Stealth

by Stuart Woods

  “Nevertheless, your advice is appreciated. It shows you care what happens to me.”

  “Or rather, what doesn’t happen.”

  “If you were here right now,” she said, “I’d fuck you on my conference table.”

  “God, I hope this is a secure line.”

  “It is.”

  “How about the conference table? Will it hold up to a lot of thrashing around by two people?”

  “Certainly. Do you think I’d have a weak conference table?”

  “Do you often employ it for that purpose?”

  “No, but I’m thinking about it. Right now.”

  “It will have to wait for your next trip south, I’m afraid.”

  “All right, I’ll see you this evening.”

  “But you just got back to London.”

  “I left Beaulieu too soon.”

  “Well, if MI-6 can stand your absence I can certainly stand your presence. Come ahead.”

  “Will you give me dinner?”

  “Among other things.”

  “I can’t talk about this anymore, or I’ll do something rash.”

  “Better not.”

  “Meet me at your dock at seven.” She hung up.

  Stone hung up, but ten minutes later his phone rang: blocked caller. “Yes?”

  “The PM has just called a national security meeting at six o’clock,” Felicity said. “The son of a bitch.”

  “What’s a national security meeting?”

  “All the intelligence heads: military, MI-5, MI-6, the signals-and-codes people. All hands on deck.”

  “Does this mean there is an emergency?”

  “Probably not, or he would have summoned everyone immediately, instead of at six. More likely, the PM just wants to bloviate about something.”

  “Well, I guess you’ll have to show. How about tomorrow night? You’ve got me thinking about it.”

  “Great minds, et cetera. I can’t plan until I know what happens at the meeting. I’ll call you.”

  “I’m not sure how long I can maintain this . . . state of readiness,” he said.

  “You just relax, and I’ll attend to that at the earliest possible opportunity.”

  “Promise?”

  “Swear.” She hung up.

  53

  Stone hung up in a state of intense desire, and, if it flagged for a moment, it came back when he thought about their conversation. He and Felicity were not new to each other, but somehow, the flame still burned, and it was burning now.

  He was in bed, trying to read a book, when his phone rang: blocked caller. “Yes?”

  “All right,” she said wearily, “I’m out of the meeting.”

  “How did that go?”

  “I was right. The PM just wanted to bloviate. This always happens when we give him advice, and he ignores it, then everything goes wrong. His refrain is always, ‘Why didn’t somebody tell me?’ when everybody has told him.”

  “I suppose it’s too late to come down here now.”

  “I have an eight o’clock meeting tomorrow morning in London, and if I came down there, I’d miss it, because I’d wake up at five o’clock tomorrow morning, find you in bed with me, and want to stay all day.”

  “When, then?”

  “The weekend is as soon as I can promise.”

  “I’ll hold you to that.”

  “I’ll aim for Friday, seven PM on your dock.”

  “Have you ever been fucked on a dock?”

  “Probably, but docks have splinters. Your bed is more inviting.”

  “See you then.”

  “I’ll bring clothes for the weekend.”

  “You won’t need them, but bring them anyway, if we should have a sudden urge to dine at the Squadron.”

  “Done.” She hung up.

  * * *

  —

  On Friday evening at seven, Stone was standing on his dock, waiting, peering into the gloom, when Felicity’s boat emerged from the fog. He took her lines, made them fast, and put her suitcase on the golf cart.

  They said little until they were upstairs. “Dinner’s not until eight-thirty,” he said, and they both started shedding clothing and leapt into bed.

  “I see I need not have worried about your ability to maintain an operational level of readiness,” she said.

  “You make it sound like an MI-6 operation.”

  “Our operations are not this much fun.”

  “It happens when I clap eyes on you,” he said. “Every time.”

  They conjoined and did it looking into each other’s eyes, until Felicity rolled over and on top of him. “This is my favorite position, you know.”

  “I love the view from down here,” Stone said, reaching for her nipples.

  “And I love having both your hands on my body.”

  * * *

  —

  They stopped before exhaustion set in and dressed for dinner, then went down to the library.

  “Osso buco tonight,” Stone said. “I remember how you love it.”

  “Thank you, my dear,” she replied.

  “Tell me about your week,” he said.

  “It’s just as well I didn’t come down here Monday night,” she said. “It turned out to be a very busy week.”

  “Have you heard anything further about Roger?”

  “No, but someone brought up his name at the national security meeting.”

  “In what light?”

  “Everyone considers him a threat, now.”

  “Good. How many people do you have assigned to you right now?”

  “Four,” she replied, “and armed to the teeth.”

  “Are they outside now?”

  “Yes, and they are rentals. The desire for security among the cognoscenti is such that I have had to turn to your friends at Strategic Services to lend a hand, and no one is complaining about the cost.”

