Stealth

by Stuart Woods

  Instead of being asked to sit, the commandant rose from his desk and directed the brigadier to the conference table at one end of his office, where there were some papers stacked, then told to sit. He did, and the commandant sat opposite him at the table.

  “Now then, Brigadier,” he said, “at the request of the First Sea Lord, I am presenting you with two options. First, there is the post of commander of the Royal Marine detachment in the Falkland Islands.” His nose wrinkled. “I’ve served there, and I don’t recommend either the climate or the landscape. The sailing is pretty good, though, if you have a yacht. Alternatively, I am pleased to tell you that, after the intervention of the First Sea Lord, the promotions board has, in your case, agreed to waive the thirty-year-service requirement for full retirement pay and benefits. Your choice is clear: If you wish to accept the Falklands posting, kindly sign the documents on your left. If you, alternatively, wish to accept retirement with immediate effect and full benefits, kindly sign the document on your right.” The commandant took a fountain pen from his jacket pocket, unscrewed the cap, and laid the instrument on the table between the documents.

  “Sir . . .”

  The commandant interrupted him. “I assure you, Brigadier, there is no other posting available.”

  The brigadier picked up the pen, thought briefly of the Falklands, then signed his retirement document.

  The commandant picked up his pen, screwed on the cap, returned it to his pocket, and stood, gathering and sorting papers.

  The brigadier stood and saluted him.

  The commandant offered him a handshake and thanks for his service.

  Thus dismissed, the brigadier turned and, with an envelope containing his retirement documents and those explaining the terms, marched out of the office and into civilian life.

  * * *

  —

  An hour later, Fife-Simpson sat in the bar of the Naval and Military Club, in St. James’s Square, known to its members as the “In & Out.” The brigadier was definitely Out and not In. Out meant more rain that day, and foolishly not having brought an umbrella with him to Whitehall and not having been able to raise a cab, he had been forced to walk the distance between the two.

  “I say, Roger,” a voice said. “Is that you?” A man in a business suit sat down on the stool next to him.

  Fife-Simpson turned and looked at him. A colonel of his acquaintance. “Hello, Nigel,” he said.

  “You’re looking a bit damp, there, you know? Surely the valet will press your uniform for you.”

  “Yes, he would, if I chose to spend an hour in his steamy back room. I don’t believe they’d allow me to drink here in my skivvies.”

  “Ho, ho, ho, I imagine not. I read of your promotion in the Telegraph,” Nigel said. “What have they got you doing now?”

  “Well, I commanded Station Two, MI-6’s training camp, for six months. Then I was made deputy director of MI-6. Mind you, that’s between you and me and the lamppost. They don’t like us talking.”

  “And is that good work?”

  “Not really. Not enough to do, so I packed it in—today.”

  “I hadn’t realized you’d cracked the thirty-year mark.”

  “I hadn’t, but the board made an exception,” Fife-Simpson replied, then realized that he had just told this very talkative man that he had been sacked. “They offered me a command,” he said quickly, “but I decided to pack it in.”

  “Oh? What did they offer you?”

  Fife-Simpson scrambled for a plausible story, then gave it up. “What are you doing with yourself, Nigel?”

  “Oh, I’ve got number 44 Commandos,” he replied. “Not that we have a lot to do these days, except train.” He glanced at his watch. “Oh, God, my wife is standing on a street corner at Harrods. I must flee.” He clapped the brigadier on the back. “Cheerio,” he said and then fled, leaving the brigadier to himself.

  Fife-Simpson poured the remainder of Nigel’s whisky into his own glass. Must be frugal from now on, he thought.

  Then he thought again. With his pension and the income from his father’s estate, he would be doing rather nicely—better than half again his pay as a brigadier. He polished off his drink. “Another,” he said to the bartender. He could afford it.

  He took his drink to a chair beside the fire and fell into it. He’d dry faster here.

  * * *

  —

  Sometime later, someone shook his shoulder. “Excuse me, Brigadier, will you be having dinner?”

  Fife-Simpson took a moment to reorient himself. It was dark outside, and still raining. “Yes, thank you. I’ll go right in.” He got unsteadily to his feet, and looked for the lavatory, then he went into a stall and threw up. He went to a sink and splashed water on his face, then regarded it in the mirror. He seemed to have aged since yesterday.

  He went into the dining room and took a table alone, avoiding the common table where the unaccompanied dined.

  As he picked at his steak and kidney pudding, clearheaded now, he began to look back on the past few months. He had put a foot wrong somewhere, and he tried to pinpoint when.

  On consideration, he decided he should have stayed at Station Two. God knew it was not comfortable, but it was better than having nothing to do at MI-6 and a damn sight better than the Falklands. It was the gambit that got him made deputy director that had been his downfall, he reckoned. That and the business with the attack on the station and the wrecking of Dame Felicity’s goddamned Aston Martin. He should have smoothed that over and stayed where he was for at least another year, before he prodded Tim Barnes to promote and reassign him.

