Stealth

26

Stone was enjoying an upward view of Rose while on his back in bed, when her mind seemed to wander.

“Why, do you think,” she asked, in the midst of regular movements, “that Lance Cabot would speak as he did about the brigadier in our presence?”

“Yours and mine?” he asked.

“Yes. I can well understand why he would make those remarks to Felicity in private, but why also to you and me?” She stopped moving.

“Pardon me,” Stone said, “but may we delay the discussion of Lance’s motives, which are always obscure, for a few minutes?” He gave her a little thrust to bring her mind back to the business at hand.

“Of course,” she said, responding to his action. She concentrated her mind until they had both reached the peak of their desire and then descended rapidly.

“Now,” she said, tucking her head into his shoulder, “where were we?”

“Lance’s motives,” Stone replied, still panting.

“Which are always obscure?”

“Always. I think it’s the nature of his work that causes him not to want anyone to know all of what he is thinking at any given moment.”

“What do you think he was thinking?” she asked.

“First,” Stone said, “I think he wanted to give Felicity the ammunition she might need to deal with the brigadier.”

“Obviously. And beyond that?”

“Beyond that is the no-man’s-land of Lance’s consciousness.”

“I think Lance knows the brigadier much better than he has admitted to us,” she said.

“That’s an interesting observation,” Stone admitted.

“After all,” Rose said, “he did offer to dismember the man.”

“I think that was most probably metaphorical.”

“Do you think Lance incapable of cutting someone into pieces?”

“Personally? Probably not. I do think him capable of ordering someone else to do it, though in the subtlest sort of way.”

“So do I,” Rose replied.

“On such short acquaintance?”

“I’m rather good at making accurate assumptions about people on short acquaintance,” she said. “You, for instance.”

“How so?”

“I learned a good deal about you from the way you handled Fife-Simpson while flat on your back in a hospital bed.”

“I confess, I don’t like being pushed around.”

“Hardly anyone does, but you engaged him in a way he was unaccustomed to, and set him back on his heels. That requires character. But you didn’t engage him physically.”

“Well, I thought I had a broken foot,” Stone said.

Rose laughed. “Discretion is a part of character, too, as well as valor.”

“I’ll try to remember that.”

“Tell me, have you often engaged in physicality?”

“Didn’t we just do that?”

“I was referring to fighting.”

“I was a police officer for many years, and as such, I had to be ready to meet physical resistance. People don’t like being handcuffed and stuffed in the back of a police car, and they often resist.”

“How did you handle that?”

“As quickly as possible. I learned early on that, in a fight, the first blow is very important. Properly struck, it discourages further argument.”

“That’s good advice,” she said. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

“Are you planning to fight someone?”

“Not at the moment, but you never know.”

“I’ll tread carefully around you, then.”

“Not too carefully, please.”

And a moment later, they were back at it.

Lance finished a late lunch, got out his cell phone, tapped in the code to scramble the signal, and called CIA headquarters.

“Meg Tillman,” a husky voice said.

“Is our guest still with us?”

“He is, and bored rigid, I should think. He plans to drive back to D.C. at midday.”

“Before he departs, take him down to Camp Peary, equip him with protective gear and a knife of his choice, and introduce him to Wu. When he’s done there, send him on his way with a hearty handshake and a slap on the back.”

“Understood,” she replied. “I think I speak for all the people he’s met when I say, ‘good riddance.’”

Lance laughed, then hung up.

Meg put away her phone and went to find the brigadier, who was in the break room, finishing a cup of tea. “Do you have time for one more visit?” she asked.

“To where?”

“Our training facility. The director thought you might enjoy meeting someone there.”

Fife-Simpson sighed, put down his teacup, and followed her from the building. They crossed a hundred yards of well-kept lawn and entered another building.

“We’ve heard that you prefer the knife as a weapon,” Meg said, “and we thought our approach to attack and defense might interest you.”

“Of course,” Fife-Simpson replied.

