Stealth

48

The Russian embassy sent a car for Roger and Jennifer. Upon arrival it was driven into an underground garage before the door opened, and they were directed to an elevator.

“A precaution,” Jennifer said. “They don’t want anyone photographing your arrival.”

“Who would care?” Roger asked.

“Your former employers,” she said. “Don’t be naïve, Roger. You must always be aware of your surroundings and circumstances. The Russians admire such caution.”

They were met on the ground floor of the embassy and escorted into what must have once been a ballroom. Roger reflected that the Russians didn’t have much use for ballrooms these days. “I was expecting a bigger crowd,” he said, “but there are no more than thirty people here.”

“I told you, it’s all family. All these people work in intelligence in the embassy complex and have high security clearances — as do we, incidentally.”

“When did that happen?”

“Right after you were cleared in Crimea.”

Alex spotted them from across the room and approached. “Good evening,” he said, embracing both. “Roger, I hear you are driving a very elegant new car.”

“I am,” Roger replied, “and I thank you for anything you might have done to make that possible.”

“I only make Jennifer possible,” Alex replied. “She does the rest.”

“Then thank you for Jennifer.”

“Oh,” Alex said, reaching inside his jacket. “I have something for you — a little gift.”

Roger had thought he would produce a gun, but instead he was handed a Russian diplomatic passport. He looked inside and found his photograph, apparently taken in Crimea, and the name “Sergei Ivanovich Ostrovsky.”

“It is a mark of our faith in you, Roger, that you should own this. If you should ever have to disappear from England or from anywhere else, thoroughly destroy all your documents and use this, anywhere in the world. We will also be supplying you with a Russian driving license and other personal papers, including an appropriate birth certificate. Among the other materials is a personal history, which you must immediately memorize, in case you should ever be interrogated by unfriendly entities.”

“Thank you again,” Roger said.

“I understand from your records that you speak some Russian?”

“Enough to order dinner and vodka, but not to converse fluently.”

“Beginning tomorrow, you will undergo an advanced course in our language, and your professor will be Jennifer, who is superbly qualified.”

“Why would I need the language?”

“It’s like the passport, for use if you should have to run. Also, I should point out that my colleagues tend to view with suspicion operatives who are not conversant in Russian.”

“I see.”

“Come, now. It’s time for you to meet some very important people.” In short order, Roger was introduced to the station chief for Russian intelligence, the Russian naval attaché, and the Russian ambassador to the United Kingdom and their wives. At dinner they were all at the same table, being serenaded by a small string orchestra, along with a zither, followed by a pas de deux by ballet dancers from the Kirov company, in St. Petersburg.

Much vodka was consumed, and some of the diners were moved to sing along with the orchestra. Several were inspired by the dancers to engage in athletic Russian choreography, with much clapping from their audience.

It was after midnight before Roger and Jennifer could make their way to their car and return to the flat.

Stone and Holly were returning from dinner at Harry’s Bar, when his phone rang. “Hello?”

“Scramble,” Lance said.

“Scrambled.”

“Have a seat and make yourselves comfortable. I want to show you something.”

They did so, and an image appeared on the iPhone screen of a large room with tables and diners and a string orchestra.

“Do you see him?” Lance asked.

“See who?”

“Brigadier Fife-Simpson. Wait, I’ll zoom in on his table.

“Got him,” Stone said, “and that’s his girlfriend, too. Where is this happening?”

“At the Russian embassy in London. All the participants are Russian intelligence, and the brigadier and his lady are at a table with the local station chief, the naval attaché, and the ambassador. This is very significant. It indicates that they place a high value on Roger, probably higher than he understands. Just a minute.” Lance backed up the video a few minutes until Roger and Jennifer were speaking to a man who took something from his pocket and handed it to Roger. At the appropriate moment, Lance froze the images and zeroed in on the object. “That,” he said, “is a Russian diplomatic passport with Roger’s photograph in it and the name ‘Sergei Ivanovich Ostrovsky.’ The Russians don’t hand out those as party favors, so our boy is now, as our Southern friends might say, ‘in high cotton.’”

“How on earth did you get these pictures?” Stone asked.

“The embassy underwent some renovations last year, and that gave us the opportunity to install the necessary state-of-the-art equipment. Astonishing quality, isn’t it?”

“It certainly is.”

“By the way, while you two were dining at Harry’s Bar, two men in head-to-toe black duds and hoods visited your suite and discreetly ransacked it. I expect they were traveling in the Sprinter that tailed you to London earlier today. They would probably have installed audio and video equipment, but we dispatched a maid to the room with fresh towels, to rout them, so you may feel secure now.”

“Thank you very much, Lance,” Holly said. “Now you may switch off your own surveillance equipment so that we can have some privacy.”

“Of course,” Lance said. “Consider it done.” He hung up.

“Do you think he switched everything off?” Stone asked.

“Probably,” Holly said. “Let’s make it very dark in here, though.”

The two of them went around the bedroom, checking that all the curtains were drawn and shades lowered and night lights extinguished, Holly used her detection device, with negative effect, then they got naked and hopped into bed.

“Isn’t darkness wonderful?” Stone asked. “I like feeling my way.”

“I like it, too,” she said.