“How?”
“I think it would be best for us not to converse on that topic again. We should just let nature take its course.”
“Yes,” Sir Oswald said, “but with a boot up nature’s arse.”
“Quite.” Dame Felicity took leave of the ministry and got into her waiting car. She sat back as she was driven and allowed her mind to wander, in the manner that it wandered when it was required to dream up an operation. Her frontal lobe zeroed in on a house in Cap d’Antibes, in the South of France, which had been in her family since her grandfather’s time. She had used it in an operation a couple of years before, which had allowed her to renovate it and wire it for video and audio at her ministry’s expense, and since to maintain it with a two-person staff. She picked up one of her two phones, the scrambler one, and dialed a number from its contacts list.
“Barnes,” a pleasant voice said.
“Scramble,” Felicity replied.
“Scrambled,” he said, after a moment.
“Tim, it’s Felicity. How are you?”
“I’m quite well, Felicity. We very much enjoyed our evening at Windward Hall, and a note has gone off to Mr. Barrington to that effect.”
“I’m so glad,” she replied. “Tim, I suppose by this time that you have heard of the departure from my service of our mutual... acquaintance.”
“Word has reached me. He was very upset, and when he gets upset, unfortunate events sometimes follow.”
“My very reason for calling,” Felicity said. “I believe I have found a way to avoid unpleasantness in this matter.”
“How may I help?”
“Please write down this address and phone number.” She dictated, and he copied.
“Got it. What next?”
“That is the address of a very pleasant house in Cap d’Antibes that we sometimes use as a safe house for friends of our firm who are in jeopardy of one thing or another. It is cared for by a houseman and his wife, a very good cook. I would like you to offer it to our acquaintance for a holiday, sooner rather than later.”
“I can do that, and tell him that it belongs to friends.”
“Yes, and their names are Sir John and Priscilla Dover. You served with him somewhere or other. I’ll leave you to flesh out the details. The caretakers are Marie and Oskar.”
“All right. Then what?”
“Apprise me of his arrival and departure dates at Nice airport. And tell him he will be met by a car and driver. Also, you might mention to him that spa services, including a particularly well-recommended massage therapist, are available on-site. There is a list of phone numbers in the center desk drawer in the library. You may also tell him that food and drink will be provided, and that there is a private beach for his use.”
“You make it sound wonderful,” Barnes said.
“On some other occasion, I would be pleased for you and your wife to use it.”
“Thank you so much, Felicity,” he said.
“Thank you for your assistance, Tim.” She hung up as they pulled to a stop at the rear entrance of her service. Back at her desk she buzzed Mrs. Green.
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Take a letter to Brigadier Fife-Simpson.”
“Please go ahead.”
“‘Dear Sir: Your resignation is accepted with immediate effect and without undue regret. Kindly deposit your credentials and weapons with the commissionaire on your way out.’ Type that up for my signature, then deliver it to him. If he is out, leave it on his desk.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Mrs. Green replied, with a hint of pleasure in her voice.
29
Fife-Simpson was sitting at his desk seething at his treatment by MI-6, the Foreign Office, and the Admiralty, when someone rapped sharply on his office door. Without waiting to be asked to enter, Mrs. Green opened the door and stepped forward, handing him an envelope sealed with red wax.
“What is this?” he demanded of her.
“For your eyes only, Brigadier,” she said. “For immediate action.” She stood waiting.
Fife-Simpson examined the envelope carefully, then broke the seal and unfolded the paper. As he read it, all expression drained from his face, leaving him with his mouth open.
“This way, please,” Mrs. Green said.
He looked up at her. “What?”
“It says, ‘with immediate effect,’” she replied. “This way, please.”
He stuffed the letter into his pocket, got his coat and hat from the closet, and followed her down the corridor. “What about my personal effects?” he asked while they waited for the elevator.
“Cartwright will collect them and have them delivered to your residence,” Mrs. Green replied. The elevator arrived. “Good day,” she said, holding the door for him.
He got out of the elevator on the ground floor and found the commissionaire blocking his exit from the building.
“Credentials and weapons, please, Brigadier.”
Fife-Simpson handed over his ID and pistol.
“Holster and switchblade, please.”
He took off his coat, got out of the shoulder holster, and fished the knife from his hip pocket, then laid everything on the table.
The commissionaire helped him back on with his jacket and coat, then handed him his hat and opened the door for him. Fife-Simpson stepped out into the street. “You are to forget this address,” the commissionaire said, then slammed the door behind him and bolted it.
Fife-Simpson turned around and found a taxi waiting. His name was on a card taped to the windshield. He got in.
“I have the address,” the driver said, closing the window between them.
Fife-Simpson got out of the cab in front of his building and took the lift up to his flat. He hung his coat and hat carefully in the hall closet, then walked into the drawing room, loosened his necktie, poured himself a large scotch, then poured himself into his favorite chair and drank half of his drink in a single draught.
His telephone rang, and he reflexively picked it up, even though he didn’t wish to speak to anyone. “Brigadier Fife-Simpson,” he said into the phone.
“Will you speak to the First Sea Lord?” a woman’s voice said.
“Of course,” he replied, brightening. This might be something good.
“Hello, Roger,” a familiar male voice said. “It’s Tim Barnes. How are you?”
“I’ve been better,” Fife-Simpson replied.
“Perhaps what you need is a holiday. I have just the thing for you.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Kate and I had planned a holiday at Cap d’Antibes, in the South of France, at a lovely place owned by some friends. However, as all too often happens, the Royal Navy has decided to put itself first, and we have to cancel. We have the house for a week. Would you like to have it, as our guest, starting tomorrow?”
“Ra-ther!” Fife-Simpson replied gleefully.
“All right. I’ll have my plane ticket changed to your name. You’re on British Airways 106 to Nice, tomorrow morning at eleven AM. There’ll be a car and driver to meet you at the other end.”
“Tim, this is just wonderful, and at a moment when it will do the most good.”
“A couple named Marie and Oskar run the place, and she cooks like an angel. The house is stocked with food and drink, on us, and I’ve made an appointment for myself at five tomorrow afternoon for a massage. Shall I leave that in place for you?”
“Oh, yes, please.”
“Very well, then. Have a wonderful holiday, and be sure to drop us a postcard.”
“Thank you again, Tim.”
“Don’t mention it. Goodbye.” He hung up.
Fife-Simpson leapt from his chair, tossed down the remainder of his drink, and went to find his luggage. When he was all packed he ordered in a pizza, opened a bottle of wine, and settled in for dinner.