  “Tell them to get some supper from the kitchen,” Stone said.

  “They’ll appreciate that.”

  “Lance will be relieved to learn that you’re taking the threat seriously.”

  “Ah, Lance.”

  “Anything new to report re: Roger?”

  “He appears to be wallowing in connubial bliss,” she replied.

  “‘Connubial’?”

  “They went to a registry office and got married.”

  “That says something about how serious the Russians are, that they would allow that.”

  “I’m sure they encouraged it.”

  “I wouldn’t have thought that connubial bliss would be a requirement for an assassin.”

  “They clearly want him to be happy,” Felicity said. “I’m sure they think it will make him more responsive to their wishes, if he knows that, by refusing an order, he jeopardizes everything.”

  “Good point. Is anyone doing anything to rattle these people?”

  “Apparently not. Someone at the meeting had drawn up a list of Russians to knock off, should they get lucky with one of ours. A rapid response.”

  “I don’t see how that does anything preventative.”

  “Neither do I,” she replied.

  “Are your people taking any steps, other than watching my house?”

  “All of our people are now bearing upgraded arms,” she said. “Everyone now has a sniper scope with night vision capabilities. Everything is silenced, too.”

  “Well, I’m glad for them not to disturb my neighbors.”

  “You don’t really have any neighbors, Stone, except for the guests in your hotel.”

  “Especially paying neighbors.”

  She laughed and polished off her peach tart. “Now,” she said, “I’m ready to be bodily carried upstairs.”

  “I think I can just abou
t bodily drag you to the elevator,” he said, “but that’s about it.”

  “Do with me as you will,” she said.

  He picked her up and slung her over his shoulder. “I fully intend to.” He took the elevator.

  54

  On Saturday, a few hours later and eighty miles or so north, another couple, housed in Eaton Place, were having much the same experience as Stone and Felicity.

  “I’ve never been married before,” Roger breathed. “I like it.”

  “And I only once, and I didn’t like it,” Jennifer replied. “Now I do. The odd thing is, we’re doing the same things to each other that we always do, but it seems to be better because we’re married.”

  “I won’t argue with that.”

  Roger’s phone rang. “The hell with it,” he said, thrusting.

  “You have to answer it,” she said. “Otherwise, they’ll come looking for us.”

  “Shit!” he yelled but did not disengage. “Hello?”

  “Good morning, Roger,” Alex said.

  “It is, isn’t it.”

  “I trust the honeymoon is over.”

  “Don’t count on it.”

  “It’s time to talk about a new assignment.”

  “Does it have to be today?”

  “It does. Come to a shop in Burlington Arcade called Literary Antiquities, at eleven AM. Take the usual steps to avoid followers; it’s critically important today.”

  “Got it,” Roger said.

  “Don’t bring Jennifer, but you may employ her in your evasion tactics.”

  “All right.” They both hung up.

  “It was Alex, wasn’t it?” she asked, still moving with him.

  “Of course. And at the most inconvenient time.”

  “What time does he want you?”

  “Eleven AM, in three hours.”

  She increased her pace and brought him off almost immediately. “There,” she said. “Now I’ll get us some breakfast. You stay where you are.”

  Roger followed her instructions and dozed off. He was awakened by the weight of a tray on his lap. She plumped the pillows for him, and he sat up. Eggs, back bacon, buttered toast, freshly squeezed orange juice, and a pot of strong coffee on the bedside table. He tucked into it.

  “Is today likely to be another hit?”

  “I expect so,” Jennifer replied. “They know now how good you are at it.”

  “After the trial run,” he said.

  “How did you feel about that?” she asked. “You haven’t said anything.”

  “I knew it would be Garr,” he said. “They were smart to choose him.”

  “They are very smart,” she said. “Not just Alex. Everyone you met at the party. They’re the smartest people I’ve ever known.”

  “Smarter than those at Oxford?”

  “Their intelligence is less fuzzy, more directed. There’s nothing dreamy about them. Where is your meet? Do you need my help?”

  “It’s at a shop in the Burlington Arcade.”

  “Literary Antiquities?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “It’s Alex’s shop,” she said. “Or rather, Wilfred’s.”

  “Is that his real name?”

  “Yes. Wilfred Thomas.”

  “Is he English?”

  “Very much so—the third son of a duke.”

  “An aristocrat!”

  “Quite so. He’s also very likely to be my father. Did you notice a resemblance?”

  “No, but now that you mention it . . .”

  “He and the man who was supposed to be my father, Eli Sands, were at Oxford together, and they both married there.”

  “But Alex—excuse me—Wilfred and your mother were having it off?”

  “It certainly seems so. He goes out of his way to take care of me in a paternal way. He refers to himself as ‘Uncle Wilfred.’”

  “Did he recruit you?”