She took him into an equipment room and supplied him with a thick canvas jumpsuit and a protective upper-body garment that, when zipped up, gave him a shield from his chin to his crotch, and the sleeves of which stopped below his knuckle. “Suit up. You can put your things in a locker, there. I’ll be waiting through that door.” She pointed.

Fife-Simpson liked the garment he was donning; he thought it might soothe the fears of some of his students at Station Two. He opened the door and stepped into a room of about twelve by eighteen feet, with a thickly padded floor and walls, up to about six feet. Meg was sitting on a bench at his right, and she stood up and beckoned him to a cabinet, opening the doors to reveal a couple dozen knives and other hand weapons.

“Please select something,” she said.

Fife-Simpson chose an ordinary-looking, but very sharp, field knife. “This, I should think,” he said.

“Good,” Meg replied. “Now, may I introduce you to Mr. Wu?”

Fife-Simpson turned and found an Asian man standing in the center of the room, dressed in gym shorts and nothing else. He appeared to be unarmed, and the brigadier had not heard him enter. The man beckoned, then pointed at a spot on the padded floor, about six feet in front of him.

Fife-Simpson walked out onto the floor and stopped.

Wu stood, feet slightly apart, empty hands at his sides. He had thick, cropped black hair and bland features. He beckoned with both hands. “Attack me, please,” he said.

Fife-Simpson shook his head and said, “You are unarmed. I have you at a disadvantage.”

“Perhaps not,” Wu replied. “Attack me, please,” he repeated.

Fife-Simpson felt a trickle of fear run down his bowels, but he shook it off, assumed a fighting stance, and circled to his left.

Wu turned with him, but made no other movement.

Fife-Simpson feinted a couple of times, but Wu had no reaction. Oh, what the hell, Fife-Simpson thought to himself, and lunged at the man’s face. He was very quick, but Wu was quicker. He caught the brigadier’s wrist, and Fife-Simpson found himself on his belly, his own knife blade pressed against his throat. What the hell was that? he asked himself.

Wu took the knife away and stood up, beckoning Fife-Simpson to do the same. He tossed the knife to the brigadier, who caught it blade first, cutting his finger.

“Again,” Wu said, beckoning.

Fife-Simpson was angry and embarrassed now and did not hold back. He feinted, and tossed the knife from one hand to the other, a maneuver that usually worried his opponents.

Wu simply caught the knife in midair and tossed it back to his attacker, who was struck in the chest by the blade.

Fife-Simpson was grateful for the protective gear now, because without it he would have had a knife blade in his heart. Wu was still beckoning with both hands.

The brigadier recovered the knife and, with no hesitation, flung himself feet first into a leg tackle, bringing Wu to his knees, but no further. There was the flash of a hand and Fife-Simspon found himself flat on his back, with the knife blade laid against his cheek, the tip a quarter-inch from his eye.

Wu looked at Meg questioningly. She gave him a slight nod.

Fife-Simpson was yanked to his feet, and the knife was tossed to him again.

“Once more,” Wu said softly.

Fife-Simpson was humiliated and furious now. He drew himself into a coil — his left arm before him, bent at the elbow, fist clenched — and flung himself at Wu, slashing back and forth, a maneuver designed to hit his opponent anywhere, and with enough force to mark his body and bring blood.

Fife-Simpson found himself flying through the air. He struck the padded wall with more force than he had expended, then collapsed in a heap. He felt a warm trickle down one side of his nose, which found his lips and tasted a little salty.

“Enough!” Meg called out.

Fife-Simpson staggered to his feet, blinded in one eye by blood.

“Over here,” Meg said.

Fife-Simpson staggered across the matted floor to where she stood. A young man stood beside her, holding what appeared to be a fishing tackle case.

She stripped the protective clothing off him. “Lie down on the bench, face up,” Meg said.

Fife-Simpson followed her every instruction instantly, and the young man spent several minutes suturing and then bandaging his forehead and finger.

A half hour later, Fife-Simpson was driving his car through the gate of Camp Peary and onto the public road, following instructions to the motorway back to Washington, wondering what the hell had happened to him, and why.