Stealth

62

Stone slowly came awake in a sun-filled room. A beeping noise from his left side told him he was in a hospital room and that he was hooked up to machinery. He moved his arm and found that he had an IV running, too. The room was devoid of other people.

Then, as if on cue, Rose entered the room, wearing surgical scrubs, followed by Felicity, similarly clad. Apparently, dinner dresses were not de rigueur on this ward, and they had changed into whatever was available. “You’re alive!” Rose said, kissing him on the forehead.

“Have I had a close call?” Stone asked, and found his mouth dry.

“Not for a minute,” she replied. “You were lucky enough to encounter a qualified surgeon in the ambulance that brought you here — that was me — and both Felicity and I have the same blood type as you, so we insisted on contributing. We thought blood with a little fine wine and brandy in it would be best.”

Felicity came over, too. She kissed him on the ear and let her tongue flick inside for a moment. “Don’t worry, my dear,” she said, “no injury below the navel.”

Rose gave him a cup of water with a glass straw, and he sucked some of the water down.

“Where are we?” Stone asked.

“Salisbury, the nearest hospital to your house with a trauma center,” Rose replied.

“And it is, by your reckoning,” Felicity said, “the day after tomorrow, or rather, the day after yesterday.”

“I’ve been out for that long?”

“Yes,” Rose replied. “We thought it best that you became accustomed to having blood in your veins again while resting.”

“When do I get out?”

“Oh, come on, you don’t feel like getting out, do you?”

“No, I guess I don’t,” he replied.

“Perhaps tomorrow, if you’re more confident.”

“What was the result of the events last night? I mean, the other night.”

“There are those here who can better explain that than we can,” she said. “We’ll leave you to their company.” She and Felicity left the room and were immediately replaced by Chief Inspector Holmes.

“How are you feeling, old boy?” the policeman asked.

“Drained,” Stone replied. “Is Fife-Simpson in custody?”

“All in good time,” Holmes said. “I wanted to tell you about the results of the testing of your very fine Château Palmer ’61.”

“It was poisoned, wasn’t it?”

“No... well, yes. That is to say that the initial testing revealed nothing but wine in the bottle.”

“But the broken needle in the cork?”

“I said they detected nothing in the initial test, but then, just when someone at the morgue had produced glasses, for drinking it, someone else had the idea of giving a drop or two to a lab rat.”

“And?”

“He pronounced it a fine, full-bodied claret with an excellent nose and a clean finish. Then he rolled over and died.”

“Of what?”

“Of poisoning, but we still have no idea what poison. The Soviets — pardon, the Russians — have skills in that department that, momentarily anyway, exceed our ability to detect them.”

“You didn’t answer my question about Fife-Simpson; is he in custody?”

Holmes frowned. “Not exactly. He was taken to our local shop and when his pockets were emptied, one of them produced a Russian diplomatic passport with his photograph affixed, and the name Sergei Ivanovich Ostrovsky on it. After consultation with Foreign Office officials, two Russian gentlemen appeared and walked him out of the building, not to be seen again, so far. We believe him to be at the Russian embassy, up to his arse in Beluga and Stoli.”

“That’s very disappointing.”

“Oh, I expect that MI-5 will be watching the place like hawks. If he leaves they will scoop him up.”

“What about Wilfred Thomas?”

“You have another visitor who can tell you more about that. I’ll see you when I have other news.” He patted Stone on the knee and left the room.

Lance Cabot quickly replaced Holmes. He dragged a chair up to Stone’s bed and sat down. “Congratulations on still being alive,” he said, “though not for want of the Russians trying to kill you.”

“I hear Roger skated because of the diplomatic passport we saw on your video of the party at the Russian embassy.”

“Not just Roger, but also his wife, Jennifer Sands, but I think you may regard their escape as temporary.”

“What about Wilfred Thomas, whose dictionaries are so nicely bound?”

“Vanished,” Lance replied. “Minutes, perhaps seconds, before our people reached his shop. They did find a treasure trove of bomb-making equipment, along with a fountain pen and an umbrella that shoot poison, and an unlabeled bottle of clear liquid that we suspect might be what was in the wine. It’s being tested as we speak, and the search is on for the earl. His diplomatic passport might work with the police, but not with MI-5.”

“Isn’t he at the embassy with his colleagues?”

“Oddly, no. At least, we haven’t detected his image or voice at the embassy with our equipment, which is still operating. Apparently, from what we’ve gleaned from their conversations, they are waiting for the earl, known in spy circles as Alex, to accomplish some deed or other, then shelter with them until transport out of the country has been arranged.”

“What sort of deed?”

“I’m afraid we have no clue, though we’re not ruling out another go at your person. Not to worry, measures have been taken.”

“When did you arrive in England?”

“Yesterday. They told me you were still alive, but I wanted to see for myself.”

“I promise not to die without telling you first,” Stone said.

“You’re still looking a bit peaked,” Lance said, “so I’ll leave you to a nap or two. As soon as you’re out we’ll have a good lunch somewhere and chat about some things.”

“Thanks, Lance, I’ll see you then.” Stone closed his eyes and let sleep take him.