  “Yes, but he waited a long time.”

  “How long have you two been . . . associated?”

  “Professionally, a little over four years, since his wife died. I always saw a lot of them, especially after my father died. Wilfred stepped into the breach.”

  “Did his wife know about you?”

  “She’d have been a fool not to. I look a lot more like Wilfred than Eli.”

  “Is it odd for me to meet him at his shop?”

  “It’s unusual. I’ve only been there a few times in the past four years. I think he wants to make you more trusting of him by exposing himself a bit. We will need to be especially careful about being followed.”

  “That’s what he said.”

  A little after ten they went down to the garage. “I’ll drive today,” she said, and he got into the passenger seat. “Now, put your head in my lap and keep it there, until I let you out. If we’re under surveillance, we want them to think I’m alone and you’re back at the flat.”

  He followed her instructions.

  * * *

  —

  In a van a block from the Eaton Place flat, a voice came over the radio. “The Wren is out of the nest. She’s alone. What news from the flat?”

  “The TV is on, but I don’t hear anyone moving about. Stay on her.”

  * * *

  —

  Jennifer drove the car twice around Hyde Park Corner, then turned into Piccadilly, then left into Mayfair. She stopped behind a construction dumpster. “Out, quick,” she said.

  Roger got out, keeping low, and ducked behind the dumpster. He waited five minutes before walking back to Piccadilly and hailing a taxi. “The Savoy Hotel,” he said to the driver.

  When the cab pulled into the tunnel that led to the hotel entrance, he got out of the cab and into another, headed in the opposite direction. “Savile Row,” he said, “the middle.” In Savile Row he walked slowly up one side and down the other, peering into the tailors’ windows, checking reflections, then he made his way slowly to the Burlington Arcade with ten minutes to spare.

  He repeated his action of walking up one side and down the other, checking the shop windows. He lingered in front of Literary Antiquities, inspecting the titles in the window, then, after one last look around, went inside, as if he had decided to buy something.

  * * *

  —

  Stone called Rose.

  “Dr. McGill,” she said into the phone.

  “It’s Stone.”

  “How nice to hear your voice.”

  “And yours, as well. I’d love to see you this coming weekend.”

  “What a good idea,” she said. “I’ll take the train down on Friday, if you will have me met.”

  “I certainly will.”

  “Will Felicity be there?” she asked.

  “Would you like me to ask her?”

  “I think I would.”

  Stone thought he detected a new level of interest in Felicity in Rose’s voice.

  “Then I will ask her, if you’re comfortable with that.” He waited to see if the hint had registered.

  “I’ve been thinking about it, and I’m more comfortable with it than I had previously thought,” Rose said.

  “I’m quite sure Felicity will be comfortable with it, too.”

  “See you Friday, then,” she said, then hung up.

  Stone called Felicity’s private cell.

  “Hello, there,” she said, with warmth. “How are you?”

  “Very well, thank you. Are you contemplating another weekend at Beaulieu this coming week?”

  “I am. I was going to call you.”

  “Then come to dinner on Friday.”

  “Shall I bring my toothbrush?”

  “Just in case.”

  “In case?”

  “Rose is coming down, too, and she r
equested your company at dinner.”

  “Did she really?”

  “Really.”

  “I had thought her rather cool to the idea of . . . me.”

  “She’s given it some thought and now seems more warmly inclined to the idea of . . . you.”

  “How interesting.”

  “I thought you would find it so.”

  “How sweet of you.”

  “I’ll have you met at the dock.”

  “Oh, by the way,” she said, “my houseman, in doing some work in the cellar, came across some very fine and very old clarets. Shall I bring a couple of bottles?”

  “That would be wonderful. If you could send them over a day or two before, they can be set upright to allow the lees to settle before I decant them.”

  “I will do so,” she said. “And please tell Rose I’m looking forward to seeing her.”

  “I will.” They both hung up.

  * * *

  —

  “May I help you, sir?” a man behind a counter asked.

  “I think perhaps you may,” Roger replied. “I’m looking for an Oxford English Dictionary, second edition, nicely bound in leather.”

  Alex went to the front door, locked it, and turned over the sign to read: CLOSED. “This way,” he said, and started down a spiral staircase.

  Roger followed.

  55

  Alex put on a kettle, and it boiled almost immediately. “Tea?” he asked.

  “Earl Grey, if you have it.”

  Alex spooned tea into the pot, poured in the water, and allowed it to steep while he got down cups and saucers from a shelf, and pastries, too.

  This was very unlike Alex, Roger thought. Today he was more host than spy.

  “Milk or lemon?” he asked.

  “Lemon,” Roger replied, and Alex supplied it.

  “My real name is Wilfred Thomas,” he said as he poured the tea. He set the cups on the table next to him, picked one up, and sipped.