Stealth

23

Lance Cabot was in a meeting with an operations team about to embark on a mission when he was handed a note. A Brigadier Fife-Simpson to see you, it read.

“Tell him to wait,” he said, then continued with his meeting.

Forty minutes later the meeting broke up, and he buzzed his secretary. “Send in the brigadier,” he said.

A moment later they were shaking hands. Fife-Simpson was dressing a lot better than the last time he had seen him, Lance thought.

“Lance, how are you?”

“Very well, Roger,” Lance replied, waving him to a seat. “Coffee?”

“I had some while I was waiting,” Roger replied.

“Yes, sorry about that. I was sending a couple of young men off to their deaths.”

“I don’t suppose you could tell me about their mission.”

“You ‘don’t suppose’ correctly,” Lance said. “First, we’d have to clear you from your birth to this date, and you know how long that sort of thing takes.”

“Well, yes, I suppose I do,” Roger replied.

“Tell me, how long did it take to clear you at MI-6, after Admiral Sir Timothy Barnes shoved you down their throats?”

“Well, I don’t think it was quite like that,” Roger replied uncomfortably.

“Of course it was, Roger,” Lance replied. “You don’t actually think Dame Felicity was glad to see you, do you?”

“Dame Felicity has been very cordial,” Roger said stiffly.

“You and Sir Tim were at some school or other at the same time, weren’t you?”

“Yes, we were midshipmen at Dartmouth. He chose the Royal Navy, I chose the Royal Marines.”

“And now he’s First Sea Lord, I believe?”

“That is correct.”

“In a perfect position to throw a bone to an old midshipman chum.”

“I suppose you could put it that way.”

“The way I heard it was that you were about to be passed over for promotion for the second time, which would have necessitated retirement, when Sir Tim saved your ass, pulled you back from the brink. Did you once save his life, or something?”

“Something like that,” Roger replied.

“No, no, not his life, his career, wasn’t it? Sort of the same thing, I guess.”

“I’d rather not go into that.”

“Why not? Being queer isn’t a crime in Britain anymore — though it is, perhaps, a no-no for a high-ranking military member of the government. Whose arm did old Tim twist? The foreign minister’s, perhaps? After all, MI-6 comes under his purview.”

“Lance, I don’t think you should bandy about notions of that sort,” the brigadier said. “They might come back to bite you on the arse.”

“Of course, you’re right, Roger, and I try to keep my ass out of the way of people like Sir Timothy.”

“Good. I’m looking forward to seeing a bit of your shop,” Fife-Simpson said, desperately trying to change the subject.

Lance scratched his head. “There was another incident in which you and Sir Tim participated, I believe. Let’s see, what was it?”

Lance’s phone buzzed, and he picked it up. “Send her in, please.” He hung up and turned to Fife-Simpson. “One of our brilliant young ladies is going to be your shepherd in our meadow.”

Fife-Simpson was vastly relieved that Lance had been interrupted.

There was a rap on the door, and a middle-aged woman with a cropped haircut and dressed in a baggy tweed suit entered the room.

“Ah, here we are,” Lance said. “Meg Tillman, this is Brigadier Sir... Excuse me, I’m getting ahead of myself... Brigadier Roger Fife-Simpson, the shiny new deputy director of MI-6, an organization that has never had a deputy director until the brigadier came along and impressed everybody. Roger, Meg is known around our shop as one of our brightest minds, and she is an expert on our history and mission. She’s going to give you the two-and-a-half-dollar tour of both Langley and Camp Peary, our training facility, and answer all your questions.”

Lance stood up. “Oh, I remember the other thing now. You and Sir Tim served in Belfast together, didn’t you?”

“We did. We were both young lieutenants at the time.” He made to move toward his guide, but Lance held him back.

“Let’s see, as legend has it, you two young fellows were in search of — how shall I put it? — just the right sort of bar... weren’t you? And you somehow got it wrong and ended up in a nest of IRA vipers and were set upon. You managed to occupy their attention long enough for Lieutenant Tim to fetch a squad of British military policemen, and they got to you in the nick of time, just before the Irish would have cut your balls off.”

“That’s not quite the way it happened,” Roger said, blushing.

“Oh, of course it was. I was in Belfast at the time, at the Royal Ulster Hospital’s casualty ward, getting a flesh wound attended to, when they brought you in. You were a mess. Sir Tim was very upset about it, I recall, and you spent a few days in hospital, closely attended by your friend.”

“It was quite different...”

“Well, Meg,” Lance interrupted, “off with you both, and don’t skip anything. I expect the brigadier would love to see our technical services shop — the Brits always love that.” He leaned over and whispered, “In your travels, be sure and introduce the brigadier to Mr. Wu at Camp Peary.” He shooed them out the door and shut it behind them, then heaved a great sigh of satisfaction.

Lance dug out his cell phone and looked up a number. “Hello, Stone?”

“Yes, Lance,” Stone replied.

“Where are you?”

“In England,” Stone said.

“Oh, that’s right, that’s why I’m calling. I’m headed to London this evening, and I wondered if I could drop down to the Beaulieu River and see your magnificent house there this weekend. Can you put me up?”

“Of course, Lance. Call me from London and give me your arrival time, and I’ll have you met at the station.”

“Not to worry, I’ll be driving, or, rather, driven. Look for me in time for drinks on Friday. Shall I bring a dinner suit?”

“I suppose so. Shall I invite Felicity?”

“Please do. I’ll have some amusing stories to tell you both about a mutual friend who’s visiting us as we speak.