by Stuart Woods
The questioning continued for what seemed the whole day, and Roger was not permitted to eat, stand, or use a toilet. He urinated in his clothing three or four times, and whenever his head seemed to clear a little, more of the drug was administered through the syringe. He was shouted at and slapped repeatedly to keep him on the edge of full consciousness.
Finally, when he felt that everything had been drained from him, a new syringe was inserted into his vein, and a bucket of water was thrown in his face. He snapped to full consciousness, his heart racing.
“Take him,” his interrogator said.
The two men unlocked his shackles and marched him back upstairs to his bedroom and into the bath. “Clean yourself up,” one of the men said, and he was left alone.
He used the toilet, emptying his bowels, then threw the soiled suit into a laundry hamper, shaved, showered, and flung himself into bed. A half hour passed before his pulse began to return to normal, then he fell asleep.
He came awake with someone kissing him on an ear.
“Wake up, my darling,” Jennifer said. She helped him sit up and get into some clothes. By the time he had dressed he was feeling fairly normal again. “It’s time for dinner,” she said, then walked him downstairs and onto the terrace, where a table had been set again.
Alex was already seated, eating caviar with a spoon and washing it down with iced vodka. “Sit down, Roger, sit down,” he said jovially.
Roger dug into the caviar and blinis, the first food he had eaten all day.
“You did quite well today,” Alex said.
“Did I? How?”
“You made them believe you. Either you told them the truth, or MI-6 trained you very well to withstand interrogation.”
Roger shook his head. “No.”
“No, what?”
“No, they didn’t train me for that. I never attended their training school.”
“I’m sorry I disappeared today,” Alex said, “but your interrogation required that more than one officer question you. Fortunately for you, both of us came to the same conclusion: that you were truthful.”
“I don’t remember much of what they asked me,” Roger said.
“That is the effect of the drugs you were given. A subject can be interrogated, then forget, and, if he is interrogated again, his answers can be compared to the transcript of his earlier session. Good, no?”
“If you say so.” Half a roast chicken was set before him, and he tore into it with his fingers, washing it down with wine.
He did not begin to feel full until he ate ice cream for dessert.
“You are tired,” Alex said. “You should go to bed now. You and I will meet in the morning, then you will be returned to England.”
Roger said good night, then left the table with Jennifer in tow. She got him into bed, serviced him orally, then tucked him in.
* * *
—
The following morning, after a hearty breakfast, he sat down with Alex in the library.
“Should I wish to contact you,” Alex said, “I will call you on this telephone”—he handed Roger an iPhone—“and ask if this is the laundry. You will say, ‘Wrong number’ and hang up. Then you will receive a text telling you the time and place of our meeting. You will take a taxi halfway there, walk for a few blocks, go in and out of buildings by different doors, then take another taxi to within a block of the meeting place, then walk the rest of the way, taking great care that you are not followed. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Roger said. Then he was asked to repeat everything he was told.
“One hundred and twenty-five thousand pounds has been placed in a numbered bank account in the Cayman Islands.” He pushed a slip of paper across the table. “Memorize this account number now, and the telephone number of the bank.”
Roger memorized the numbers and Alex took back the slip of paper and gave him a black credit card with his name on it and the name and branch of his London bank. “You may use this card to pay for purchases or to retrieve money from cash machines anywhere in the world. Twenty-five thousand pounds will be deposited in it on the first day of every month for as long as our relationship lasts. On the second of every January, another one hundred thousand pounds will be deposited, in addition to your regular monthly payments.”
“Thank you,” Roger said, pocketing the card.
“You will be expected to follow completely every order you are given. Do not ask what will happen if you fail.”
Roger nodded.
“Jennifer will move in with you, and you will both move to a better flat. An agent will show you several when you return. Jennifer has her name and number. When you choose a place, Jennifer will pay the monthly rent, so if you are asked how you can afford it you can reply that you have a rich girlfriend. If you, at some point, wish to marry, you may do so. You may travel freely, as long as it does not conflict with your assignments. Jennifer will act as your secretary, pay your monthly bills, make your travel arrangements, et cetera. I hope you two will continue to enjoy each other’s company.” Finally, he gave Roger a zippered case containing a semiautomatic 9mm pistol, a silencer, and a box of ammunition. “The pistol may be used multiple times in succession leaving a different ballistic imprint each time, so that no connection can be made with another usage, a little trick we learned from our CIA opponents.”
Alex escorted them both to the front door, where a driver was putting their luggage into a car. They were driven to an airport and, in a hangar, put aboard an airplane—this one a Citation X, of American manufacture.
They landed at Biggin Hill and were driven to Roger’s flat in London. The place had been thoroughly cleaned, he noted.
42
They had breakfast the following morning, then Jennifer said, “We have an appointment at ten o’clock to look at a flat.”
“All right,” Roger said. He had not yet returned to the full realization that he was a free man in his own home. It was best to just follow her instructions.
