Stealth

by Stuart Woods

  Stone introduced Holly to the First Sea Lord, Admiral Sir Timothy Barnes, and to the Squadron’s commodore Derek Drummond and his wife, Hildy. Felicity introduced them to the other couple, General Sir Jeremy Pink and his wife, Nicole. A bottle of champagne was brought. They drank that, then were called to dinner in the next room. The Members Dining Room was large but comfortable; portraits of past commodores, some of them kings and princes, stared down on them. They sat at a round table for eight in the center of the room.

  Dame Felicity raised her glass. “I think we should have a congratulatory toast to Stone Barrington, who has just become a deputy director and special adviser to the United States Director of Central Intelligence.”

  Stone was, at first, stunned, until he remembered that Felicity always seemed to know everything before anyone else.

  Stone thanked them. “The appointment is only about two hours old,” he said. “Dame Felicity continues to astonish me with her knowledge of all things.”

  “I’d understood that you were a lawyer, Stone,” Tim Barnes said.

  “There is no change in that regard,” Stone replied. “I’ll continue to be based in New York and remain active with my firm.”

  “What will you advise the director on?” Pink asked.

  “That remains to be seen,” Stone replied.

  “Of course, you must be secretive about that.”

  “Not just yet, since I have not acquired any secrets.”

  “I should tell you, too,” Felicity said, “if you don’t already know, that Holly Barker is a former director of Central Intelligence, and that she is, currently, the American secretary of state. Also, it is rumored, she might be soon announcing her candidacy for the Democratic nomination for president.” There was a round of quiet applause.

  Holly bowed her head in acknowledgment, but said nothing.

  The first course arrived and Felicity turned toward Stone. “Perhaps you have not heard that Brigadier Fife-Simpson has left Her Majesty’s service and taken retirement.”

  Pink spoke up. “He declined a posting in the Falklands.” There were quiet chuckles around the table.

  “I should mention,” Felicity said quietly to Stone, “that the commodore is a retired Royal Marine, and everyone here has signed the Official Secrets Act, so tales are not being told out of school.”

  “I’ve met the brigadier only a few times, but I can understand that everyone involved is relieved,” Stone said, raising more chuckles.

  “I hope to God that someone is keeping an eye on that fellow,” Sir Jeremy Pink remarked.

  “Someone is,” Felicity replied drily. “He was most recently observed drunk, in the In & Out bar of the Naval and Military Club. After dinner, the doorman decanted him into a cab.”

  “Somehow,” Pink said, “I feel the country is safer tonight.”

  * * *

  —

  They finished with an excellent vintage port, with Stilton, then were offered brandy. Stone drank lightly, as he was driving the Hinckley.

  * * *

  —

  On the way back across the Solent, driving more slowly in the dark, Stone explained to Holly who Brigadier Roger Fife-Simpson was.

  “Every military or intelligence service attracts a few people like that,” Holly said. “I’ve known my share of them.”

  “I’m glad you missed the opportunity of knowing this one,” Stone said.

  “I heard from Lance about his visit to Langley and his encounter with Wu.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t get to see that,” Stone said.

  * * *

  —

  Back at Windward Hall, Stone found a note to call Joan. His cell phone had been off for the evening, but it was late afternoon in New York.

  “Well,” Joan said when Stone had raised her. “I’ve never known you not to carry your cell phone.”

  “I’ve got a new one, and it hasn’t been activated yet.”

  “We got a call from Lance Cabot’s office, saying that they want to install some equipment here tomorrow. What’s that all about?”

  “Lance has asked me to spend more of my time consulting with the Agency. I’m called a ‘senior adviser to the director’ now. I expect that work will be a secure line to the Agency.”

  “And a dedicated computer link, too,” Holly said.

  “I heard that. Holly’s there, is she? My regards.”

  Stone passed that on. “By the way, you will soon undergo a background check for a security clearance, so I hope there are no skeletons in any of your closets.”

  “Not that they’ll ever find,” Joan replied.

  “I wouldn’t count on that. You’ll have forms to fill out, so don’t lie about anything, even to protect me.”

  “Who else knows about this?”

  “Dino and Viv, but it’s not a secret. There won’t be a public announcement, so you won’t have to field any questions from the media.”

  “The rumor is out there: I’ve already had calls from the Times and the Washington Post. I told them I didn’t know what the hell they were talking about.”

  “You’ll have to apologize the next time they call.”

  “Oh, all right. Anything else?”

  “I’ll call if I think of anything. We’re going to bed now.” He hung up and turned his attention to Holly, burrowing under the covers.

  “Another minute, and I’d have been asleep,” she said, reaching for him.

  37

  Brigadier Roger Fife-Simpson arrived at his usual pub, the Grenadier, in Wilton Row, as the five o’clock crowd had begun to diminish. He hated it when all the Millennials were jammed into the small bar after work; it was more pleasant in the early evening.

