by Stuart Woods
“How do you do?”
Wilfred smiled. “Very well, thank you. And so do you.”
“I do?”
“Roger, we did not recruit you merely as a matter of opportunism,” Wilfred said. “We picked you because you do not fit the profile of the usual asset. That person is a minion—a clerk, a janitor, a secretary—someone unnoticeable. You, on the other hand, are a difficult man—one who is always noticed and often disliked. The main thing noticeable about you is that you bear a grudge against the person who sacked you, and we have kept you well away from her.”
Roger nodded. “Your assessment seems correct.”
“Your grudge is, as the Americans would say, ‘gravy.’ As it was with Simon Garr.”
“You are correct.”
“Our British counterparts at MI-6 would not consider you a threat, because you would be so obvious.”
“That’s good thinking.”
“The other thing that makes you attractive to us is that you see things through. You are relentless, and not easily discouraged.”
Roger nodded. “Correct.”
“I share that trait,” Wilfred said, “but perhaps less noticeably.”
“Do you?”
“Yes, and I also have an unshakable faith in the decisions I make. You, for instance: I would not have told you my name if I believed you to be susceptible to betraying me to our fellow countrymen.”
“Thank you, Wilfred,” Roger replied.
“Nor would I have made you a Russian citizen, under the name in your new passport. That was a very strong signal to my superiors that I have absolute faith in you.”
“Thank you again,” Roger said.
“MI-5 or MI-6 will tumble to me in due course, because I am a scion of a famous British family name, Thomas. You would know my father as the Duke of Kensington.”
“Ah, yes,” Roger said, as if he hadn’t known.
“I am also,” Wilfred said, “your father-in-law.”
Roger permitted his eyebrows to rise. “You’re Jennifer’s father?”
“I am. Her supposed father and I were lifelong friends, until his death four years ago.”
“Did he know about Jennifer?”
“I expect so. The resemblance became stronger as she grew. Her mother, of course, knew. The two of us relished our secret.”
“Did you tell Jennifer?”
“No, I waited for her to suss it out, and she did. She was very pleased.”
“It must be unusual in the Russian service for a father to employ his child as an agent.”
“Not at all,” Wilfred said. “The bond of family is very strong. After all, who can you trust more?”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“Not your family, though,” Wilfred said. “You disliked your father.”
“I certainly did. Nothing I did was ever good enough for him. I was disappointed that he died before I achieved flag rank.”
“Yes, it would have given you pleasure for him to know that, wouldn’t it?”
“The greatest pleasure,” Roger admitted. “I would have loved to see his face when I told him. I dream about that, sometimes.”
“Your father knew Dame Felicity Devonshire’s father, did he not?”
“Yes, they were at school together and maintained their friendship their whole lives.”
“Your next target is Dame Felicity,” Wilfred said, then gave that a moment to sink in. “Would you have gotten pleasure from him knowing that you had killed his friend’s daughter?”
“I had never thought of that, but yes, very much so.”
“Doing so would be a great blow to British intelligence,” Wilfred said. “There’s really no one to replace her. If she were gone, whoever sat at her desk would, by definition, be inferior, perhaps even inept. The Russians have always taken pleasure in the ineptness of their British opponents. That’s why they were so fond of Kim Philby. The British knew for years that he was a mole, but they couldn’t prove it. The Russians would shoot such a person and not bother with proof.”
“Very efficient, the Russians.”
“They, as a race, also enjoy vengeance,” Wilfred said. “That is why the assassination of Dame Felicity would be what the Americans call a ‘twofer.’”
“And who would be the other half of that?” Roger said.
“Someone else you dislike,” Wilfred replied.
Roger smiled a little. “Barrington,” he said. “But what is he to Russia?”
“First of all, he has had a number of encounters with their mafia, over the years, and their mafia is, of course, very close to the government at its top. But Barrington has another, perhaps more satisfying qualification.”
“And what would that be?”
“He is quite close to Lance Cabot—a favorite, even. Cabot has recently brought him inside the CIA. Whereas before he was a consultant, he is now a personal adviser to Cabot, with the rank of deputy director.”
“What qualifications has Barrington for that rank?”
“None, apart from intelligence and wit. The rank is a mark of Cabot’s regard for him, to those both inside and outside the Agency. We have learned that this does not set well with others of that rank, and those who hope to achieve it.”
“I should think not.”
“Taking out Barrington would be a deeply painful blow to Cabot, one likely to affect his judgment. Taking out Dame Felicity would, as I have said, be a serious wound to British intelligence.”
“I see,” Roger said.
“And taking them out together, simultaneously, would be a more grievous wound than I can characterize,” Wilfred said. “Suffice it to say, it would shake the Western services to their core.”
