Stealth

37

Brigadier Roger Fife-Simpson arrived at his usual pub, the Grenadier, in Wilton Row, as the five o’clock crowd had begun to diminish. He hated it when all the Millennials were jammed into the small bar after work; it was more pleasant in the early evening.

He sat down and motioned to Tom, the barman of many years’ standing, for his usual large scotch, and it was delivered.

“Brigadier,” Tom said, setting down the glass.

“Tom,” he replied.

They chatted briefly, then a woman sat down a stool away from Fife-Simpson. She tried to hang her umbrella on the bar, but it slipped and fell to the floor.

“Let me get that for you,” Roger said. He picked up the umbrella and handed it to her.

“Thank you so much,” she said.

“May I offer you a drink?”

She smiled. “Thank you. A gin and tonic, please.”

Tom brought the drink.

“I haven’t seen you here before,” Roger said. “Are you a local?”

“I’m a new local,” she replied. “Just moved into the neighborhood yesterday.” Her accent was straight, old-fashioned BBC — no detectable regional accent.

“Well, you’ve chosen the right pub,” he said.

“And the right neighbor,” she replied, offering her hand. “My name is Jennifer Sands.”

“Roger Fife-Simpson,” he said, taking the hand. She was blond, buxom, fair-skinned — late thirties, he thought. “Where did you live before?” he asked.

“In the country,” she replied. “Oxfordshire.”

“Did work bring you to London?”

“No, my work is portable. I’m a writer.”

“What sort of writing?” he asked.

“Fiction, mostly short stories for literary magazines,” she replied, “but I’ve started a novel.”

“A major undertaking,” he said, nodding sagely.

They continued that way for a few minutes. “Why don’t we adjourn to the dining room for a bit of supper?” he suggested.

“That would be very nice,” she replied.

He got them a table and menus, and they ordered.

“But enough about me,” she said. “What work do you do?”

“I’m recently retired from the Royal Marines,” he said. “As a brigadier general.”

“That’s impressive,” she replied. “Were you a commando?”

“In my extreme youth,” he replied. “My penultimate assignment was commanding the training academy for one of the intelligence services.”

“Which one? I get them confused.”

“MI-6, foreign intelligence.”

“So, you were training spies?”

“I was.”

“What did you teach them?”

“Everything from basic tradecraft to personal combat. It’s a very vigorous course.”

“How fascinating! You said that was your ‘penultimate assignment.’ What was your ultimate?”

“Deputy director of the service,” he replied, in a mock whisper.

“That must have been fascinating!”

“It was rather dull, if the truth be known, after all the action of my earlier years. Most of which I can’t talk about, of course.”

“Were you a spy?”

“If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

She laughed as if she’d never heard the stale joke before.

They had another drink before dinner, then he ordered a fine claret with their food. By the time they got to the port, the brigadier was flying high, and Jennifer seemed to be as well.

“Where is your flat?” he asked.

“Just up the mews,” she said. “Only a few steps away. Would you like to stop in for a nightcap?”

“I’d like that very much.” He waved for the bill and paid, then they left.

There had been a little rain, and the cobblestones were shiny in the lamplight. She led them to a small mews house and unlocked the front door.

He looked around. There was handsome furniture and good pictures. “This is quite elegant,” he said.

“A friend owns the leasehold,” she said. “I rent from him.” She went to the small fireplace and lit the gas flame. “Cognac?”

“Perfect,” he said.

She poured them both a drink and settled onto the small Chesterfield sofa before the fireplace, patting the seat next to her. “Come, sit.”

He joined her, and they sat thigh to thigh. She turned toward him, brushing his arm with an ample breast.

“That felt good,” he said.

She gave out a low laugh. “I’m glad you think so.”

He turned his head, and her face was right there. She kissed him, then withdrew an inch. “Oh, I’m sorry. It’s too soon.”

“No,” he said, “it’s not too soon.” They kissed again; her hand was on his thigh, his on her breast. He pinched the nipple, and she made a little noise. Her hand was higher up now, then it rested on his swelling crotch.

The action accelerated, and soon they were headed for her bedroom, shedding garments. For the next half hour they had the best sex Fife-Simpson had ever experienced, and soon he was sound asleep, snoring lightly.

Jennifer disengaged, used the bathroom, then came back to be sure he was still asleep. Having ascertained that he was, she gathered his clothing and examined the contents of all the pockets of his suit. She found his identity card, confirming his name and rank and noting his service number; she checked the credit cards, made a note of the numbers, codes, and expiry dates, then folded the garments carefully, laid them on a chair, and went to her desk, switching on her laptop.

She opened her e-mail program, tapped in an address, then entered two lengthy passwords to gain access to a chat page. She typed: Stage one completed satisfactorily.

An immediate answer came back. Have you surveyed the property?

Thoroughly. It’s shut down for the night.

Send him away happy. Cultivate.

Certainly.

They signed off.

Fife-Simpson woke the following morning to the aroma of frying sausages. He could see her through the kitchen door, wearing only an apron. “I’ll give you another sausage,” he said aloud to himself. Then he got out of bed, his erect member leading the way.