Stealth

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.

Stone 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?”

“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.