They arrived at the address, in Eaton Place, and were met by an estate agent, then took the elevator to the top floor. The apartment was large, occupying the entire floor. There was a large drawing room, a separate dining room, a library with a toilet concealed behind bookcases, an office, two en suite bedrooms, and a garage in the basement with two spaces, with an entrance on the street behind.
“Can we afford this?” he asked Jennifer.
“I can afford it,” she replied. “Remember, I’m a wealthy woman.”
Jennifer signed a lease on the spot, and she wrote a check. “Come,” she said, “we must begin packing your things and arrange for removals.”
Late in the afternoon of the following day, they occupied the new place, and while Roger unpacked and placed his things in his new dressing room, Jennifer went shopping. The day after that, things she had bought began to arrive: furniture, pictures, sculptures—all of it from antique shops. Within a few days, the place looked as if they had always lived there.
* * *
—
On Saturday morning, Roger’s iPhone rang for the first time. “Hello?”
“Is this the laundry?” a female voice asked.
“I’m sorry, you have the wrong number,” Roger replied, and she hung up. Shortly, the phone made a chiming noise, and he checked the text messages. The single message gave an address in Hampstead.
“I’ve had a call,” Roger said to Jennifer, who was unpacking kitchen utensils.
“You must go armed,” she replied.
Roger consulted his London A to Z Guide, then planned his route. He caught a cab in the street, took it as far as Trafalgar Square, then walked several blocks, bought a Daily Telegraph, and got another cab. He got out a block short of his destination and walked to a spot on Hampstead Heath, taking care that he was not followed to his destination: an empty park bench. H
e sat down and opened his paper. Ten minutes passed before a man sat down at the other end of the bench. He didn’t look at the man.
“Good morning,” said a voice that he recognized as Alex’s.
Roger said nothing, but nodded.
“Look up and slightly to your left,” Alex said. Roger did so. “You see the little street, with row houses?”
“Yes.”
“Simon Garr, your old acquaintance from Dartmouth, lives at number 3. He will leave the house in about twenty minutes for a lunch date elsewhere. You will wait for him on the bench across the street, near the house. When you see him, you will confront him as he looks for a cab and shoot him twice in the head. Do you understand these instructions?”
Roger turned and looked at him.
“Don’t look at me!” Alex ordered. “Tell me you understand what you are to do.”
Roger thought about it for a moment, then sagged. “I understand.”
“A taxi will appear, with its light off. You will get into the taxi, which will drive you to Sloane Square. You will walk to your new apartment from there. Are all of your instructions clear?”
“Yes.”
“Before you leave this bench, screw the silencer into the barrel of your pistol.” Alex placed a tweed hat and a pair of sunglasses on the bench between them. “Wear these,” he said. “Leave them in the taxi when you get out. There will be no need to pay the driver.”
“I understand.”
Alex got up and left.
Roger pretended to read his paper for another fifteen minutes, then got up, donned the tweed cap and the sunglasses, crossed the street, and walked to the bench near the end of Simon Garr’s street. He sat down and tried to work up some of his old hatred for Garr. It wasn’t hard; he had harbored it for thirty years. He removed the pistol and silencer from his shoulder holster and screwed them together under the newspaper in his lap, then he waited, not looking at Garr’s house.
He heard the door open and close, then get locked, before he allowed his eyes to drift in that direction without turning his head. A moment later, a tall man in a raincoat and hat walked into his field of vision. It was Simon Garr, no mistake.
Roger rose, crossed the street, and walked toward Garr from behind, the pistol concealed in his folded newspaper. Garr stopped and looked both ways for a cab. Roger approached him and at the last moment Garr caught sight of him and turned. “Roger?” he said.
Roger lifted the pistol and fired, striking Garr over his left eyebrow. Garr collapsed, and Roger walked two steps and fired another shot into his head.
He looked up and saw a cab coming, its light out. It stopped, and Roger got inside, saying nothing. He unscrewed the silencer and returned that and his pistol to the shoulder holster. The cab drove away, made a number of turns, apparently to shake any possible follower, then drove across London to Sloane Square, stopping in front of the Peter Jones department store.
Roger placed the cap and the sunglasses on the seat, got out, and walked in a leisurely fashion toward Eaton Place and his flat. He took the elevator upstairs, and used his key. “Jennifer?” he called. There was no reply. He went to the closet and the safe Jennifer had bought, opened it, placed the pistol, silencer, and holster inside, and locked it.
He hung up his coat, then went to the bar and poured himself a large scotch. Then he sat in a comfortable chair in the library and let his mind wander.
* * *
—
An hour passed, then Jennifer let herself in and put down her packages and hung up her coat. Then she went looking for Roger. She found him in the library, an empty glass in his hand. She took the glass from him and put her hand on his cheek. “How did it go?” she asked.
“It went as it was supposed to.”
