by Stuart Woods
“May we speak again after you two have had a chat?”
“Indeed. Goodbye, Lance.”
* * *
—
Lance called Stone’s cell. It was after lunch in London.
“Yes?”
“Scramble.”
“Scrambled.”
“Good day, Stone.”
“Good day, Lance.”
“I have an assignment for you—a pleasant one, to be sure.”
“I’m all ears.”
“I believe Holly is leaving England shortly.”
“She is being driven to the airport as we speak.”
“First, let me tell you what new information has come our way with regard to our surveillance of the brigadier.” Lance ran down for him what had been learned and what was suspected.
“Very interesting,” Stone replied.
“It has occurred to me that there is little point in having two intelligence services conducting separate investigations into the same subject, and that it might be better for us both if we combine our assets and information.”
“I expect that might be a good idea.”
“Felicity is coming down to the Beaulieu River for the weekend. I suggest that the two of you find time for a dinner together, preferably at your house, and share everything I have told you and what she already knows.”
“That’s an agreeable idea,” Stone said. “I’m just getting into the car now for the drive down.”
“Perhaps you could give me a ring on Monday and let me know the state of your discussions and what moves the two of you might wish to make.”
“I can do that,” Stone said.
“Have a lovely weekend.” Lance hung up.
Stone had not even gotten the car started before his phone rang again. “Hello?”
“It’s Felicity, my darling.”
“How good to hear from you.”
“Will you have dinner with me tomorrow evening, just the two of us?”
“I would be delighted to give you dinner at the Hall and whatever else your heart desires.”
“That will take longer than a dinner, I think.”
“Then bring your toothbrush.”
“Done.” Felicity hung up, and so did Stone.
50
Stone met Felicity at his dock and took her lines, then they drove up to his house in the golf cart, chatting about the lovely weather and whatever else crossed their minds.
The table had been set for two in the library, but first, Stone made her a martini and himself a Knob Creek on the rocks. They raised their glasses.
“Collaboration,” Felicity suggested as a toast.
Stone raised his glass, too. “Collaboration.”
Felicity took a deep draught of her martini. “Tell me what you know about the brigadier’s situation,” she said.
“Certainly. Let’s skip backward to the evening before last,” Stone said. “I expect you’re up-to-date for the period before that.”
“All I know is that a car called for them—he in black tie and she stylishly dressed. Unfortunately, my people lost them again after that, and they did not return until after midnight.”
“Our people lost them, too, but they turned up at the Russian embassy, where the Agency, merely by chance, has a very complete and high-definition video and audio system—installed during renovations to the building last year.” Stone handed her an envelope of stills taken from the video, and Felicity went carefully through them.
“Well,” she said, “it’s like the senior dance at the school of espionage, isn’t it. I’m quite surprised that our Roger made the guest list—and at the head table, as well.”
“That surprised Langley, too,” Stone said. “This photo,” he said, pointing at one, “shows a gentleman, unidentified currently, handing Roger a Russian diplomatic passport with his photo in it and bearing the name Sergei Ivanovich Ostrovsky, which would seem to mean that they think highly enough of Roger to provide him with a means of escape from Britain or Europe, in the event that he finds himself in deep water.”
“Ah, yes,” Felicity said. “I’ve no doubt that they will be providing him with a complete identity package and a legend in due course, if they haven’t already.” She picked out a shot of the dinner table. “I know all of these people except this gentleman,” she said, pointing at Alex. “Anything on him?”
“A great deal, as it happens. He turns out to be an Englishman. You recall that you and I had dinner last year at the London home of the Duke of Kensington?”
“Of course.”
“Thomas is the duke’s family name, is it not?”
“It is.”
“The gentleman to whom you refer is Wilfred Henry Charles Thomas, the duke’s third son, who is also Earl of Chelsea.”
“I recall that the duke had an heir and a spare, but I thought that number three had been shuffled off into the Royal Army, the Royal Navy, or the Church, which are the usual destinations of third sons.”
“Apparently Wilfred exhibited a more independent streak. After studying at Harrow and Oxford, where he read languages, prominently including Russian, he set himself up as a dealer in rare and antique books, and also bookbinding, at a shop in the Burlington Arcade.”
“What a nice cover for a newly cultivated spy for the Russians,” she said. “I believe I have been into that shop once or twice.”
“As has Lance,” Stone added. “A little more history: Wilfred and a fellow named Elihu Sands, known as Eli, were friends from childhood and at school and shared rooms at Oxford, where they both found suitable girls to marry. It is rumored that Wilfred also found the time to impregnate Eli’s girlfriend, resulting in one Jennifer Sands, the brigadier’s new squeeze, who sits at the table next to Wilfred. Perhaps you can detect a family resemblance?”
“It seems quite obvious, now that you point it out. Do we know what the state of knowledge is among this group? Who knows what and who doesn’t?”