  Then, he realized, there was something else: that fellow Barrington, who had lost control of the car. That was the precipitating factor of his slide. It had shone too much attention on him at the wrong time. He felt nothing but hostility for Dame Felicity, too.

  He began to think: there must be a way to make the bastards pay.

  34

  Stone’s phone rang late in the day on Thursday. “Fifteen minutes,” Holly said, “and no fond embraces when I alight. They’ll be watching us.” He took the golf cart down to the strip and watched the skies. He didn’t see the Gulfstream until it turned for the final runway approach. It set down gently as if it and the strip were old friends. Holly was at the top of the airstair door when it dropped, and a steward followed her with her luggage.

  They drove back to the house, with Holly making all the ooh and ahh noises appropriate to the landscape and the house. Geoffrey took charge of her luggage and, once inside the front door, they shared a warm embrace and a wet kiss.

  “Do you want to freshen up?” he asked.

  “I did that on the airplane,” she said. “It has wonderful facilities.”

  He gave her a tour of the main floor, finishing up in the library.

  “This is marvelous,” she said. “It’s like the big brother of your study in the New York house.”

  He poured them each a Knob Creek, and they sat down before the fire. “Now,” he said, “tell me everything.”

  “Well, I’ve been doing most of my usual work and campaigning myself to a frazzle the rest of the time. The polls are favorable, so what else can I tell you? Why don’t you tell me about Lance instead?”

  “All right, Lance came and stayed for a few days, and yesterday he sat me down and made me an offer before he left.”

  “What sort of offer?” she asked.

  “A vague one that involved me becoming a full-time employee of the Agency with the rank of deputy director, but remaining in New York and pretending to do what I’ve been doing since I passed the bar.”

  “So he wants to turn you from a consultant into a . . . Well, let’s call it an operative.”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Do you think you might enjoy that?”

  “I think I might, but I need
your advice. If I should take this on, is Lance going to drive me crazy?”

  “No, Lance is too smart to do that, unless he wants to get rid of you. Lance is a good judge of people, and he’ll understand what he can ask for and expect to get. Does a contract exist?”

  “He’s faxing one from London, he says.”

  “Let me read it—especially between the lines.”

  “Good idea.”

  “What do you hope to gain from accepting?” she asked.

  “I hope that what I’m asked to do will be both personally satisfying and good for the country. I’ve always felt a little guilty about not serving in some capacity.”

  “You served New York City for fourteen years. Wasn’t that enough?”

  “Apparently not. There’s still an itch, otherwise I wouldn’t have become a consultant to the Agency.”

  “Have you enjoyed what you’ve done as a consultant?”

  “I have, I’ll have to admit.”

  “Then you might enjoy being an operative even more.”

  “You really think so?”

  “I think Lance is bending way over backward to entice you, and that’s a good sign. There are, after all, only two other deputy directors, one for intelligence and one for operations. Will they know you’re aboard?”

  “Good question. Lance didn’t say.”

  “That’s one of the things you should know. You don’t want to start by stepping on powerful toes.”

  “There was something else in our discussion, just as vague as the rest. I had the impression that Lance thinks he might be moving onward and upward before too much longer. Will that be the case, if you’re elected president?”

  “As far as I’m concerned, Lance could have any intelligence or foreign policy job he wants, and I’d feel lucky to have him. But I haven’t been elected yet, and Lance is going to have to be very careful not to incur the wrath of my Republican opponent, whoever he might be, if he wants to remain director of Central Intelligence in the event I lose.”

  “Wheels within wheels,” Stone said.

  “You have no idea,” Holly replied.

  35

  Stone and Holly spent the next day on horseback, taking the horses and a picnic lunch down to the Solent. “This is the body of water that separates the Isle of Wight from England,” he explained. “We’ll be crossing it later on a little trip to Cowes, which is England’s yachting capital, for dinner at the Royal Yacht Squadron.”

  “How are we dressing?”

  “Black tie, as always, on a Friday night at the Squadron. Felicity Devonshire is hosting a dinner party for us. Fortunately, the weather forecast is good. The Solent can be a choppy place with a strong wind from east or west.”

  “What time are we leaving?”

  “Five-ish, in order to arrive in time for drinks before dinner.”

  “Stone,” she said, changing the subject, “I’ve been thinking about Lance’s offer to you, and I’m inclined to advise you to take it.”

  “Yes?”

  “Yes, as long as you have a way out. I know that you see your own personal truth as self-evident, but in dealing with Lance you might find that at odds with what he wants you to do.”

  “I can understand that.”

  “As long as your contract reads that you can opt out anytime you’re uncomfortable.”

  “I’ll be sure that’s in the contract. He’s faxing it from London today, so perhaps we can have a look at it together when we get back to the house.”

  “You said he mentioned the rank of deputy director? Was there anything added to that?”

  “He suggested ‘special operations,’ but he didn’t seem set on it.”

  “That sounds too much like you’d be directing actual operations, and you have no experience with that.”

  “True enough.”

  “I’d suggest something vaguer, like ‘senior adviser.’ A mention of operations might ruffle other feathers.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “You’ll want to watch out for the deputy director for intelligence, Hugh English.”