  He sat down and motioned to Tom, the barman of many years’ standing, for his usual large scotch, and it was delivered.

  “Brigadier,” Tom said, setting down the glass.

  “Tom,” he replied.

  They chatted briefly, then a woman sat down a stool away from Fife-Simpson. She tried to hang her umbrella on the bar, but it slipped and fell to the floor.

  “Let me get that for you,” Roger said. He picked up the umbrella and handed it to her.

  “Thank you so much,” she said.

  “May I offer you a drink?”

  She smiled. “Thank you. A gin and tonic, please.”

  Tom brought the drink.

  “I haven’t seen you here before,” Roger said. “Are you a local?”

  “I’m a new local,” she replied. “Just moved into the neighborhood yesterday.” Her accent was straight, old-fashioned BBC—no detectable regional accent.

  “Well, you’ve chosen the right pub,” he said.

  “And the right neighbor,” she replied, offering her hand. “My name is Jennifer Sands.”

  “Roger Fife-Simpson,” he said, taking the hand. She was blond, buxom, fair-skinned—late thirties, he thought. “Where did you live before?” he asked.

  “In the country,” she replied. “Oxfordshire.”

  “Did work bring you to London?”

  “No, my work is portable. I’m a writer.”

  “What sort of writing?” he asked.

  “Fiction, mostly short stories for literary magazines,” she replied, “but I’ve started a novel.”

  “A major undertaking,” he said, nodding sagely.

  They continued that way for a few minutes. “Why don’t we adjourn to the dining room for a bit of supper?” he suggested.

  “That would be very nice,” she replied.

  He got them a table and menus, and they ordered.

  “But enough about me,” she said. “What work do you do?”

  “I’m recently retired from the Royal Marines,” he said. “As a brigadier general.”

  “That’s impressive,” sh
e replied. “Were you a commando?”

  “In my extreme youth,” he replied. “My penultimate assignment was commanding the training academy for one of the intelligence services.”

  “Which one? I get them confused.”

  “MI-6, foreign intelligence.”

  “So, you were training spies?”

  “I was.”

  “What did you teach them?”

  “Everything from basic tradecraft to personal combat. It’s a very vigorous course.”

  “How fascinating! You said that was your ‘penultimate assignment.’ What was your ultimate?”

  “Deputy director of the service,” he replied, in a mock whisper.

  “That must have been fascinating!”

  “It was rather dull, if the truth be known, after all the action of my earlier years. Most of which I can’t talk about, of course.”

  “Were you a spy?”

  “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

  She laughed as if she’d never heard the stale joke before.

  They had another drink before dinner, then he ordered a fine claret with their food. By the time they got to the port, the brigadier was flying high, and Jennifer seemed to be as well.

  “Where is your flat?” he asked.

  “Just up the mews,” she said. “Only a few steps away. Would you like to stop in for a nightcap?”

  “I’d like that very much.” He waved for the bill and paid, then they left.

  There had been a little rain, and the cobblestones were shiny in the lamplight. She led them to a small mews house and unlocked the front door.

  He looked around. There was handsome furniture and good pictures. “This is quite elegant,” he said.

  “A friend owns the leasehold,” she said. “I rent from him.” She went to the small fireplace and lit the gas flame. “Cognac?”

  “Perfect,” he said.

  She poured them both a drink and settled onto the small Chesterfield sofa before the fireplace, patting the seat next to her. “Come, sit.”

  He joined her, and they sat thigh to thigh. She turned toward him, brushing his arm with an ample breast.

  “That felt good,” he said.

  She gave out a low laugh. “I’m glad you think so.”

  He turned his head, and her face was right there. She kissed him, then withdrew an inch. “Oh, I’m sorry. It’s too soon.”

  “No,” he said, “it’s not too soon.” They kissed again; her hand was on his thigh, his on her breast. He pinched the nipple, and she made a little noise. Her hand was higher up now, then it rested on his swelling crotch.

  The action accelerated, and soon they were headed for her bedroom, shedding garments. For the next half hour they had the best sex Fife-Simpson had ever experienced, and soon he was sound asleep, snoring lightly.

  * * *

  —

  Jennifer disengaged, used the bathroom, then came back to be sure he was still asleep. Having ascertained that he was, she gathered his clothing and examined the contents of all the pockets of his suit. She found his identity card, confirming his name and rank and noting his service number; she checked the credit cards, made a note of the numbers, codes, and expiry dates, then folded the garments carefully, laid them on a chair, and went to her desk, switching on her laptop.

  She opened her e-mail program, tapped in an address, then entered two lengthy passwords to gain access to a chat page. She typed: Stage one completed satisfactorily.

  An immediate answer came back. Have you surveyed the property?

  Thoroughly. It’s shut down for the night.

  Send him away happy. Cultivate.

  Certainly.

  They signed off.