56
Wilfred poured them another cup of tea. “This is a sufficiently important operation to employ more than one method,” he said. “You should have a choice. At Station Two, we relied on only one method.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“I think the most satisfying method would be an apparent murder-suicide. Either one could be made out to be the murderer.”
“Felicity,” Roger said. “It could be said that the pressures of her position brought this on.”
“I agree. I think it would be a very good idea, too, for Felicity to have some competition with regard to Barrington.”
“Is Felicity fucking Barrington?” Roger asked, surprised.
“For years,” Wilfred replied. “In New York, London, and at his estate, Windward Hall, which you have visited in her company.”
“Yes, I have, but I had not cottoned to their affair.”
“Felicity is a subtle woman. Still, she has her weaknesses.”
“Such as?”
“She likes both men and women in bed—preferably at the same time.”
“The woman, Rose,” Roger said, nodding. “I admire her taste in women.”
“So do I, and Barrington’s taste, as well.”
“A double murder and a suicide?” Roger asked. “How would we manage that?”
“Careful planning,” Wilfred replied. “And stealth.”
“I can’t disagree, but first we would have to get them into bed, all at the same time,” Wilfred said. “I have had word from a wiretap that they will all be at Barrington’s place next weekend.”
“Wilfred,” Roger said, “I am grateful for your confidence in me, but I cannot imagine how it would be possible to get three people in bed together and shoot them all.”
“Suppose they were all unconscious?”
“Certainly that would make it easier, but how do we induce unconsciousness? If we drugged them, an autopsy with a tox screen would reveal it and point the police to an outside killer.”
“Of course,” Wilfred said, “but our Russian friends, who are artful i
n these things, have a substance said to be made from two common household ingredients, which, when mixed, make a poison that works in a few minutes and is chemically untraceable.”
“What are the ingredients?” Roger asked.
“I don’t know—and I don’t want to know,” Wilfred replied. “If they became public knowledge there would be an immediate rash of unexplained domestic deaths in this country and around the world.”
“I suppose so,” Roger said. “But the Russians have it?”
“They are geniuses at poisoning. Take, for example, the deaths of former GRU agents in Britain.”
“Yes, but those don’t meet the standard of being untraceable. They were analyzed quite quickly.”
“That was the old days, so to speak. With this poison we have entered a new era. In fact, if we were able to introduce it into the food or drink of these three people, it would be the first professional use of the poison—that we know of.”
“Ah, yes, ‘that we know of.’”
“In order to accomplish our mission as planned,” Wilfred said, “they would have to die at a meal or at tea, then be removed to a bedroom, undressed, and suitably posed and shot.”
Roger shook his head. “I fail to see how such a mission could be accomplished with my skills alone.”
“Perhaps we could have a complimentary dessert delivered to the house from someone they know and trust.”
“For instance?”
“Perhaps from the Duke of Kensington.”
“Your father?”
“My father once was an officer in MI-6, and his father served in Britain’s Special Operations Executive during World War II. The current duke has had Felicity and Barrington to dinner in his London house.”
“Rose, too?”
“No, but we have to convince only Felicity and Barrington of the genuineness of the gift.”
“But why would the duke, out of the blue, send them pastries?”
“A good point,” Wilfred said. “Let’s set aside the poisoning for the moment and discuss other methods.”
“Good,” Roger replied, relieved.
“There are also your skills with the pistol and, particularly, the knife.”
“A woman does not kill two lovers with a knife, then commit suicide by the same method.”
“I was bypassing the suicide and going straight to murder.”
“That would deprive us of besmirching the reputation of Dame Felicity,” Roger pointed out.
“Let’s call it a last resort,” Wilfred said.
“Right. How about wine?”
“How do we induce them to drink it?” Wilfred asked.
“We’d need something really special, like a Château Lafite Rothschild 1929, or 1945.”
“And how would we obtain that?”
“At auction,” Roger said, “but it would cost many thousands of pounds.”
Wilfred shook his head. “Our Russian friends, while generous, do not dispense hard currency with alacrity.”
“If we could obtain a bottle, we could fill it with a lesser, more affordable wine, then reseal it.”
“But where would one find an empty Lafite ’29 bottle?” Wilfred asked.
They both thought about it for a while.
“I’m stumped,” Roger said.
They thought some more.
“Let me present you with another alternative,” Wilfred said, rising from his seat and going to a bookcase filled with bound volumes. He took down two and put them on his desk.”
Roger opened one. The title page read: The Short Oxford English Dictionary.
“I bound these myself,” Wilfred said. “The two volumes are more manageable than the entire twenty-volume set.” He opened one nearer the center, to reveal its contents. “Plastique explosive, a detonator, and a cell phone,” he said, pointing to each item. “In both volumes. Perhaps under the bed for setting off at the appropriate moment.”
“How would you deliver the package?” Roger asked.
“Our Russian friends have a large variety of skills at their disposal,” Wilfred said. “I will engage them and get back to you.”
