“After you,” Alex said to Roger.
Roger allowed Jennifer to precede him, then climbed the airstairs and entered a comfortable cabin. Alex indicated which seat he should take, then took his coat while Roger buckled himself in. The airplane had begun to move, apparently being towed. The curtains were drawn on all windows, and the cockpit door was closed, so he still could not see outside.
“Am I going to need a passport?” Roger asked Alex.
Alex patted his breast pocket. “It was in your desk drawer. I took the liberty. It was interesting that MI-6 neglected to reclaim your diplomatic passport.”
After a short tow, the airplane stopped and an engine started, then another, then a third. They started to taxi. Roger tried to figure out which airport they were on. If they had gone south, it might be Biggin Hill, a former RAF station, which took business jets and was a port of entry.
The airplane trundled on for a few minutes, then seemed to make a left turn and stop. A couple of minutes passed, and the airplane moved on and made another left. Roger thought they must be on a runway. Confirming his judgment, the engines spooled up to full power, and the airplane soon left the runway. He heard the landing gear and flaps come up. Now they were climbing.
A uniformed stewardess came down the aisle. “Would you like a drink before lunch, Brigadier?” she asked.
“Yes, thank you. Your best scotch. No ice.” The whisky she brought was very good, indeed. By the time he had drunk it the airplane had leveled off at altitude, and he was being served chicken Kiev. He wondered if that was a geographical hint. It was very good, though. The stewardess did something at a panel up forward, and the window shades rose. Roger looked outside and saw nothing but sea.
He finished his lunch, his tray was taken away, and the stewardess brought him a soft blanket and a pillow. He reclined his seat a bit and closed his eyes.
Roger was awakened some time later by a jerk as the landing gear came down. He checked his watch: they had been in the air for more than two hours. The airplane touched down, and he was able to see buildings and other aircraft, some of them wearing Russian insignia. They taxied to a halt on a ramp and were unloaded into another large car. They left the airport and drove along the sea for three-quarters of an hour, then pulled into a gated driveway, drove up to a large white house, and stopped.
Someone opened his door, and he got out. Alex led him into the house, down a central hallway to double doors that opened onto a terrace; beyond was a beach and the sea.
“Welcome to Crimea,” Alex said. “This house once belonged to an archduke.” He led Roger on a tour of the place, then took him upstairs to a large bedroom with a terrace opening onto the sea.
Jennifer had joined them. “Would you like me to stay here with you?” she asked.
“Yes, I would,” Roger replied.
“You have a nap, and I’ll unpack for you.”
Roger stretched out on the bed and was soon dozing.
Roger stirred. The room was darkened, though there was daylight still coming through a crack in the curtains. He felt a hand on his crotch and did not disturb it. She unzipped his trousers and unbuckled his belt, then pulled his trousers down a few inches and took him into her mouth. She didn’t stop until well after he had climaxed.
They had a shower together, then dressed for dinner, and went downstairs. Alex awaited them on the front terrace at a beautifully set table. A bottle of wine rested in a cradle, and a bottle of Talisker single malt scotch whisky, was next to it. Alex poured them all drinks. He raised his glass. “To new friends,” he said. They drank.
Soon caviar arrived — Beluga, the real thing, half a kilo of it. Roger hadn’t had any for many years, and he washed it down with iced vodka. Chateaubriand, the best part of the beef tenderloin, was the main course, served with Béarnaise sauce and haricots verts. Dessert was a delicious cake served with a dessert wine.
They took their cognac in the library, a large room with many bound books, mostly in French.
“What do you think of our little cottage?” Alex asked when they were settled.
“It’s bloody marvelous,” Roger replied, replete with food and drink.
“You will have access to it in the future,” Alex said, “from time to time, if all goes well. And I’ve no reason to think it won’t go well.” He waited for Roger to respond but got only a contented groan. He pointed across the room. “There are the books in English. They were chosen by Kim Philby.”
If Roger had been slow on the uptake that would have brought him up short. “Ah, yes,” he said.
“Did you know Philby, Roger?”
“Oh, no. He was before my time. Everyone who knew him spoke of his charm and wit.”
“He spent a number of holidays here. Once we had his friend Guy Burgess for a visit, but he was so drunk all the time I doubt if he remembered it later. He wasn’t invited back.”
Alex got to his feet. “Well, I’m going to turn in. It has been a long day. You two finish your brandy.” He gave a little bow, then left the room.
Jennifer leaned over and whispered in Roger’s ear, “Don’t say anything in this house or on the terraces, unless you want it recorded,” she said.
40
Jennifer shook him gently awake at eight AM. He shaved and showered, then was called to breakfast on the terrace — lots of smoked fish, eggs, and salads.
“It’s time to go downstairs,” Jennifer said. “Alex is expecting you.”
Roger took a seat across from Alex at a small table in the library, in a nook overlooking the sea. It was a windy day, and there were whitecaps to be seen.
“Now,” Alex said. “You are being recorded, of course.”
“Of course,” Roger replied.
“I am going to ask you many questions,” Alex said. “If you answer truthfully and give me your best recollections, we will not have to accomplish this interview by other means.”
“All right,” Roger said.
“What is your first memory of being at the Britannia Royal Naval College in Dartmouth?”
“Being in a fight,” Roger replied without hesitation. “An older boy tried to bugger me in my bed, and I gave him a bloody nose. I wasn’t bothered again.”
“Describe the first meal you ate there.”
“I arrived in the late evening, so my first meal was breakfast. I was given kippers, which I did not like but learned to like, a fried egg, and a piece of toast, tinned orange juice, and strong tea.”
“Describe your first class at Dartmouth.”
“It was an orientation class. We were shown a slide — an aerial photograph of the school — and various places were pointed out on it. We were given a rule book and told to memorize it before the next day, then we were issued uniforms and taught how to wear them properly.”
“Who was the first other student you met?”
“Timothy Barnes,” Roger said. “We got on immediately.”
“Did you have a homosexual relationship with Tim Barnes?”
“No, but I knew he was queer.”
“How did you know?”
“Something in his manner toward me. He realized at once that I was not queer, and it never came up again. I knew he had dalliances with some others, though.”
“Did you keep a diary or journal?”
“I did for a few days, but we were kept very busy, and I discovered, anyway, that I was not a good journal keeper. I preferred to rely on my memory, which is excellent.”
“What did you excel at when you were at Dartmouth?”
“There was no one thing, but I was good at everything they threw at me.”
“Were you promoted while a student?”
“Yes, but always just behind Tim. He was a more attractive personality than I, and I knew it, so I felt no resentment. He finished as the student commandant, and I was his executive officer.”