“I think we should assume that they all know, except Lady Thomas, who expired some four years ago. If he didn’t know at Oxford, certainly before his death Eli Sands had observed the resemblance of his friend, Wilfred, to his supposed daughter, Jennifer.”
“Very probably,” Felicity said. “Now, what does all this mean?”
“Lance and I were hoping it might mean something to you and your people because he doesn’t have a clue.”
“You overestimate my powers,” Felicity said. “It certainly explains the source of Jennifer’s net worth, and the new flat and new car. I rather think the girl might be in love.”
“Given what I know of the brigadier, I find that surprising. Perhaps you can give me a female’s perspective on the attractiveness of Roger to the opposite sex?”
“Medium, I should think,” Felicity replied. “Some women are as attracted to military rank as to money, and I imagine Roger has taken advantage of that over the years.”
They were called to dinner. Stone tasted and then poured the wine. “Something else,” Stone said. “Roger disappeared from anyone’s sight for, what, three days? We wonder where he went.”
“I believe I can shed some light on that,” Felicity said. “We lost him in the south London suburbs, and we deduced that he might have been headed to one of the airports south of London. We did our due diligence and discovered that a Falcon Jet departed Biggin Hill on that day with three passengers, filed for Copenhagen. Halfway there, however, the pilots changed their destination to Sevastopol International Airport, in Crimea.”
“Ah, a holiday in the sun,” Stone said.
“We had no track of him on the ground, but he was, no doubt, taken to a house on the sea, of which there are many, dating back to tsarist times. I expect he was made comfortable there while they indoctrinated him to a satisfactory degree.”
“Do you think Roger has
inclinations toward the Russians?”
“I think Roger has inclinations toward money, and they have plenty of it to throw around, not to mention Jennifer’s fortune.”
“So, Roger has found both love and money.”
“It would seem so,” Felicity replied. “I wonder what it’s going to cost him.”
“Something else we might give some thought to,” Stone said.
“What might that be?”
“They’ve invested so much in Roger in a short time, and taken such pains to give him a new identity.”
“They certainly have,” Felicity admitted.
“The question arises: Why? What are they readying him for that would require so much effort? And why Roger rather than some clerk?”
“Yes,” Felicity said, “we will have to give that some thought.”
51
With sunlight streaming through the windows, Stone looked up at Dame Felicity, who was astride him and lacked only a whip in her inventory of inventiveness, for which he was grateful. She was smiling, and then her face became beatific, as she issued the noises of pleasure.
Finally she fell sideways into bed, limp. Stone was limp, too.
“Something we forgot last evening,” Felicity said, turning to face him.
“I didn’t think we forgot anything,” Stone said.
“Forgot to discuss,” Felicity said, giving him a light slap across the chops to focus his attention.
“Oh, that.”
“Yes, that.”
“What?”
“If our suppositions are correct, Roger has already performed a task for his Russian betters.”
“I forget,” Stone said. “What task?”
“The shooting of Vice-Admiral Simon Garr.”
“Oh, yes. He had drifted from my consciousness.”
“Well, if Roger was the assassin, why?”
“I believe,” Stone said, “having trained with him a bit at Station Two, that Roger had some skills with pistols and knives that might qualify him for such work.”
“Yes, but why Simon? He had been retired for two years and, rumor had it, was exhibiting signs of dementia. Why on earth would the Russians want him dead? And, it follows, why Roger to do the job? Lots of people are good with a pistol, and the range was only a few feet?”
“Did Roger have a connection to Garr?” Stone asked.
“They were at the Naval College together, Simon a year ahead of Roger.”
“It might be good to read both their dossiers from that time and see if there’s something else to consider.”
“Well,” Felicity said, “it couldn’t hurt.” She picked up her iPhone and tapped in a message. “There. People will be awake soon, and we’ll hear back.”
Stone sat up, picked up the room phone, and ordered breakfast, then he lay back. “It occurs to me that we would know none of this new information about Roger, or about his newfound friendship with the Russians, if you had not had him followed after you gave him the boot.”
“Probably not,” Felicity said.
“Do you have everyone followed who resigns or is fired?”
“Not usually,” she replied, “unless the leave-taking is by an employee who is sufficiently disgruntled to wish us ill.”
“And Roger was disgruntled, wasn’t he?”
“Look at it from his point of view,” she said. “First, he was transferred to Station Two, and the Scottish Highlands, in winter, is not a posting most officers of rank would think attractive.”
“One reason for disgruntlement.”
“Then, somehow or other, he’s sent to MI-6, to a posting that he is unqualified for, and he’s promoted to brigadier.”
“Would the rank come with the posting?”
“Probably. If one is a colonel and receives a promotion, then the rank would follow, or retirement. It’s the same in your services, I believe.”
“Roger has a history of blackmailing gay superiors to get better assignments, does he not?”
“Yes.”
