”
“I suppose that may be true,” Stone said, then immediately regretted it. He had given Lance a foothold, and Lance could do a lot with a foothold.
“I’m merely suggesting that we might formalize our relationship just a bit.”
“How much of a bit?” Stone asked.
“Well, I believe that you might find more serious work with us a good deal more satisfying—even entertaining—than just being a consultant for the Agency.”
“Are you telling me that your firm is more fun than my firm?”
“Oh, most definitely, Stone. We have such a good time, saving the world. Wouldn’t you like to have a hand in saving it? At the end of it all, you might find your memories more gratifying than just having made it rain at Woodman & Weld.”
“I grant you that making rain at a law firm is not the most fun you can have, but the material rewards compensate quite nicely.”
“I know how much money you make there, Stone,” Lance said, “and I know how much money you have tucked away. You could shift gears in your life quite easily and never miss a meal, as it were.”
“I’ve thought about that,” Stone said, “but retirement doesn’t appeal to me.”
“Then why not do work that is more important than just making money?”
“Let me be frank, Lance. Being at your beck and call, as a consultant, is preferable to being at the end of your leash, no matter how long a leash it might be.”
Lance chuckled. “Let me tell you something you don’t know about my management style,” he said. “In dealing with my most important colleagues, I hardly ever give orders; it’s my view that, if I can’t persuade them that what I want done is the right thing to do, then we look for another way, one that, more often than not, is suggested by them. Then they go away happy and get it done.”
“Let’s cut to the chase, Lance,” Stone said. “What, exactly, do you want me to do?”
“It’s not just what I want,” Lance said. “It’s also about how you want to spend your life.”
“And, in your view, how should I spend it?”
“I’m thinking of creating a new position at the Agency that might suit you very well.”
“And what is the new position?”
“It doesn’t have a name yet. It might be called something like ‘senior colleague.’ Perhaps you can suggest something better.”
“I can’t suggest anything until I hear a better description of the duties involved.”
“The duties involved would be very much like the consulting you do for us now, only more frequent and with much more official weight, not to mention the perks and benefits of a full-time senior officer—salary, insurance, pension.”
“I have never seen or heard a description of what I do now,” Stone pointed out.
“And yet, you have been doing it for some years. This would be a senior position, somewhere between station chief and director. How about ‘deputy director for special operations.’”
“And what are the ‘special operations’?”
“Whatever you and I, in consultation, want them to be. There would be no administrative duties whatever, and you could maintain your current residences, plus something rather special in D.C.”
“Something special?”
“You did a real estate swap with the Presidents Lee a few years ago, in which you gave title to the State Department of your house in Georgetown, for the use of the secretary of state.”
“I did.”
“It seems that the State Department no longer wishes to be a landlord, after the current occupant vacates. And it appears to me that she will be moving out later this year.”
“If she is elected.”
“She will have to resign as secretary of state before she declares herself a candidate—though she could continue residing in your house as long as you wish to have her there.”
Stone was now stunned. Lance was serious.
“Also, if she should not win the election, I would be very interested to have her back at Langley in a very high position, one that would virtually guarantee that she would succeed me, if I should be invited to improve my situation elsewhere.”
“I assume that you have your eye on something in particular?” Stone asked.
“I believe that, no matter who wins the election, I might be in a position to choose one or two other positions.”
“Let’s see, what might be suitable? Head of the National Security Agency? Perhaps even secretary of state?”
“That’s very flattering, Stone,” Lance said. He got to his feet and prepared to mount his horse.
“Think about it, and we’ll talk later.” He swung into the saddle, and Stone remounted and followed him.
* * *
—
In the late afternoon, as Stone sat in the library with his book, his cell phone rang. “Yes?”
“Is that the lord of the manor speaking?” she asked.
“Ah, Holly,” he said, feeling a wave of warmth.
“I’m absolutely certain,” she said, “that I told you there’d be an opportunity for us to rendezvous in England around now.”
“Of course you did. I haven’t forgotten. When?”
“I’ll be popping over this weekend, and I expect I can manage a week or two between London and your Windward Hall.”
“How will you be traveling?” he asked. “I mean, in what sort of aircraft?”
“Well, I don’t rate Air Force One, but it will probably be a very nice Gulfstream 500 that various members of the Joint Chiefs of Staff have managed to corral for themselves.”
“In that case, they can dump you right into my backyard.”
“I have to jump?”
“No, there’s a very nice seven-thousand-foot airstrip on my property, with GPS approaches. They can land, boot you and your luggage out, and take off again, unhindered, then fly to wherever they were going in the first place. Got a pencil?”
“Always.”
He gave her the coordinates and frequencies for landing. “Pass that on to your pilots before you take off.”
“That sounds delightful. I’ll fly over tomorrow, then a car will whisk me to London on Sunday night.”
“Then back here when you’re done in London.”
“Of course.”
“Request an early-morning departure—that will get you here in daylight. And even if it doesn’t, there’s a beacon and runway lighting, pilot-operated on the common frequency.”
“Duly noted. What clothes will I need?”
&nb
sp; “Oh, a couple of ball gowns and your workout gear, I suppose. Don’t forget your riding togs. I will introduce you to some horses. We’ll have at least one black tie event, maybe two, so come equipped.”
“I can do that.”
“I’d suggest you leave your London gear on the airplane and have them deliver it to your hotel. Where are you staying?”
“In the Agency’s suite at the Connaught. Lance was helpful.”
“Speaking of Lance, I’ll want to talk to you about him.”
“Give me a hint?”
“Nope.”
“Oh, all right.”
“Call me at this number on your satphone when you’re fifteen minutes from touchdown, and I’ll meet you at the airstrip.”
“Wonderful. See you then.”
33
The morning after his meeting with the First Sea Lord, Brigadier Fife-Simpson had another phone call.
“Hello?”
“This that Brigadier Fife-Simpson?” a woman asked.
“It is.”
“This is Captain Helen Frogg. I’m calling on behalf of the Commandant General of the Royal Marines, General Sir Jeremy Pink.”
“Yes?”
“You are requested to present yourself to the commandant at Naval Headquarters in Whitehall at three o’clock this afternoon.”
“Yes, I’ll be there.”
“Thank you, Brigadier.” She hung up.
Now there was a ray of hope in the gloom, the brigadier felt. Otherwise he would not be seeing the commandant. He took his uniform to the neighborhood dry cleaners and waited while it was pressed, then he returned to his flat and got into it.
* * *
—
At three o’clock sharp, the brigadier presented himself at the offices of the commandant, and, to his surprise, was not kept waiting but told to go straight in. He marched into the office, braced, and saluted. “Brigadier Fife-Simpson reporting as ordered. Good morning, Commandant.”