“Don’t look at me!” Alex ordered. “Tell me you understand what you are to do.”
Roger thought about it for a moment, then sagged. “I understand.”
“A taxi will appear, with its light off. You will get into the taxi, which will drive you to Sloane Square. You will walk to your new apartment from there. Are all of your instructions clear?”
“Yes.”
“Before you leave this bench, screw the silencer into the barrel of your pistol.” Alex placed a tweed hat and a pair of sunglasses on the bench between them. “Wear these,” he said. “Leave them in the taxi when you get out. There will be no need to pay the driver.”
“I understand.”
Alex got up and left.
Roger pretended to read his paper for another fifteen minutes, then got up, donned the tweed cap and the sunglasses, crossed the street, and walked to the bench near the end of Simon Garr’s street. He sat down and tried to work up some of his old hatred for Garr. It wasn’t hard; he had harbored it for thirty years. He removed the pistol and silencer from his shoulder holster and screwed them together under the newspaper in his lap, then he waited, not looking at Garr’s house.
He heard the door open and close, then get locked, before he allowed his eyes to drift in that direction without turning his head. A moment later, a tall man in a raincoat and hat walked into his field of vision. It was Simon Garr, no mistake.
Roger rose, crossed the street, and walked toward Garr from behind, the pistol concealed in his folded newspaper. Garr stopped and looked both ways for a cab. Roger approached him and at the last moment Garr caught sight of him and turned. “Roger?” he said.
Roger lifted the pistol and fired, striking Garr over his left eyebrow. Garr collapsed, and Roger walked two steps and fired another shot into his head.
He looked up and saw a cab coming, its light out. It stopped, and Roger got inside, saying nothing. He unscrewed the silencer and returned that and his pistol to the shoulder holster. The cab drove away, made a number of turns, apparently to shake any possible follower, then drove across London to Sloane Square, stopping in front of the Peter Jones department store.
Roger placed the cap and the sunglasses on the seat, got out, and walked in a leisurely fashion toward Eaton Place and his flat. He took the elevator upstairs, and used his key. “Jennifer?” he called. There was no reply. He went to the closet and the safe Jennifer had bought, opened it, placed the pistol, silencer, and holster inside, and locked it.
He hung up his coat, then went to the bar and poured himself a large scotch. Then he sat in a comfortable chair in the library and let his mind wander.
An hour passed, then Jennifer let herself in and put down her packages and hung up her coat. Then she went looking for Roger. She found him in the library, an empty glass in his hand. She took the glass from him and put her hand on his cheek. “How did it go?” she asked.
“It went as it was supposed to.”
“Are you all right?”
“I am, though I could use another scotch. Will you join me?”
She poured them each a drink, then came and sat on his footstool. “I’m glad it went well,” she said. “I knew you could do it. Now you can do anything.”
Roger didn’t reply, just sipped his drink. It occurred to him that Alex had cleverly arranged his debut as an assassin by selecting a victim Roger hated.
43
On Saturday evening, with Holly in residence again after a few days in London, Stone hosted dinner at home. The guests were the same people they’d dined with at the Squadron — the Barneses, the Pinks, the Drummonds, and Felicity, who arrived with the foreign minister, whose wife was away, and a new couple, called Terrence and Dorothy Maldwin, both in their late thirties or early forties.
During cocktails Felicity said to the group at large, “Terry and Dottie are both members of my professional family, and Terry is my new deputy.”
Stone had the table set in the small dining room, which could accommodate up to twelve. The chat ran to office anecdotes and gossip, which Stone presumed was proper, since they had all signed the Official Secrets Act.
“What do you hear from Roger Fife-Simpson?” Tim Barnes asked Felicity across the table.
Felicity gave him a little smile. “I think Terry is the person to best answer that question, since keeping track of Roger is one of his first assignments. Terry?”
Terrence Maldwin put down his fork and took a sip of his claret. “Well, let’s see,” he said. “I believe I can do this without notes. The brigadier got lucky a few nights back, while drinking at his local. He met a charming lady. They had dinner, and nature took its course. The day after that, a large Mercedes sedan arrived outside his flat and Fife-Simpson and another man got in. The curtains were drawn in the car, so we could not see who else was inside. We lost the car in the south London suburbs, so we’ve no idea where they went.
“Roger and the lady returned to Roger’s flat three days later, so we suppose they had a bit of a holiday. Then an odd thing happened: the following morning they left the flat and took a taxi to an address in Eaton Place, where they met a woman who seemed to be an estate agent. Inquiries were made, and we discovered that the couple had taken a flat — a very nice one — on the top floor. Over the next two days, they packed up Roger’s place and moved into the new flat, and the lady, whose name is Jennifer Sands, did a great deal of shopping for furnishings. We expect to have photographs in a day or two.”
“And who is Jennifer Sands?” Felicity asked.
“She’s English, thirty-nine, quite attractive, and has some considerable personal wealth from her father, now deceased. She got a first at Oxford in languages, one of them Russian. She was once a member of the Communist Party in Britain, but left a year ago, resigning over policy differences.”
“Sounds like Ms. Sands would be attractive to our Russian friends,” Felicity said.
“Yes,” Terry replied, “and one might think that Roger, too, would be someone who could hold their interest. Some of you have known the brigadier over the years. Does anyone think that he might be had by the Russians?”
Tim Barnes spoke up. “I think that, given his recent retirement, Roger might be bought by the Russians. By the way, it won’t hit the papers until tomorrow, but an old acquaintance of mine and Roger’s, Vice-Admiral Simon Garr, retired, was murdered early this afternoon, on Hampstead Heath. Looks like a professional job: two bullets to the head. No one reported hearing the shots.”
“That’s very interesting,” Terry said. “Roger left his new flat at mid-morning today.”
“Where did Roger go?” Felicity asked.
“He took a cab to Trafalgar Square, where he bought a newspaper and got into another cab. A traffic foul-up caused our people to lose him. He returned to his flat in the mid-afternoon.”
Everyone got quiet.
“I wonder,” Terry said, “does anyone think that Roger might have it in him to shoot an old acquaintance in the head?”
Tim Barnes spoke up again. “If the old acquaintance was Simon Garr, I think Roger, at least at one time, might have enjoyed that experience.”
“Terry,” Felicity said, “I think it might be worth the resources to increase the manpower devoted to surveilling Roger.”
“It shall be done,” Terry replied.
“And perhaps,” Felicity said, “they could stop losing him for hours or days at a time.”
“You have the most interesting guests at dinner parties,” Holly said after they had made love and were resting. “And the most interesting conversations.”
“You can thank Dame Felicity for providing both the guests and the topics of conversation,” Stone replied.