Stealth

by Stuart Woods

  “Yes, and I have already read them.”

  “Good man,” Lance said. “Since you haven’t spent three or four months at the Farm, you’ll need to fill in a few gaps in your knowledge of how we work.”

  “It seems to me that my knowledge is mostly gaps,” Stone replied.

  “We can live with that. Occasionally, we recruit someone who has an actual life that can’t be interrupted for long periods, so we make do.”

  “I understand, and I’ll try to keep up.”

  “Stone, I called because there has been a flurry of activity about you on a number of Internet search engines that, normally, would ignore your existence.”

  “So, word is getting around about our arrangement?”

  “We’ve factored that into our analysis, and we believe that there is more than that going on.”

  “What do you believe is going on?”

  “We’ve had flurries like this when the Russians have taken an interest in a particular person, especially one connected with us. We keep a watch on the search engines they commonly use. Have you had any recent contact with Russians, or with people you suspect might be associated with their intelligence agencies?”

  “No, but at dinner last night with Dame Felicity, her new deputy and his wife—Terrence and Dorothy Maldwin—were there, and the conversation turned to the man Maldwin is replacing.”

  “I know them both,” Lance said, “and Terry is a good choice for her deputy. Why did Fife-Simpson’s name arise?”

  “Apparently, Terry’s principal assignment at the moment is to keep tabs on the brigadier. They’ve been surveilling him since his, ah, retirement—with mixed results.”

  “‘Mixed’ how?”

  “They lost him a couple of times—once for three days and once for several hours, which coincided with the killing of a British vice-admiral with whom Fife-Simpson has had a rocky relationship over the years.”

  “That would be Simon Garr.”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me, does Fife-Simpson have anyone new in his life? A woman, perhaps?”

  “Funny you should mention that. Yes.”

  “How did he meet her?”

  “In a pub, and apparently they hit it off immediately. They’ve taken a new flat together.”

  “Tell me about her—hang on, I want to record this. Go.”

  “Jennifer Sands, age thirty-nine, Oxford graduate with a first in languages.”

  “Russian one of them, perhaps?”

  “Right. She’s attractive and has considerable personal wealth from her father. Oh, and she was once a member of the Communist Party of Great Britain but resigned about a year ago.”

  “Clearly, she’s dirty,” Lance said. “Do they know if she—or Fife-Simpson—has had any contact with anyone at the Russian embassy?”

  “That wasn’t mentioned last night.”

  “Where is this new flat where they’re shacking up?”

  “In Eaton Place.”

  “Ah, that’s revealing,” Lance said.

  “How so?”

  “One of London’s finest addresses. That means Fife-Simpson is very important to them. Of course, if Ms. Sands is wealthy, she may be paying. Do you have the exact address?”

  “No, but they did say it was a top-floor flat.”

  “Good.”

  “Why good?”

  “Because it makes surveillance easier for us. We’re going to have to take a close look at the woman, then set up our own team on old Roger. We’ll have to stand back a bit, since Felicity already has people on him.”

  “I’d be interested in how you would do that,” Stone said.

  “We’ll rent a nearby flat, far enough away so that our people aren’t bumping into Felicity’s people, and we’ll use electronic and telescopic methods. We’ll let them follow Fife-Simpson and the woman when they go out, then we’ll follow Felicity’s people.”

  “Felicity was annoyed with the lapses in their surveillance of him and ordered Terry to beef up his team.”

  “As she would, of course. Those two lapses could account for a multitude of sins, including the murder of Simon Garr. The three-day period sounds like an indoctrination to me. You say they lost contact in south London?”

  “Yes.”

  “There are a couple of airports down there. They could have transported him somewhere. We’ll get to work on aircraft registration numbers and flight plans filed. It occurs to me, too, that that period could coincide with the increased activity on researching you. Do you think Fife-Simpson could have brought up your name?”

  “I’ve no idea. He knows my name, of course.”

  “They would have milked him dry for names. So it wouldn’t surprise me that yours would come up, especially since Fife-Simpson knows you to be a friend of Felicity’s.”

  “She brought him to dinner at my house,” Stone said.

  “Then they certainly would have extracted that event from him, and your name as well.”

  “Do you want me to do anything at this end?”

  “No, you’re not trained for this sort of thing. I would like to know if anything unusual happens that you could attribute to Fife-Simpson: if you should bump into him on the street in London or get a phone call from him, for instance. If his name comes up in a conversation with someone outside of Felicity’s circle.”

  “That’s a very wide circle,” Stone said.

  “Granted. You’ve opened a new channel of investigation for us, Stone, and I’m grateful. This is the sort of thing that made me want to bring you inside.”

  “Well, I’m just sort of lying here,” Stone said, “not exactly doing anything.”

  “Let me know if someone pokes you in the ribs,” Lance said. “Bye-bye.” He hung up.

  Stone thought his new status at the Agency was already making his life more interesting.

