Stealth

38

The brigadier got back to his flat at mid-morning, after another roll in the hay with Jennifer Sands, plus a short nap. He slipped his key into the expensive Israeli lock that had been installed by MI-6, then turned it, and walked in.

“Good morning, Brigadier,” a male voice said.

Fife-Simpson jumped, then saw the man in the armchair facing the door. His hand reflexively went to his hip pocket, where his knife resided.

The man in the chair raised a pistol and pointed it at him. “Now, now,” he said, “none of that.” He pointed at a chair with the pistol. “Please,” he said, “sit, and let’s have a chat.”

Roger tossed his hat aside, slipped off his coat, and sat down. “What is this about?” he asked. “What do you want?”

“Just a chat, for the moment,” the man replied. He had an upper-class British accent. “How was your evening out?”

“I’m sorry if I kept you waiting,” Roger replied.

“Let’s start over. First of all, you may call me Alex. Secondly, when I ask you a question, please answer it directly, instead of deflecting. It saves time. Once again, how was your evening out?”

“Entertaining,” Roger replied.

Alex smiled. “Yes, I expect it was. Most entertaining. All you had hoped, I expect.”

“Did you arrange it for me?” Roger asked.

“Not entirely,” Alex replied. “I left that to Ms. Sands. These things are more effective when people follow their own instincts, and she enjoyed herself quite as much as you did.”

“Give her my thanks when you see her,” Roger said, drily.

“Oh, you’ll see her again, and she will be just as happy to see you as last night.”

“What do you want?” Roger asked again.

“First, I’d rather talk about what you want, apart from Ms. Sands, whom you have already won. What do you want, Roger? If I may call you that.”

“Call me anything you like.”

“Roger it is, then. There is an envelope on the table next to your chair,” he said. “Open it.”

Roger looked at the table, picked up the unsealed envelope and opened it. He found himself staring at a photo of himself and the French masseur. He grimaced in spite of himself, shoved the photo back into the envelope, and tossed it to Alex. “With my compliments,” he said. “It won’t do you any good.”

“I’m still looking for what you want,” Alex said. “If it’s what’s in the envelope, I can arrange that, too.”

“Certainly not. I was unconscious when that was taken.”

“Were you? Somehow, you seemed to be enjoying it. I have others, in other positions. Would you like to see them?”

“No.”

“A pity, they are quite artistic, in their way. The lighting is very good. It was certainly an interesting beginning to your holiday in France, wasn’t it?”

Roger didn’t reply.

“Well, now, we were talking about what you want,” Alex said. “Let’s see, you have your full pension and the monthly income from the trust your father set up for you, because he didn’t trust you to handle the money wisely. A difficult man, your father, eh?”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Roger muttered.

“So, you can live quite contentedly on your present income,” Alex said, “if you’re careful how you spend it. Perhaps if you shave a few drinks off your weekly consumption you could afford to continue seeing your shirtmaker every year or two, but not your tailor, of course. You’ll have to be very careful with your clothes. You could stop getting caught in the rain, that would help.”

“How long have you been following me?” Roger asked.

“For a great deal longer than you realize, Roger. You came to our notice for the first time when you began extorting your fellow officers, the gay ones, for career assistance. One of them was ours, you see. After that we followed you quite closely.”

Roger slumped a bit in his chair now.

“I must say, we were very disappointed when you were sacked from MI-6. We were expecting great things from you.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you,” Roger replied sourly.

“Dame Felicity turned out to be tougher than you had anticipated, didn’t she? That’s why she’s where she is... and you’re where you are.”

Alex suddenly rose, walked to where Roger sat, and pressed his pistol lightly against Roger’s temple. “Perhaps you didn’t realize that this is your gun. You could quite easily become a suicide, you know. We’ve already written you a very nice note, to help the police and the Admiralty and the Foreign Office with their investigation. You might remember, from here on, that you’re only a moment away from ending it all.”

“I have no such intention,” Roger said.

“Of course you don’t. I just need to be sure that you are aware of your circumstance at all times.” Alex returned to his chair and sat down. “Now, we were discussing what you want, Roger. How would it be if your income quadrupled overnight? That would bring your shirtmaker and your tailor back within reach. Or, if it were increased by a factor of, say, ten, the world would be your oyster. You could travel, even buy a holiday home somewhere warm in winter. You could take cruises — first class, of course. Your appeal to women would soar, I should think. How does that sound?”

Roger sighed. “Better than I would have thought. What do you want from me in return?”

“Information, Roger: your keen sense of observation, your friends still in government service, descriptions of places and systems.”

“I’m not in a very good position for that these days,” Roger replied.

“But you have a prodigious memory for detail, Roger, and that is a very valuable asset for a man in your position.”

“And what is my position?” Roger asked.

“Precarious, at the moment,” Alex replied. “But with your cooperation I would be very optimistic about your future. You should live, at the very least, another thirty years, long enough for inflation to outrun your income, and that would lead to penury. A bleak prospect.”

“Don’t think I haven’t thought of that.”

“Fortunately, I am in a position to make your future positively rosy.”

Roger perked up. “And what would I have to do to ensure that?”

“Well, for a start, why don’t we give you a nice holiday in a sunny place, all, ah, conveniences provided? We can also invite Jennifer to join you. She’d love that, and she knows how to show her gratitude.”

“Ah, yes,” Roger said.

“And let me dangle another prospect,” Alex said. “You might find yourself materially contributing to the downfall, perhaps even the disgrace, of your nemesis, Dame Felicity Devonshire.”

Roger couldn’t help smiling.

“Something else: a more recent acquaintance of yours, Mr. Stone Barrington, has come to occupy an influential place in the orbit of the American CIA.”

“Has he?” Roger asked, brightening.

“I thought that would interest you.” Alex stood, walked over to Roger’s desk, and returned his pistol to the drawer where he had found it. “Come, let’s go.”

“Right now?”

“Why wait? Your luggage is already in the car.”