Stealth

20

Brigadier Roger Fife-Simpson rapped sharply with his heavy umbrella handle on the gray steel door in an alley off Charing Cross Road. A tiny window in the door opened. “Fife-Simpson,” he said to the eye behind the door.

“Wrong address,” a muffled voice said sharply, and the window closed.

Fife-Simpson rapped again, this time harder. The tiny door opened. “Yes?”

“I work here,” the brigadier replied.

“Name?”

“Brigadier Roger Fife-Simpson.”

“One moment,” the voice said, and the tiny door closed again.

The brigadier, who was not accustomed to being kept waiting on a doorstep, stood tapping a well-shod foot. Half a minute passed, and he put umbrella to steel once again.

This time, the big door opened, and a man wearing the black uniform of a commissionaire, an association of retired military people who provided reception and security services to businesses and some government officers, ushered him in. “Briefcase and umbrella on the moving belt,” he said, pointing. His uniform sleeve wore the stripes of a master sergeant.

Fife-Simpson set them down and watched them stop under a machine of some sort, then watched as the two objects were x-rayed.

“Hat,” the commissionaire said, removing it for him, turning out the lining and feeling it everywhere, then handed it back to him. “Overcoat off, please,” the man said.

Fife-Simpson shucked off the garment and handed it to him.

The man felt every square inch of the coat, then handed it back to him and gave him a very thorough frisking, not forgetting his crotch.

The commissionaire handed him a slip of paper. “Collect your things. Elevator to the sixth floor, turn left, end of the corridor,” he said.

Fife-Simpson collected his things, then got on the elevator and pressed the button, glancing at the paper. Room 630. The elevator arrived and opened, and he turned left and marched down the corridor. The door straight ahead of him opened before he could reach for the knob, and a middle-aged woman in a frumpy business suit greeted him. “Good morning, Mr. Fife-Simpson,” she said.

“Brigadier Fife-Simpson,” he replied. He then noticed that they were standing not in an office, but a kind of library, lined with steel shelving and with a matching conference table in the middle of the room, surrounded by a dozen steel chairs.

“Have a seat,” the woman said. “Your office is not ready just yet. Someone will come for you.” She stepped out of the room, closing the door behind her and leaving Fife-Simpson alone.

The brigadier looked around the room in disgust. He hung his British Warm coat on a peg beside the door, along with his umbrella, then set his briefcase and trilby hat on the table and sat down. He opened the briefcase, extracted a copy of the Daily Telegraph, and began reading the newspaper. Waiting was a skill best learned in the Royal Marines, he thought, where much of it was required.

Twenty-one minutes later the door was opened by a younger, better-dressed woman. “Good morning, Brigadier,” she said. “If you would come with me, please.”

Once again, Fife-Simpson gathered his things and followed her at a quick clip down the hallway. As they passed a set of elegant double doors on their left, she said, without slowing down, “Director’s office,” then led on to the end of the hallway, where a single door was marked with a shiny brass plate, reading DEPUTY DIRECTOR. She opened it, revealing an oak-paneled room with a desk, two chairs, a small conference table at one end with four more chairs, and two doors to his right. There was also a sofa, suitable for napping, he observed.

“Closet and loo there,” she said, pointing. Then she took his coat, hat, and umbrella from him and hung them in the closet. She produced a medium-sized buff envelope and shook the contents out onto the desktop. “Your credentials,” she said, hanging a plastic card — with his photograph, rank, and name — around his neck by a ribbon. She handed him a British passport, bound in red leather. “Your diplomatic passport,” she said. “Sign it, please.” She handed him a pen.

He opened the passport, read it to see that the information about him was correct, then signed it and returned the pen to her.

She handed him a printed sheet of paper. “Please take this to the armory, in subbasement two, where you will be issued with a weapon.” She indicated two sheets of paper on the desk. “Please sign the document on the left, which is the Official Secrets Act, and the one on the right, which is a receipt for the ID card and the passport.”

He signed them. “When may I see the director?”

“On Monday morning,” she said. “Ten AM. She is away for the weekend.”

“How may I contact her, if it should become necessary?”

“Call the main switchboard here, and they will locate her and patch you through. If she is available,” she added. She walked to a bookcase, took a book from a shelf, and handed it to him. “This is a history of the intelligence services, combined with a manual of conduct for officers. You should finish reading it before Monday morning.”

“Right,” he said. “Do I have a secretary?”

“I am your secretary,” she said. “My name is Marcia Cartwright; my office is next door, to your left, and you may ring or summon me by pressing the green button on your telephone. The red button is for the director.”

“Thank you, Ms. Cartwright,” he said.

“Please call me Marcia or Cartwright. We’re informal here — most of the time. The director’s secretary is Mrs. Prudence Green. She prefers to be addressed as Mrs. Green.”

“Thank you again,” he said, then sat down at his desk, waited for her to close the door, then opened the book she had given him and began to read.

Two hours passed, then he closed the book, picked up the weapon requisition, and made his way down to subbasement two. The door to the armory stood open, revealing a wooden counter backed by a heavy steel screen. He walked in, found a bell on the counter, and rang it.

A uniformed Royal Marines master sergeant became visible through the screen, then opened the door. “Brigadier Fife-Simpson, I presume, sir,” he said.

“Correct,” the brigadier replied.

“Welcome to MI-6, sir,” the man said. “How may I help you?”

Fife-Simpson put the requisition on the countertop. “I wish to be armed,” he replied.

“Of course, sir. What sort of weapon did you have in mind?”

“Something small, light, and concealable, perhaps a .380 semiautomatic.”

“I believe I have just the thing, sir,” the man said. “One moment.” He disappeared through the screen and returned with a wooden box. “Here we are,” he said, opening it. “A Colt Government .380, small, flat, and light. And a small, but effective, silencer.”

“Perfect,” the brigadier replied.

“What sort of holster do you require, sir?”

“Shoulder, I should think.”

The sergeant disappeared again and returned with a cardboard box. “If you’ll just slip off your jacket, I’ll fit it for you, sir.”

Fife-Simpson did so, and the sergeant slipped him into the leather and adjusted the straps. “How’s that, sir?”

The brigadier shoved the pistol into the holster. “Perfect,” he said.

“As to ammunition, would fifty rounds do you?”

“That would be good.”

“Any preference, sir? We like the Federal Hydra-Shok.”

“Very good.”

The sergeant left and returned with a plastic box; he removed the pistol from its holster, popped the magazine, and loaded it and the spare in the box speedily. He tucked the pistol back into its holster, then inserted the spare magazine and the silencer into their receptacles on the holster. “There you are, sir. Is there anything else you’d like?”

“I’d like a knife, please. A switchblade, if you have it.”

“Of course, sir.” He left and returned with another wooden box, containing a six-inch-long knife. He flicked it open and handed it to the brigadier. “Careful with it, sir. It’s razor-sharp. You could shave with it, in a pinch. And the blade is five and three-quarter inches.”

Fife-Simpson hefted the knife, felt its blade, folded it, and slipped it into a hip pocket, where his tailor had made a place for it.

“Sign here, sir,” the sergeant said, handing him the form and a pen.

The brigadier signed it, slipped on his jacket, and picked up the ammunition box. “Thank you, Sergeant,” he said. “Good day.” He left the room and marched back to his office, where he found on his desk a roast beef sandwich and a thermos of coffee and a note from Cartwright. There’s a canteen on subcellar 3, if you prefer.