Stealth

30

Brigadier Fife-Simpson stepped out of customs in Nice and into the main hall. He immediately spotted a man in a dark suit holding a sign bearing his name. He checked his watch. His flight had been forty minutes late, and customs had taken longer than he had expected. Roger handed the man his luggage and followed him outside to the curb, where a Mercedes awaited.

A half hour later, after a drive past many beautiful houses, the car turned into a driveway guarded by a high hedge and drove to the front door of a charming cottage, where two servants met and greeted him effusively and took his luggage inside. He was shown to a large, comfortable bedroom, where a massage table had been set up.

He was offered food and drink and opted for the drink, in order to keep the champagne buzz from the flight going.

“Your massage therapist is due in half an hour,” Marie said. “There is a robe in your bathroom.”

He unpacked, changed into the robe, and was seated in a cushy chair when Marie returned with his large whisky. “Enjoy,” she said.

A few minutes later, his whisky gone, there was a knock on the door and a handsome, muscular, young man in a tight-fitting polo shirt entered, carrying a case. Fife-Simpson had expected a woman, but what the hell.

“Good afternoon,” the young man said. “My name is Pierre.” He set his case on the floor and indicated that Roger should mount the massage table, facedown. “Are you well today?” Pierre asked, helping him get comfortable.

“I’m a bit tired,” Roger said.

“Perhaps what would help is a small injection of vitamin B-twelve,” Pierre said. “I am licensed to administer it, and it will greatly enhance your massage experience.”

“Oh, all right,” Roger replied.

“Just a little pinch,” Pierre said. Roger felt a stab in a buttock. “There, now just relax.” He lowered the sheet and began rubbing Roger’s back.

Roger took a few deep breaths, then drifted off.

Pierre pinched his other buttock, hard. “Feel that?” No response. Pierre went to the bed and pulled back the covers, then he lifted Fife-Simpson bodily and carried him there. He took note of the camera positions in the crown molding, then put on a baseball cap, the bill of which would shield his face from view. He stripped off his own clothing, massaged himself until he was engorged and camera-ready, then turned Fife-Simpson on his belly and began posing him in various positions.

Roger came slowly awake, lying on his back, as the masseur massaged his legs, then pulled the sheet over him.

“There,” Pierre said. “Did you enjoy your massage?”

“Yes,” Roger muttered. “Very nice.”

“I will go now, and you may continue to rest, if you wish. Marie will put away the massage table later.” Pierre closed his case, picked it up, and departed.

In London, back at the Circus, Sims opened the door to the operations room and admitted Dame Felicity.

“How did it go?” she asked.

“Perfectly,” Sims replied. “Pierre gave us everything we could possibly want, not to mention what he gave the brigadier.”

“Let me see the tapes.” She took a chair and watched the array of monitors before her, each aimed at the massage table from different angles. The masseur entered the room, Fife-Simpson climbed onto the table, and, after a moment, the injection was administered, and he seemed to fall asleep.

Felicity watched with amazement, her eyes flicking from one monitor to the next, while Pierre, who had the largest penis she had ever seen, turned his attentions to his client. “My God,” she said, after half a minute of this, then she stood up. “All right, I’ve seen quite enough,” she said. “I’ll leave you to it.”

“Thank you for joining us, Director. Now we’ll edit the raw footage, you should excuse the expression, into a harmonious whole and transfer it to our special website. Once done, I’ll give you the code and password.”

“Jolly good,” she said. “I’ll see the final cut on the website when you’re done.”

“I’ll call you,” Sims said.

Back in her office, Felicity phoned Admiral Sir Timothy Barnes. “Scramble,” she said.

“Scrambled,” Barnes replied.

“The brigadier arrived pretty much on schedule, and things went very much as planned,” she said.

“I’m glad it went well.”

“Tell me, Tim. Is Roger likely to come back to you for a favorable reassignment?”

“I think that’s quite likely,” Barnes replied, “given his past conduct.”

“I think it might be appropriate if you found him a post in a setting somewhat less comfortable than the Scottish Highlands — something more remote, perhaps.”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” Barnes replied, “and we have an upcoming vacancy. Something that might cause him to consider retirement.”

“Anything available at either the north or south poles?” Felicity asked, archly.

Barnes laughed heartily. “I wish,” he said. “Oh, I wish.”

“I’m sure whatever you have in mind will do very nicely,” she said. “Let me know of his final disposition.”

“I shall do so,” Barnes replied.

She heard a knock on her door. “Hold on a moment, Tim,” Felicity said. “Come in!”

Sims entered and handed her a slip of paper. “Here are the entry code and password to the website,” he said. “Everything will be up and running by five PM. And, by the way, we’re adding some dialogue to the audio — grunts and ecstatic groans.”

She turned back to her phone conversation. “Tim?”

“I’m here.”

“I’m going to read you the entry code and password to a highly secret website, created especially for this event. After five o’clock, you’ll be able to view the brigadier’s holiday video.”

“That’s grand, Felicity. I’ll pass it on to the First Lord of the Admiralty and the foreign minister. I don’t think it will need to go any further than that.”

“That should be quite far enough,” she replied. “When it has done its work we’ll archive it, just in case it’s needed in the future.”

They both said goodbye and hung up.