Stealth

33

The morning after his meeting with the First Sea Lord, Brigadier Fife-Simpson had another phone call.

“Hello?”

“This that Brigadier Fife-Simpson?” a woman asked.

“It is.”

“This is Captain Helen Frogg. I’m calling on behalf of the Commandant General of the Royal Marines, General Sir Jeremy Pink.”

“Yes?”

“You are requested to present yourself to the commandant at Naval Headquarters in Whitehall at three o’clock this afternoon.”

“Yes, I’ll be there.”

“Thank you, Brigadier.” She hung up.

Now there was a ray of hope in the gloom, the brigadier felt. Otherwise he would not be seeing the commandant. He took his uniform to the neighborhood dry cleaners and waited while it was pressed, then he returned to his flat and got into it.

At three o’clock sharp, the brigadier presented himself at the offices of the commandant, and, to his surprise, was not kept waiting but told to go straight in. He marched into the office, braced, and saluted. “Brigadier Fife-Simpson reporting as ordered. Good morning, Commandant.”

Instead of being asked to sit, the commandant rose from his desk and directed the brigadier to the conference table at one end of his office, where there were some papers stacked, then told to sit. He did, and the commandant sat opposite him at the table.

“Now then, Brigadier,” he said, “at the request of the First Sea Lord, I am presenting you with two options. First, there is the post of commander of the Royal Marine detachment in the Falkland Islands.” His nose wrinkled. “I’ve served there, and I don’t recommend either the climate or the landscape. The sailing is pretty good, though, if you have a yacht. Alternatively, I am pleased to tell you that, after the intervention of the First Sea Lord, the promotions board has, in your case, agreed to waive the thirty-year-service requirement for full retirement pay and benefits. Your choice is clear: If you wish to accept the Falklands posting, kindly sign the documents on your left. If you, alternatively, wish to accept retirement with immediate effect and full benefits, kindly sign the document on your right.” The commandant took a fountain pen from his jacket pocket, unscrewed the cap, and laid the instrument on the table between the documents.

“Sir...”

The commandant interrupted him. “I assure you, Brigadier, there is no other posting available.”

The brigadier picked up the pen, thought briefly of the Falklands, then signed his retirement document.

The commandant picked up his pen, screwed on the cap, returned it to his pocket, and stood, gathering and sorting papers.

The brigadier stood and saluted him.

The commandant offered him a handshake and thanks for his service.

Thus dismissed, the brigadier turned and, with an envelope containing his retirement documents and those explaining the terms, marched out of the office and into civilian life.

An hour later, Fife-Simpson sat in the bar of the Naval and Military Club, in St. James’s Square, known to its members as the “In & Out.” The brigadier was definitely Out and not In. Out meant more rain that day, and foolishly not having brought an umbrella with him to Whitehall and not having been able to raise a cab, he had been forced to walk the distance between the two.

“I say, Roger,” a voice said. “Is that you?” A man in a business suit sat down on the stool next to him.

Fife-Simpson turned and looked at him. A colonel of his acquaintance. “Hello, Nigel,” he said.

“You’re looking a bit damp, there, you know? Surely the valet will press your uniform for you.”

“Yes, he would, if I chose to spend an hour in his steamy back room. I don’t believe they’d allow me to drink here in my skivvies.”

“Ho, ho, ho, I imagine not. I read of your promotion in the Telegraph,” Nigel said. “What have they got you doing now?”

“Well, I commanded Station Two, MI-6’s training camp, for six months. Then I was made deputy director of MI-6. Mind you, that’s between you and me and the lamppost. They don’t like us talking.”

“And is that good work?”

“Not really. Not enough to do, so I packed it in — today.”

“I hadn’t realized you’d cracked the thirty-year mark.”

“I hadn’t, but the board made an exception,” Fife-Simpson replied, then realized that he had just told this very talkative man that he had been sacked. “They offered me a command,” he said quickly, “but I decided to pack it in.”

“Oh? What did they offer you?”

Fife-Simpson scrambled for a plausible story, then gave it up. “What are you doing with yourself, Nigel?”

“Oh, I’ve got number 44 Commandos,” he replied. “Not that we have a lot to do these days, except train.” He glanced at his watch. “Oh, God, my wife is standing on a street corner at Harrods. I must flee.” He clapped the brigadier on the back. “Cheerio,” he said and then fled, leaving the brigadier to himself.

Fife-Simpson poured the remainder of Nigel’s whisky into his own glass. Must be frugal from now on, he thought.

Then he thought again. With his pension and the income from his father’s estate, he would be doing rather nicely — better than half again his pay as a brigadier. He polished off his drink. “Another,” he said to the bartender. He could afford it.

He took his drink to a chair beside the fire and fell into it. He’d dry faster here.

Sometime later, someone shook his shoulder. “Excuse me, Brigadier, will you be having dinner?”

Fife-Simpson took a moment to reorient himself. It was dark outside, and still raining. “Yes, thank you. I’ll go right in.” He got unsteadily to his feet, and looked for the lavatory, then he went into a stall and threw up. He went to a sink and splashed water on his face, then regarded it in the mirror. He seemed to have aged since yesterday.

He went into the dining room and took a table alone, avoiding the common table where the unaccompanied dined.

As he picked at his steak and kidney pudding, clearheaded now, he began to look back on the past few months. He had put a foot wrong somewhere, and he tried to pinpoint when.

On consideration, he decided he should have stayed at Station Two. God knew it was not comfortable, but it was better than having nothing to do at MI-6 and a damn sight better than the Falklands. It was the gambit that got him made deputy director that had been his downfall, he reckoned. That and the business with the attack on the station and the wrecking of Dame Felicity’s goddamned Aston Martin. He should have smoothed that over and stayed where he was for at least another year, before he prodded Tim Barnes to promote and reassign him.

Then, he realized, there was something else: that fellow Barrington, who had lost control of the car. That was the precipitating factor of his slide. It had shone too much attention on him at the wrong time. He felt nothing but hostility for Dame Felicity, too.

He began to think: there must be a way to make the bastards pay.