  45

  Roger Fife-Simpson had finished the Daily Telegraph and was working on the crossword when the phone on the table beside him rang. He stared at the thing, not sure if he should answer it. Before he could make a decision, Jennifer walked over and picked it up.

  “Hello? Ah, yes. Where are you now? We’ll be right down.” She hung up, grabbed Roger’s hand, and pulled him to his feet. “Come with me,” she said, leading him out the door and to the elevator.

  “Where are we going?” he asked.

  “It’s a surprise.”

  Fife-Simpson didn’t much like surprises, and he viewed this one with suspicion. They got off the elevator on the ground floor, and she led him to the garage. “I’ve bought you a surprise,” she said. They turned a corner, and a white Mercedes convertible greeted them. “What do you think?” she asked. “Or would you prefer something more reserved?”

  Roger grinned. “I would not,” he said, opening the car door and climbing in. The interior was red leather.

  “It’s the S550 version,” she said, “the larger one, with the V8 engine.” She dropped the key into a cup holder. “It’s keyless starting,” she said. “Foot on the brake, press that button.”

  He did so, and the engine leapt to life.

  “Press this button,” she said, pointing to a row of three on the bottom of the rearview mirror.

  He pressed it, and the garage door opened.

  “The gear lever is on the steering column,” she said. “Press down to go forward, up to reverse, and push it in for parking.”

  He pressed down and drove out of the garage. It was an unseasonably warm and sunny day.

  “Stop,” she said.

  He stopped, and she opened the center armrest compartment and placed his hand on a switch. He fiddled with it, and the top came down and was tucked away under the rear deck. He grinned and accelerated.

  * * *

  —

  An MI-6 officer on the roo
f of the building behind the couple’s apartment suddenly caught sight of Fife-Simpson driving away. He got on the radio. “The car that was delivered a few minutes ago has left the garage, driven by Myna Bird. Get on it!”

  * * *

  —

  In the next block, on another rooftop, a CIA operative spotted the convertible and its driver and got on the radio. “Scramble,” he said. “Canary has driven away from his building in a white S550 Mercedes convertible, top down. Wren is riding shotgun.”

  * * *

  —

  “Where would you like to go?” Roger asked Jennifer.

  “Wherever you like. We could have lunch somewhere.”

  “Let’s go to the south coast.”

  “I’m all for it.”

  Roger drove west to the M4 motorway, and after a few minutes, turned off on a country road south, driving fast.

  “Don’t get us arrested,” she said, fastening her seat belt.

  * * *

  —

  They ended up an hour or so later in the village of Beaulieu, then drove south some more and stopped at a country pub. “This looks good,” Roger said.

  They got out, took an outside table, and read the menu. Roger looked up and saw a couple getting out of a Porsche. “I don’t believe it,” he said.

  “Believe what?” Jennifer asked.

  “You recall I was asked by Alex about an American named Stone Barrington?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, there he is, and the woman with him, if you can believe it, is the American secretary of state.”

  * * *

  —

  Stone took Holly’s hand and led her toward the front door of the pub, then, dead ahead, he saw Brigadier Roger Fife-Simpson. It was obvious Roger saw him, too, so there was nothing for it, he had to say hello. Stone stopped at the table and extended a hand. “Hello, Roger,” he said.

  Fife-Simpson stood, shook hands, and introduced Jennifer, then Stone introduced Holly.

  “What brings you down my way?” Stone asked.

  “Just a joyride. New car, wanted to stretch its legs. Will you join us?”

  “Thanks, I think we’ll go inside. I’m unaccustomed to so much sunshine.” They said goodbye, went inside, and found a table.

  “Was that who I think it was?” Holly asked.

  “It was, and the woman with him must be Jennifer Sands.”

  “You should have accepted his invitation to join them,” Holly said. “That’s what Lance would have had you do.”

  “Lance doesn’t comprehend how boring that man is. It would have ruined our lunch.”

  “A pro would have jumped at the chance to be bored.”

  “Then I’m no pro,” Stone said. “We would have learned nothing.”

  “If you say so.”

  * * *

  —

  “Why did you ask them to join us?” Jennifer asked.

  Roger shrugged. “It was the normal thing to do, in the circumstances. Fortunately, they didn’t accept the invitation.”

  “You must report this to Alex when you next speak to him.”

  “All right, but it’s just a coincidence. Barrington’s house is down this road, I think.”

  “You were there before, weren’t you? Aren’t you sure where it is?”

  “On that occasion we approached the house from the river, on Dame Felicity’s boat,” he said.

  “Believe me, Alex will not see this as a coincidence.”

  * * *

  —

  Perhaps fifty yards away, on the road, the MI-6 surveillance crew had stopped and were arguing.

  “We’ve got to go on and get an eye and an ear on them,” one said.

  “Fuck that,” the driver said. “We’d be made in a flash. We’ll wait for him to finish his lunch, then pick up the car.”

  * * *

  —

  Further back, the CIA team had stopped, too. “Let’s drive slowly by the pub and get some footage of it,” the leader said.