“Who, in this case, would have been his target?”
“The foreign minister, it would seem. He’s kept a boyfriend on staff for decades, and the deputy director job was within his gift, though normally he would discuss it with me first.”
“And he didn’t this time?”
“He did not.”
“How long did Roger serve in the post?”
“He claimed it for a couple of weeks, but I don’t think he served for a minute. The only task I gave him was to go to the States, to visit your lot and have a chat with them. I had intended to keep him traveling for a year or so, then find an excuse to sack him.”
“And why did you do so sooner than planned?”
“The thing with the foreign minister came to light, however dimly, and I did it to show him I would not allow my service to be a dumping ground for the incompetent and, in Roger’s case, the disagreeable.”
“That’s two reasons for Roger to be disgruntled.”
“Correct. I ordered him watched because I thought he was angry enough to look for a way to retaliate.”
“Quite right,” Stone said.
Felicity’s phone chimed, and she read a rather long message. “There is a connection between Roger and Simon Garr,” she said. “On Roger’s first night at Dartmouth, Simon tried to bugger him, and Roger gave him a bloody nose. After that, feelings were tense between them, and there was at least one successful attempt by Roger to blackmail Simon into getting him a promotion.”
“So they hated each other?” Stone asked.
“Apparently so.”
“And that could be the motive for Roger to shoot Simon in the head? An awful lot of time had passed, had it not?”
“Yes, but they both worked at the Admiralty at one time and would have had contact there, perhaps creating other opportunities for the engendering of ill will between them.”
“I believe I’m beginning to get the idea,” Stone said.
“What idea? Why would the Russians care if there was ill will between two retired flag officers?”
“Practice,” Stone said.
“Practice? What are you talking about?”
“They wanted to see if Roger would assassinate someone, and, for insurance, they chose somebody for whom he already had ill feelings, to give him impetus. It was a practice run, and Roger passed the test.”
“I don’t understand. Practice for what?”
“Another assassination?” Stone suggested.
“All right,” Felicity replied, “that’s bizarre, but it makes a kind of sense.”
“Also,” Stone said, “if Roger is caught and charged with Simon’s murder—or, after murdering someone else—he has a motive for the killings that would not seem to involve the Russians. They can just step back and allow him to take the heat.”
“Go on.”
“I don’t know where else to go,” Stone said.
“If you’re right,” Felicity said, “then all we have to do is figure out who the Russians want assassinated next.”
“Any thoughts on that subject?” Stone asked.
“Christ, I don’t know: the prime minister? The foreign minister?”
“Somebody important,” Stone said. “I’m thinking, you.”
Felicity blanched. “He wouldn’t dare,” she said.
“Remember whose car was the target at Station Two?” Stone asked.
52
Stone waited until afternoon before phoning Lance.
“Yes, Stone?”
“Scramble.”
“Scrambled.”
“Felicity and I had dinner and thoroughly explored the why and wherefore of Brigadier Roger Fife-Simpson.”
“I’m sure that’s not all you explored,” Lance said.
S
tone ignored that. “Follow this line for a moment,” he said. “Roger leaves MI-6 by popular request, and he is disgruntled.”
“Got that.”
“Previously, he had demonstrated a strong dislike for Vice-Admiral Simon Garr, dating back to their time at Dartmouth.”
“Got that, too.”
“The Russians recruit Roger in order to use him as an assassin. His first assignment was Simon Garr.”
“Why Simon Garr? He’s been retired for some time and I hear he was having problems with dementia.”
“It was Simon Garr because, as a trial run, they wanted a target that Roger already hated. They wanted a demonstration.”
“That would be a smart move on their part, if they were uncertain whether he could or would pull it off.”
“He did pull it off, and now they consider him ready for another assassination.”
“Of whom?”
“Felicity guesses the foreign minister or perhaps even the prime minister.”
“Neither makes any sense,” Lance said.
“Why not?”
“Who assassinates a foreign minister?”
“Not an obvious target, I concede. How about the PM?”
“He’s a bumbler, and I should think the Russians are happy to have him in office.”
“Then that leaves only Felicity herself as the potential target.”
“Right. The Russians clearly want her out of the way, and Fife-Simpson hates her guts for sacking him, does he not?”
“Well,” Stone said aloud to himself, “I warned her last night.” They hung up.
* * *
—
A few minutes later Felicity rang. “After our conversation of last night, I decided to put on more security.”
“And change your routine,” Stone suggested.
“Do I have a routine?”
“Do you lunch at the same time every day? Go to the same restaurant? Do you have a regular hairdresser’s appointment? Nails? You seem to come down to the Beaulieu most weekends.”
“All right,” she said. “I have a routine.”
“You don’t have to stop doing those things, just change the order in which they are done.” Stone stopped. “Why am I giving counterintelligence advice to you, of all people, when that’s what you do for a living?”