“Thank you,” Roger said, relieved. “I’m perfectly willing to kill them all, but I don’t want to get caught doing it.”
“I understand,” Wilfred replied. “Let’s discuss time.”
“When I had dinner there before, it was called for seven,” Roger said. “Felicity and I arrived by boat, at Barrington’s dock.”
“Where did you dine, and how was the wine handled?”
“We dined in the library, and the wine was already on the table, ready for decanting. I suppose the butler had brought it from the cellar.”
“You will have to find a way to have access to the wine for, perhaps, half a minute.”
“If dinner is at seven, then at six, Barrington and Rose will be dressing for dinner.”
“Then there’s your opportunity,” Wilfred said.
57
Thursday morning, Felicity’s boatman delivered two bottles of claret to the kitchen, and Stone inspected them: a Château Palmer 1961 and a Mouton Rothschild 1978. He set them upright in a corner of the kitchen. “I’ll decant these at table tomorrow night,” he said to the cook. “Please leave them as they are until then.”
* * *
—
Lance got into his office on Friday morning at eight, as usual. He was surprised to find the deputy director for operations, his DDO, awaiting him in his reception room, sipping coffee.
“Good morning, Hugh,” Lance said. He unlocked his office door with his code. “Come in, please. You’re up early.”
The two men took seats on the sofa in Lance’s office, and he poured himself coffee from a thermos his secretary had left there. “More?”
“Thank you, yes,” Hugh English said, pushing his mug over.
Lance poured the coffee. “What brings you to see me?”
Hugh handed him two sheets of paper. “This came in late yesterday. I’m afraid the transmission was very broken, but what’s there is of concern.”
Lance read down the two sheets, trying to mentally fill in the gaps. He did not like what he saw. “Where was this recorded?”
“In the basement workshop at a book bindery and antique-book store in London.”
“The one in the Burlington Arcade?”
“That’s it. Owned and operated by Wilfred Thomas, the Earl of Chelsea.”
“Ah, yes, the duke’s third. What do you make of it?”
“It sounds very much, in the earlier part of the transcript, as if the earl has intentions where Felicity Devonshire and Stone Barrington are concerned.”
Lance read the two pages more carefully. “I see what you mean, but I’m unable to discern when, where, or by what means—not from this.”
“Yes, we did better with the early part of the meeting, though we could not identify the second party, and we have been unable to fully read or hear the latter part.”
“Can the recording be enhanced?”
“That is the enhanced version,” English replied.
“Well, there is nothing here that would allow us to mount a defensive operation.”
“That is my opinion, as well.”
“All I can do is warn Stone and Felicity to exercise care in their movements. I will make those calls.”
“Lance, may I ask: Why is Barrington of interest to you?”
“He has been very useful in the past, and I expect him to be more so in the future.”
“To the extent of giving him the deputy director rank?”
“In my judgment, yes. It gives him credibility.”
“But you’ve not made an official announcement.”
“Word will get around quickly,” Lance said. “I’ve seen to that.”
English slapped his knees and rose. “Well, then,” he said, “I suppose I will just have to rely on your judgment.”
“That is so,” Lance said.
“Good morning, then.”
Lance waited for the door to close behind him, then moved to his desk and called Stone on his Agency iPhone. The phone rang six times, then there was a beep.
“Call me,” Lance said, then hung up. He could not leave a longer message because Stone was not at the other end to scramble.
* * *
—
Stone asked for the gelding and rode alone around the property and that of the adjoining country hotel, which he looked upon as an extension of his estate. The weather was glorious and promised to be until Saturday evening, when a front would move in. Finally, he turned back toward the house and rode slowly, to cool down the animal.
* * *
—
At noon, Lance, having not heard back from Stone, called him again and again got no answer. He waited for the beep, then said, “Urgent.”
* * *
—
A van marked BRITISH GAS pulled up at the rear of the house, and a man in a work uniform got out carrying a canvas bag and went to the kitchen door, which stood open. He stepped inside and found the workspace deserted. He looked carefully around and his eye fell on two bottles of wine on a corner counter.
He slipped on a pair of latex gloves and walked over to the corner. Clearly, they were old and quite dusty. He picked up a bottle and wiped the label with his thumb; it was very old. He set the bottle down, reached into the canvas bag and withdrew a small, zippered leather case, then unzipped it. It held a syringe containing a colorless liquid and a capped needle. This particular needle would not be long enough to penetrate the corks of the bottles, so he replaced it with a longer, thinner needle.
He held the syringe perpendicular to the cork and slowly pushed it through the lead capsule and into the bottle. He pressed the plunger and squirted half the liquid into the bottle, then he began to slowly withdraw the needle. His fingers slipped momentarily, and the needle snapped off, leaving half of it in the cork, its end concealed by the capsule. “Shit!” he said.