  The driver put their van into gear and moved slowly forward, while the cameraman got into position to shoot through a port.

  “Faster,” the leader said. “Don’t attract attention.” As they came up to the pub a Porsche parked and a man and a woman got out of it and walked toward the pub.

  “Get those two on film!” the leader said.

  “Why?”

  “Because one of them is our secretary of state! Are you blind?”

  “Then who’s the guy?” the cameraman asked, adjusting his shot.

  “Get the plate number on that Porsche, and we’ll find out.”

  46

  Roger and Jennifer got back into the convertible and continued down the road toward the sea. They came upon a driveway. “See the sign saying Windward Hall? That’s Barrington’s place.” He slowed so they could look through the gates.

  “A handsome house,” Jennifer said.

  “Handsome inside, too.” Shortly they passed a van at the side of the road, and a minute later, it fell in behind them, a quarter-mile back.

  * * *

  —

  Stone and Holly finished their lunch and walked back to their car. Fife-Simpson and his lady had disappeared. They drove back to the house, and as they entered the library, a phone was ringing. It was his Agency iPhone, sitting on the coffee table. Stone picked it up. “Hello?”

  “Scramble.”

  “Scrambled. What is it, Lance?”

  “What were you doing at the same pub as Fife-Simpson and his paramour?”

  “What a charmingly old-fashioned thing to call her,” Stone said.

  “Explain, please.”

  “We went to a local pub for lunch. So did Fife-Simpson, apparently, and they got there first and sat outside. We greeted them, then went inside. That’s about it.”

  “I dislike coincidences,” Lance said.

  “It doesn’t matter if you dislike them,” Stone replied, “they happen anyway.”

  “Nevertheless . . .”

  “Lance, how the hell did you know about this? We just came back. Are you having us followed?”

  “No, MI-6 is having Fife-Simpson followed, and my people are following MI-6. You know that.”

  “That’s right, I do. Fife-Simpson said he was trying out a new car and drove down here.”

  “He wasn’t lying. We checked it out, and Ms. Sands bought it for him, though it’s registered in her name. She must not feel entirely confident of his continuing affection.”

  “Well, I’m glad you’re following MI-6, instead of me.”

  “Is Holly with you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did she meet Fife-Simpson?”

  “Yes, he invited us to share his table, but we elected to lunch inside.”

  “Just as well. I wouldn’t want you photographed with those people.”

  “Do you think the Russians are following him, too?”

  “No, the woman is, effectively, the Russians. She’s living with him, so there’s no need for other surveillance on their part.”

  “Do the Russians rent expensive flats and buy expensive cars for all of their foreign agents?”

  “They do not. But Ms. Sands is wealthy and she seems to be in love.”

  “Go figure.”

  “I have nothing else for you. Do you have anything for me?” Lance asked.

  “Alas, I am bereft of gifts.”

  “Goodbye.” Lance hung up.

  “How the hell did Lance know about this so fast?” Holly asked.

  Stone explained about the pursuits by MI-6 and the CIA.

  “Why do I feel that we’re in some sort of spy comedy?”

  “Perhaps we are. Who knows? Can I interest you in an after-lunch nap?”

  “Y
es, as long as there’s no sleeping involved.”

  “There won’t be.”

  * * *

  —

  Roger and Jennifer got back to their flat in the late afternoon, and the phone was ringing.

  “You’d better get that,” Roger said.

  She did. “Hello? Yes, we just got in. I bought him a car, and we went for a drive down to the south coast. Guess who we ran into? Stone Barrington and the American secretary of state, Holly Barker. It’s only a coincidence. It doesn’t matter if you hate them, they happen anyway. Dinner when? I suppose so. Is that a good idea? All right, six-thirty for drinks.” She hung up.

  “Alex?” Roger asked.

  “Yes. We’re invited to a dinner at the Russian embassy tomorrow evening, black tie.”

  “Is that a good idea?” Roger asked.

  “Alex says it will be just family, which means nobody who isn’t Russian. I think he wants to show you off for his boss.”

  “Who is his boss?”

  “The London station chief, Leonid Bronsky, who is on the embassy’s rolls as cultural attaché. He’s a very slick article.”

  “I always think of Russians as ham-handed oafs,” Roger said.

  “Did you find Alex either ham-handed or oafish?”

  “Well, no.”

  “He is typical of these people, as you will learn tomorrow evening. There are no Leninists or Stalinists left—no commissars, either. The ambassador is the most elegant man I’ve met in London. By the way, you do own a dinner suit, don’t you?”

  “I do, but it’s a bit tatty these days. I’m accustomed to wearing my naval mess kit on formal occasions.”

  “You’d better get measured for a new suit, then. We may have other such occasions to attend.”

  “As you wish, my dear.”

  47

  Holly had to be back in London for meetings, so Stone took the Cayenne and drove her to the city. “About your suite at the Connaught . . .”