“Are you all right?”
“I am, though I could use another scotch. Will you join me?”
She poured them each a drink, then came and sat on his footstool. “I’m glad it went well,” she said. “I knew you could do it. Now you can do anything.”
Roger didn’t reply, just sipped his drink. It occurred to him that Alex had cleverly arranged his debut as an assassin by selecting a victim Roger hated.
43
On Saturday evening, with Holly in residence again after a few days in London, Stone hosted dinner at home. The guests were the same people they’d dined with at the Squadron—the Barneses, the Pinks, the Drummonds, and Felicity, who arrived with the foreign minister, whose wife was away, and a new couple, called Terrence and Dorothy Maldwin, both in their late thirties or early forties.
During cocktails Felicity said to the group at large, “Terry and Dottie are both members of my professional family, and Terry is my new deputy.”
* * *
—
Stone had the table set in the small dining room, which could accommodate up to twelve. The chat ran to office anecdotes and gossip, which Stone presumed was proper, since they had all signed the Official Secrets Act.
“What do you hear from Roger Fife-Simpson?” Tim Barnes asked Felicity across the table.
Felicity gave him a little smile. “I think Terry is the person to best answer that question, since keeping track of Roger is one of his first assignments. Terry?”
Terrence Maldwin put down his fork and took a sip of his claret. “Well, let’s see,” he said. “I believe I can do this without notes. The brigadier got lucky a few nights back, while drinking at his local. He met a charming lady. They had dinner, and nature took its course. The day after that, a large Mercedes sedan arrived outside his flat and Fife-Simpson and another man got in. The curtains were drawn in the car, so we could not see who else was inside. We lost the car in the south London suburbs, so we’ve no idea where they went.
“Roger and the lady returned to Roger’s flat three days later, so we suppose they had a bit of a holiday. Then an odd thing happened: the following morning they left the flat and took a taxi to an address in Eaton Place, where they met a woman who seemed to be an estate agent. Inquiries were made, and we discovered that the couple had taken a flat—a very nice one—on the top floor. Over the next two days, they packed up Roger’s place and moved into the new flat, and the lady, whose name is Jennifer Sands, did a great deal of shopping for furnishings. We expect to have photographs in a day or two.”
“And who is Jennifer Sands?” Felicity asked.
“She’s English, thirty-nine, quite attractive, and has some considerable personal wealth from her father, now deceased. She got a first at Oxford in languages, one of them Russian. She was once a member of the Communist Party in Britain, but left a year ago, resigning over policy differences.”
“Sounds like Ms. Sands would be attractive to our Russian friends,” Felicity said.
“Yes,” Terry replied, “and one might think that Roger, too, would be someone who could hold their interest. Some of you have known the brigadier over the years. Does anyone think that he might be had by the Russians?”
Tim Barnes spoke up. “I think that, given his recent retirement, Roger might be bought by the Russians. By the way, it won’t hit the papers until tomorrow, but an old acquaintance of mine and Roger’s, Vice-Admiral Simon Garr, retired, was murdered early this afternoon, on Hampstead Heath. Looks like a professional job: two bullets to the head. No one reported hearing the shots.”
“That’s very interesting,” Terry said. “Roger left his new flat at mid-morning today.”
“Where did Roger go?” Felicity asked.
“He took a cab to Trafalgar Square, where he bought a newspaper and got into another cab. A traffic foul-up caused our people to lose him. He returned to his flat in the mid-afternoon.”
Everyone got quiet.
“I wonder,” Terry said, “does anyone think that Roger might have it in him to shoot an old acquaintance in the head?”
Tim Barnes spoke up
again. “If the old acquaintance was Simon Garr, I think Roger, at least at one time, might have enjoyed that experience.”
“Terry,” Felicity said, “I think it might be worth the resources to increase the manpower devoted to surveilling Roger.”
“It shall be done,” Terry replied.
“And perhaps,” Felicity said, “they could stop losing him for hours or days at a time.”
* * *
—
“You have the most interesting guests at dinner parties,” Holly said after they had made love and were resting. “And the most interesting conversations.”
“You can thank Dame Felicity for providing both the guests and the topics of conversation,” Stone replied.
“Did Roger Fife-Simpson strike you as someone who might be bought by the Russians?”
“Given what happened to his career, he strikes me as someone who might be very angry with his former associates,” Stone replied.
44
The following morning Stone received a package from Lance Cabot that contained some personalized CIA stationery, a pair of operations manuals, and a kind of employees’ handbook for Agency personnel. He spent a good part of the day reading them and found them enlightening.
That afternoon—early morning in the States—Stone received a phone call from Lance.
“Scramble,” Lance said.
“Hang on.” It took him a moment to hit the right buttons. “Scrambled,” he said.
“Henceforth, all our conversations will be scrambled,” Lance said.
“All right.”
“Did you get the reading materials I sent you?”