  “What’s he like?”

  “In his sixties, wears British tailoring, gruff, but he can be charming when he wants something. He’s what the Brits call ‘clubbable.’ The Republicans in Congress love him because he’s been leaking to them for years. If they win the election and Lance gets bounced, Hugh English is likely to get his job. As I said, don’t underestimate him. He’s capable of low cunning.”

  “What about the other DD? For operations?”

  “That would be Finn McAdoo. He’s the young comer, and because of that, Hugh English hates him. If I’m elected, and if Lance wants to move elsewhere, I’d likely choose Finn to replace him. You’ll like him immediately.”

  * * *

  —

  After lunch they rode back to the house, where Stone found a multipage fax waiting for him in the library. “Here we go,” he said. He read the pages, then handed them to Holly. It didn’t take long to get through them.

  “It’s surprisingly benign,” Holly said, “and it doesn’t mention a title, though it mentions the rank.”

  “I noticed that.”

  “All you need is a sentence allowing you to resign at will, and the title, which should be descriptive of the job. He’s not going to be able to keep this from the top-level people at the Agency, and the title will tell them where you stand.”

  Stone made a note about adding the out clause. His cell phone rang, and he answered it.

  “Did you get the contract?” Lance asked.

  “Yes. My adviser and I have just finished reading it.”

  “Is Holly there?”

  “Yes, I’ll put you on speaker.”

  “Any questions?”

  “I want an out clause,” Stone said.

  “It will be my job to see that you never want out.”

  “Yes, but you may decide to move on to better things, and I don’t want to be at the mercy of a director I don’t know.”

  “Done. There’s something else, though,” Lance said.

  “What’s that?”

  “I had conceived your role as a covert one, but on reflection I think it might be better if it became known. I wouldn’t make a public announcement, just let the word get around.”

  “All right. It occurs to me that some people should know from the outset: my secretary, Joan Robertson, and, of course, Dino and Viv Bacchetti.”

  “No problem there. Dino and Viv are both consultants already, as you know.”

  “I didn’t know about Viv.”

  “Now you do. You can tell anyone you like, but be discreet.”

  “Lance, will you announce it inside the Agency?” Holly asked.

  “I’ll send out a selective memo. The right people will know.”

  “I’m sure you’ll guard against Hugh English looking at Stone as a threat.”

  “Certainly. I’ll reassure him.”

  “What about his title?” Holly asked.

  “Did you have something in mind, Holly?”

  “Perhaps something like ‘senior adviser to the director’? Give him the rank of a deputy director but don’t broadcast it.”

  “I like it,” Lance said. “It won’t rile Hugh English too much. Stone, what do you think?”

  “Sure, fine.”

  “I’ll get the thing retyped and fax it again in a few minutes.”

  “All right,” Stone said, and hung up.

  * * *

  —

  A few minutes later, the fax machine began spitting out pages. Stone read, signed, and initialed them in the appropriate places and faxed them back.

  “Well,” Holly said, “you’re on the hook now. That’s what we say about a newly acquired asset at the Agency.”


  “On the hook for what?”

  “For whatever Lance wants from you.”

  “Interesting about Viv being a consultant.”

  “And a prized one,” Holly said. “She’s in an ideal position at Special Services to glean business information.”

  They were getting dressed for dinner when a package was delivered to the house. Geoffrey, the butler, brought it upstairs to Stone. It was small but hefty for its size. Stone opened it and removed a wallet containing a new ID and a badge, plus a box of business cards and an Apple iPhone. Stone had used one of these, briefly, in Paris. It had scrambling, encryption, and other capabilities At the bottom of the package was a Colt Government .380 pistol with royal bluing, ivory handles, a couple of extra magazines, a box of ammunition, and a soft suede holster. There was also a silencer and a place for it in the holster.

  “Looks like you’re in the spy business,” Holly said.

  36

  Late in the afternoon Stone and Holly cast off his dock in his Hinckley 43 motor yacht and moved slowly down the Beaulieu River, careful not to make an excessive wake.

  “This is a beautiful stretch of water,” Holly said, gazing at the passing landscape, the farms, and country houses.

  “I have to agree. That and access to the Solent were big parts of my decision to buy the place.”

  “I assume Felicity Devonshire brought it to your attention.”

  “And insisted I buy it. I didn’t take much convincing.”

  They moved around a bend in the river and picked up the marked channel to the Solent. Shortly, they were running toward the Isle of Wight, a few miles away, at 25 knots. Stone pointed out the Squadron at the head of the harbor, a castle with a row of brass cannons out front. “Henry the Eighth build this to protect England from France. I don’t think it was ever used for that purpose.”

  “And yet, the cannons are there.”

  “Those are used exclusively for starting and finishing races,” Stone replied. They pulled into the Squadron’s little marina, where a uniformed boatman waited to take their lines. After they had made fast and shut down, they walked the few steps to the castle’s entrance, then to the front door. Down a hallway they came to the Lounge, where cocktails were served, and found the rest of their party waiting.