  * * *

  —

  Fife-Simpson woke the following morning to the aroma of frying sausages. He could see her through the kitchen door, wearing only an apron. “I’ll give you another sausage,” he said aloud to himself. Then he got out of bed, his erect member leading the way.

  38

  The brigadier got back to his flat at mid-morning, after another roll in the hay with Jennifer Sands, plus a short nap. He slipped his key into the expensive Israeli lock that had been installed by MI-6, then turned it, and walked in.

  “Good morning, Brigadier,” a male voice said.

  Fife-Simpson jumped, then saw the man in the armchair facing the door. His hand reflexively went to his hip pocket, where his knife resided.

  The man in the chair raised a pistol and pointed it at him. “Now, now,” he said, “none of that.” He pointed at a chair with the pistol. “Please,” he said, “sit, and let’s have a chat.”

  Roger tossed his hat aside, slipped off his coat, and sat down. “What is this about?” he asked. “What do you want?”

  “Just a chat, for the moment,” the man replied. He had an upper-class British accent. “How was your evening out?”

  “I’m sorry if I kept you waiting,” Roger replied.

  “Let’s start over. First of all, you may call me Alex. Secondly, when I ask you a question, please answer it directly, instead of deflecting. It saves time. Once again, how was your evening out?”

  “Entertaining,” Roger replied.

  Alex smiled. “Yes, I expect it was. Most entertaining. All you had hoped, I expect.”

  “Did you arrange it for me?” Roger asked.

  “Not entirely,” Alex replied. “I left that to Ms. Sands. These things are more effective when people follow their own instincts, and she enjoyed herself quite as much as you did.”

  “Give her my thanks when you see her,” Roger said, drily.

  “Oh, you’ll see her again, and she will be just as happy to see you as last night.”

  “What do you want?” Roger asked again.

  “First, I’d rather talk about what you want, apart from Ms. Sands, whom you have already won. What do you want, Roger? If I may call you that.”

  “Call me anything you like.”

  “Roger it is, then. There is an envelope on the table next to your chair,” he said. “Open it.”

  Roger looked at the table, picked up the unsealed envelope and opened it. He found himself staring at a photo of himself and the French masseur. He grimaced in spite of himself, shoved the photo back into the envelope, and tossed it to Alex. “With my compliments,” he said. “It won’t do you any good.”

  “I’m still looking for what you want,” Alex said. “If it’s what’s in the envelope, I can arrange that, too.”

  “Certainly not. I was unconscious when that was taken.”

  “Were you? Somehow, you seemed to be enjoying it. I have others, in other positions. Would you like to see them?”

  “No.”

  “A pity, they are quite artistic, in their way. The lighting is very good. It was certainly an interesting beginning to your holiday in France, wasn’t it?”

  Roger didn’t reply.

  “Well, now, we were talking about what you want,” Alex said. “Let’s see, you have your full pension and the monthly income from the trust your father set up for you, because he didn’t trust you to handle the money wisely. A difficult man, your father, eh?”

  “You don’t know the half of it,” Roger muttered.

  “So, you can live quite contentedly on your present income,” Alex said, “if you’re careful how you spend it. Perhaps if you shave a few drinks off your weekly consumption you could afford to continue seeing your shirtmaker every year or two, but not your tailor, of course. You’ll have to be very careful with your clothes. You could stop getting caught in the rain, that would help.”

  “How long have you been following me?” Roger asked.

  “For a great deal longer than you realize, Roger. You came to our notice for the first time when you began extorting your fellow officers,
the gay ones, for career assistance. One of them was ours, you see. After that we followed you quite closely.”

  Roger slumped a bit in his chair now.

  “I must say, we were very disappointed when you were sacked from MI-6. We were expecting great things from you.”

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you,” Roger replied sourly.

  “Dame Felicity turned out to be tougher than you had anticipated, didn’t she? That’s why she’s where she is . . . and you’re where you are.”

  Alex suddenly rose, walked to where Roger sat, and pressed his pistol lightly against Roger’s temple. “Perhaps you didn’t realize that this is your gun. You could quite easily become a suicide, you know. We’ve already written you a very nice note, to help the police and the Admiralty and the Foreign Office with their investigation. You might remember, from here on, that you’re only a moment away from ending it all.”

  “I have no such intention,” Roger said.

  “Of course you don’t. I just need to be sure that you are aware of your circumstance at all times.” Alex returned to his chair and sat down. “Now, we were discussing what you want, Roger. How would it be if your income quadrupled overnight? That would bring your shirtmaker and your tailor back within reach. Or, if it were increased by a factor of, say, ten, the world would be your oyster. You could travel, even buy a holiday home somewhere warm in winter. You could take cruises—first class, of course. Your appeal to women would soar, I should think. How does that sound?”

  Roger sighed. “Better than I would have thought. What do you want from me in return?”

  “Information, Roger: your keen sense of observation, your friends still in government service, descriptions of places and systems.”