Stealth

39

An elderly Mercedes sedan awaited them — a large one. Roger was put into a rear seat and found curtains drawn on the windows and on the partition between the driver and the passengers. Roger and Alex were the only two passengers aboard. The car moved off, and Roger soon gave up trying to follow the turns they were making. They were apparently in quite heavy traffic, starting and stopping a lot. Roger thought they might be moving through the south London suburbs.

After an hour or so they began moving faster and more steadily — on the open road, but not a motorway, he reckoned. More turns were made, and then the car came to a stop. Roger started to get out, but Alex put out a hand. “A moment longer, please.”

Roger heard a motor start and something was squeaking.

“Now,” Alex said.

Roger got out of the car and found himself standing in an aircraft hangar. A business jet of French manufacture, one with three engines, occupied the space.

Alex came around the car and opened the front passenger door. To Roger’s surprise, Jennifer Sands got out. “Hello, Roger,” she said, giving him a warm smile.

Roger could manage only a quick “Good morning.”

The driver went to the car’s boot and began handing suitcases to two uniformed aircrew, who stowed them in the airplane’s rear luggage compartment.

“After you,” Alex said to Roger.

Roger allowed Jennifer to precede him, then climbed the airstairs and entered a comfortable cabin. Alex indicated which seat he should take, then took his coat while Roger buckled himself in. The airplane had begun to move, apparently being towed. The curtains were drawn on all windows, and the cockpit door was closed, so he still could not see outside.

“Am I going to need a passport?” Roger asked Alex.

Alex patted his breast pocket. “It was in your desk drawer. I took the liberty. It was interesting that MI-6 neglected to reclaim your diplomatic passport.”

After a short tow, the airplane stopped and an engine started, then another, then a third. They started to taxi. Roger tried to figure out which airport they were on. If they had gone south, it might be Biggin Hill, a former RAF station, which took business jets and was a port of entry.

The airplane trundled on for a few minutes, then seemed to make a left turn and stop. A couple of minutes passed, and the airplane moved on and made another left. Roger thought they must be on a runway. Confirming his judgment, the engines spooled up to full power, and the airplane soon left the runway. He heard the landing gear and flaps come up. Now they were climbing.

A uniformed stewardess came down the aisle. “Would you like a drink before lunch, Brigadier?” she asked.

“Yes, thank you. Your best scotch. No ice.” The whisky she brought was very good, indeed. By the time he had drunk it the airplane had leveled off at altitude, and he was being served chicken Kiev. He wondered if that was a geographical hint. It was very good, though. The stewardess did something at a panel up forward, and the window shades rose. Roger looked outside and saw nothing but sea.

He finished his lunch, his tray was taken away, and the stewardess brought him a soft blanket and a pillow. He reclined his seat a bit and closed his eyes.

Roger was awakened some time later by a jerk as the landing gear came down. He checked his watch: they had been in the air for more than two hours. The airplane touched down, and he was able to see buildings and other aircraft, some of them wearing Russian insignia. They taxied to a halt on a ramp and were unloaded into another large car. They left the airport and drove along the sea for three-quarters of an hour, then pulled into a gated driveway, drove up to a large white house, and stopped.

Someone opened his door, and he got out. Alex led him into the house, down a central hallway to double doors that opened onto a terrace; beyond was a beach and the sea.

“Welcome to Crimea,” Alex said. “This house once belonged to an archduke.” He led Roger on a tour of the place, then took him upstairs to a large bedroom with a terrace opening onto the sea.

Jennifer had joined them. “Would you like me to stay here with you?” she asked.

“Yes, I would,” Roger replied.

“You have a nap, and I’ll unpack for you.”

Roger stretched out on the bed and was soon dozing.

Roger stirred. The room was darkened, though there was daylight still coming through a crack in the curtains. He felt a hand on his crotch and did not disturb it. She unzipped his trousers and unbuckled his belt, then pulled his trousers down a few inches and took him into her mouth. She didn’t stop until well after he had climaxed.

They had a shower together, then dressed for dinner, and went downstairs. Alex awaited them on the front terrace at a beautifully set table. A bottle of wine rested in a cradle, and a bottle of Talisker single malt scotch whisky, was next to it. Alex poured them all drinks. He raised his glass. “To new friends,” he said. They drank.

Soon caviar arrived — Beluga, the real thing, half a kilo of it. Roger hadn’t had any for many years, and he washed it down with iced vodka. Chateaubriand, the best part of the beef tenderloin, was the main course, served with Béarnaise sauce and haricots verts. Dessert was a delicious cake served with a dessert wine.

They took their cognac in the library, a large room with many bound books, mostly in French.

“What do you think of our little cottage?” Alex asked when they were settled.

“It’s bloody marvelous,” Roger replied, replete with food and drink.

“You will have access to it in the future,” Alex said, “from time to time, if all goes well. And I’ve no reason to think it won’t go well.” He waited for Roger to respond but got only a contented groan. He pointed across the room. “There are the books in English. They were chosen by Kim Philby.”

If Roger had been slow on the uptake that would have brought him up short. “Ah, yes,” he said.

“Did you know Philby, Roger?”

“Oh, no. He was before my time. Everyone who knew him spoke of his charm and wit.”

“He spent a number of holidays here. Once we had his friend Guy Burgess for a visit, but he was so drunk all the time I doubt if he remembered it later. He wasn’t invited back.”

Alex got to his feet. “Well, I’m going to turn in. It has been a long day. You two finish your brandy.” He gave a little bow, then left the room.

Jennifer leaned over and whispered in Roger’s ear, “Don’t say anything in this house or on the terraces, unless you want it recorded,” she said.