“I’d rather not go into that.”
“Why not? Being queer isn’t a crime in Britain anymore — though it is, perhaps, a no-no for a high-ranking military member of the government. Whose arm did old Tim twist? The foreign minister’s, perhaps? After all, MI-6 comes under his purview.”
“Lance, I don’t think you should bandy about notions of that sort,” the brigadier said. “They might come back to bite you on the arse.”
“Of course, you’re right, Roger, and I try to keep my ass out of the way of people like Sir Timothy.”
“Good. I’m looking forward to seeing a bit of your shop,” Fife-Simpson said, desperately trying to change the subject.
Lance scratched his head. “There was another incident in which you and Sir Tim participated, I believe. Let’s see, what was it?”
Lance’s phone buzzed, and he picked it up. “Send her in, please.” He hung up and turned to Fife-Simpson. “One of our brilliant young ladies is going to be your shepherd in our meadow.”
Fife-Simpson was vastly relieved that Lance had been interrupted.
There was a rap on the door, and a middle-aged woman with a cropped haircut and dressed in a baggy tweed suit entered the room.
“Ah, here we are,” Lance said. “Meg Tillman, this is Brigadier Sir... Excuse me, I’m getting ahead of myself... Brigadier Roger Fife-Simpson, the shiny new deputy director of MI-6, an organization that has never had a deputy director until the brigadier came along and impressed everybody. Roger, Meg is known around our shop as one of our brightest minds, and she is an expert on our history and mission. She’s going to give you the two-and-a-half-dollar tour of both Langley and Camp Peary, our training facility, and answer all your questions.”
Lance stood up. “Oh, I remember the other thing now. You and Sir Tim served in Belfast together, didn’t you?”
“We did. We were both young lieutenants at the time.” He made to move toward his guide, but Lance held him back.
“Let’s see, as legend has it, you two young fellows were in search of — how shall I put it? — just the right sort of bar... weren’t you? And you somehow got it wrong and ended up in a nest of IRA vipers and were set upon. You managed to occupy their attention long enough for Lieutenant Tim to fetch a squad of British military policemen, and they got to you in the nick of time, just before the Irish would have cut your balls off.”
“That’s not quite the way it happened,” Roger said, blushing.
“Oh, of course it was. I was in Belfast at the time, at the Royal Ulster Hospital’s casualty ward, getting a flesh wound attended to, when they brought you in. You were a mess. Sir Tim was very upset about it, I recall, and you spent a few days in hospital, closely attended by your friend.”
“It was quite different...”
“Well, Meg,” Lance interrupted, “off with you both, and don’t skip anything. I expect the brigadier would love to see our technical services shop — the Brits always love that.” He leaned over and whispered, “In your travels, be sure and introduce the brigadier to Mr. Wu at Camp Peary.” He shooed them out the door and shut it behind them, then heaved a great sigh of satisfaction.
Lance dug out his cell phone and looked up a number. “Hello, Stone?”
“Yes, Lance,” Stone replied.
“Where are you?”
“In England,” Stone said.
“Oh, that’s right, that’s why I’m calling. I’m headed to London this evening, and I wondered if I could drop down to the Beaulieu River and see your magnificent house there this weekend. Can you put me up?”
“Of course, Lance. Call me from London and give me your arrival time, and I’ll have you met at the station.”
“Not to worry, I’ll be driving, or, rather, driven. Look for me in time for drinks on Friday. Shall I bring a dinner suit?”
“I suppose so. Shall I invite Felicity?”
“Please do. I’ll have some amusing stories to tell you both about a mutual friend who’s visiting us as we speak.
24
On Friday, a Strategic Services Gulfstream 4 picked up Dino and Viv for the trip back across the Atlantic. “This is a bit of a demotion from the G-600, isn’t it?” Stone needled Viv.
“I’m told it will go the distance, and that’s all we require,” she replied, kissing him goodbye. “I feel better leaving you in the clutches of Rose, since we made an honest woman of her.”
“Come now, she was always an honest woman. We just had to find it out.” He gave Dino a hug, slapped him on the back, and followed him aboard the aircraft. “Nicer than I thought,” he said, looking around the cabin, “and you have only a couple of companions to share it with.” There were two other Strategic Services executives aboard.
“I’ll live,” Dino said. Then Stone deplaned and drove away with Rose in his golf cart, as the G-4 taxied to the end of the runway for takeoff.
“Viv must be pretty high up in her company,” Rose said, “to be picked up at a private airstrip for a transatlantic flight.”
“She is the number-two person, after Mike Freeman, who is chairman and CEO. It doesn’t hurt that Dino is the New York City police commissioner, and as such, he’s the sort of person worth doing favors for.”
“Did you build the airstrip?”
“No, the Royal Air Force was kind enough to do that during World War II. They used it to test new bombers and fighters, and to launch aircraft flying to France to parachute members of the Special Operations Executive into that country, to execute skullduggery against the Nazis.”
“Did the Germans ever bomb it?”
“No, it didn’t appear on any aeronautical charts, and it was heavily disguised in the daytime by fake farmhouses and hayricks on wheels that could be rolled away after the sun went down. Clever people, you Brits.”
“What shall I wear to dinner this evening?”
“It’s black tie for me, so dress accordingly.”
“Do we have guests?”
“We do: Dame Felicity and a gentleman named Lance Cabot, who some say is not a gentleman. He is the director of Central Intelligence for the U.S. and, as such, the director of the CIA.”
“Spooky dinner,” Rose said.
“Well put.”
Brigadier Roger Fife-Simpson stepped into a large, well-lit room that appeared to be a laboratory, except for the many objects lining its countertops. He was introduced to the director of technical services by his escort, Meg, and handed a small black case. “Open it,” the director said. Fife-Simpson released the two latches and found inside a clarinet, broken down into its pieces. “I’m afraid I don’t play,” he said.
“Now press down firmly on the mouthpiece in its cap.”
The brigadier did so, and the inside of the case flipped up to reveal another compartment underneath. Inside were a small pistol, a magazine, three metal tubes, and a slim telescopic sight. The director screwed the three pieces together, snapped the sight into place, and then handed the assembled weapon to Fife-Simpson. “There you are,” he said, “perfectly equipped for an assassination.”
The brigadier sighted around the room. “How accurate is it?”
“To a hairbreadth,” the director replied. “Oh, and here’s something else we’ve developed.” He handed his visitor a handsome fountain pen.
Fife-Simpson unscrewed the cap, inspected the pen closely, then felt the nib. He snatched his hand away. “It stung me,” he said.
“Sorry about that,” the director said. “Don’t worry, it’s not the cyanide version.” He turned to an assistant. “Antidote, please,” and the young man began rummaging through drawers.
“I’m sorry this is taking so long,” he said to the brigadier. “I expect you’re feeling drowsy.”