Stealth

6

They slept late, had a huge breakfast in bed, read the Sunday papers, then returned to the base.

“By the way,” Rose said as they alighted in the parking lot, Stone with some difficulty, “it’s not my car. It belongs to the base.”

He was about to ask how she had traveled to the base when a middle-aged woman appeared at the door of HQ and called out to him.

“Mr. Barrington, the colonel would be grateful for a moment of your time.”

“‘Grateful’?” Stone muttered. “I expect that is her word, not his.”

“He’s really not so bad,” Rose said. “Go and see him, and behave yourself.”

Stone swung along into the building and was ushered into a comfortable office where the colonel sat, gazing at some paperwork. He looked up. “Ah, Mr. Barrington, will you take a seat for a moment?” He indicated the chair on the opposite side of his desk.

Stone sat down and arranged his crutches so that they wouldn’t fall onto the floor. “Yes, Colonel?”

“I wish to apologize for my manner in the ward yesterday,” he said, sounding sincere.

Stone was taken aback. He had not been expecting conciliation. “Thank you,” he managed. “It’s possible that I overreacted just a bit.”

“Thank you, also. I have had news that caused me to reevaluate your driving skills.”

Stone couldn’t think of anything to say.

“You see,” the colonel said, ignoring Stone’s lack of a response, “upon closer examination of the wreckage of the Aston Martin, we have determined that your plunge into the river was caused — not by careless driving, but by a bullet into the right front tire from a rifle.”

“Fired by whom?” Stone asked.

“By a man on the riverbank, who had chosen his position poorly and was struck by the car on its way into the river. His body was found a couple hundred meters downstream from where the car came to rest.”

“Who was he?”

“His identity remains unknown, as it will probably continue to be, but we have surmised from other evidence that he was all or part of a black parachute operation launched by the Soviets — or, as they like to be called these days, the Russian Federation.”

“What is a ‘black parachute operation’?”

“It’s when someone jumps from an airplane at night, employing a black parachute, so as not to be noticed in the dark.”

“And how did you determine this?”

“It is not their first attempt on this installation,” the colonel said. “Also, we found his black parachute and backpack, concealed in some brush not far from the river. By the way, since you were not fully conscious at the time of your rescue, you should know that it was made possible because the driver of a heavy lorry with a powerful winch built into its front bumper was a witness to the event and used his winch to extract the car from the river.”

Stone thought this over for a moment. “Please thank him for me.”

“Of course. Questions?” the colonel asked.

“Just one,” Stone replied. “Does this mean that the Ministry of Defence will be paying for Dame Felicity’s replacement vehicle?”

“Ah, yes,” the colonel said. “I have spoken to the minister, and he has agreed to that. The dealer will be posting your check back to you.”

“Oh, good. Please let them know that delivery of the replacement vehicle will take place in less than two weeks, so they shouldn’t be slow to issue their own check.”

“Noted.”

“And will you be offering the Russians their corpse back in return for reimbursement?” Stone asked, trying not to laugh.

“No, we think it is more in our interests for the earth to swallow him up and let the Russians stew about what happened to their man.”

“I see.”

“It occurs to me that, given your lack of transport, you might wish to take advantage of one of our vehicles going to Glasgow for servicing tomorrow. You can take the overnight train to London from there.”

“Thank you, it is rather a long taxi ride to Glasgow, isn’t it?”

The colonel rose, walked around his desk, and stood Stone’s crutches up for him. Stone got to his good foot and thanked him.

The colonel offered his hand. “Thank you for your enthusiastic acceptance of our rather rude conditions here, and good luck to you.”

Stone shook the hand and made his way to the door.

“The car will depart from here at seven AM tomorrow morning, and there will be another passenger, as well. The drive to Glasgow is about four hours; the road is not exactly a motorway.”

Stone thanked him again and made his way to his quarters, where he packed his gear, then stretched out on his bed for a nap. Later, he woke up long enough to call his travel agent and book a suite aboard the train from Glasgow to London, then he went back to sleep and stayed that way until the following morning.

Stone was awakened by the bell at six AM. He showered, shaved, and dressed, then he turned his luggage over to a young private and went to the mess hall for breakfast. Rose was nowhere to be seen, and he decided not to wake her so early. Anyway, he didn’t know where she was quartered.

He left the building at seven and found a large BMW saloon waiting for him; he also found Rose in the rear seat. “Good morning,” he said, giving his crutches to the private and getting into the car. “I didn’t know you were coming, and I didn’t know where to look for you.”

“My locum ended on Saturday,” she said, “and I was invited to share your car — or rather, the colonel’s BMW.”

“I would have thought they would service it here,” Stone said.

“They do that with the utility vehicles,” she said, “but not with the colonel’s car. It goes to an authorized dealer.”

They drove away, crossing the bridge where the Aston Martin had met its fate. “Did you hear about the sniper?” he asked Rose.

“The talk around the base is of nothing else,” she replied. “Apparently, it’s not their first intrusion here. The colonel thinks it’s good for morale to kill an intruder now and then. Keeps everybody on their toes.”

They drove quickly across the nearly bare Highlands landscape, the monotony occasionally broken by a stand of evergreens, which the Scots called a “plantation.” Three hours later the landscape became more welcoming, with the sight of oaks and other deciduous trees, and the appearance of villages and houses. Then, in Glasgow, they were dropped at the main station, and found a porter and their train.

“I’ve booked a suite,” Stone said to her. “Please join me.”

“I intend to,” she said, “in more ways than one.”

A twenty-pound note was of help in arranging for Rose’s pre-booked room to be one adjoining his suite, so she could have the smaller accommodation as a dressing room with its own shower.