He did so, and the engine leapt to life.
“Press this button,” she said, pointing to a row of three on the bottom of the rearview mirror.
He pressed it, and the garage door opened.
“The gear lever is on the steering column,” she said. “Press down to go forward, up to reverse, and push it in for parking.”
He pressed down and drove out of the garage. It was an unseasonably warm and sunny day.
“Stop,” she said.
He stopped, and she opened the center armrest compartment and placed his hand on a switch. He fiddled with it, and the top came down and was tucked away under the rear deck. He grinned and accelerated.
An MI-6 officer on the roof of the building behind the couple’s apartment suddenly caught sight of Fife-Simpson driving away. He got on the radio. “The car that was delivered a few minutes ago has left the garage, driven by Myna Bird. Get on it!”
In the next block, on another rooftop, a CIA operative spotted the convertible and its driver and got on the radio. “Scramble,” he said. “Canary has driven away from his building in a white S550 Mercedes convertible, top down. Wren is riding shotgun.”
“Where would you like to go?” Roger asked Jennifer.
“Wherever you like. We could have lunch somewhere.”
“Let’s go to the south coast.”
“I’m all for it.”
Roger drove west to the M4 motorway, and after a few minutes, turned off on a country road south, driving fast.
“Don’t get us arrested,” she said, fastening her seat belt.
They ended up an hour or so later in the village of Beaulieu, then drove south some more and stopped at a country pub. “This looks good,” Roger said.
They got out, took an outside table, and read the menu. Roger looked up and saw a couple getting out of a Porsche. “I don’t believe it,” he said.
“Believe what?” Jennifer asked.
“You recall I was asked by Alex about an American named Stone Barrington?”
“Yes.”
“Well, there he is, and the woman with him, if you can believe it, is the American secretary of state.”
Stone took Holly’s hand and led her toward the front door of the pub, then, dead ahead, he saw Brigadier Roger Fife-Simpson. It was obvious Roger saw him, too, so there was nothing for it, he had to say hello. Stone stopped at the table and extended a hand. “Hello, Roger,” he said.
Fife-Simpson stood, shook hands, and introduced Jennifer, then Stone introduced Holly.
“What brings you down my way?” Stone asked.
“Just a joyride. New car, wanted to stretch its legs. Will you join us?”
“Thanks, I think we’ll go inside. I’m unaccustomed to so much sunshine.” They said goodbye, went inside, and found a table.
“Was that who I think it was?” Holly asked.
“It was, and the woman with him must be Jennifer Sands.”
“You should have accepted his invitation to join them,” Holly said. “That’s what Lance would have had you do.”
“Lance doesn’t comprehend how boring that man is. It would have ruined our lunch.”
“A pro would have jumped at the chance to be bored.”
“Then I’m no pro,” Stone said. “We would have learned nothing.”
“If you say so.”
“Why did you ask them to join us?” Jennifer asked.
Roger shrugged. “It was the normal thing to do, in the circumstances. Fortunately, they didn’t accept the invitation.”
“You must report this to Alex when you next speak to him.”
“All right, but it’s just a coincidence. Barrington’s house is down this road, I think.”
“You were there before, weren’t you? Aren’t you sure where it is?”
“On that occasion we approached the house from the river, on Dame Felicity’s boat,” he said.
“Believe me, Alex will not see this as a coincidence.”
Perhaps fifty yards away, on the road, the MI-6 surveillance crew had stopped and were arguing.
“We’ve got to go on and get an eye and an ear on them,” one said.
“Fuck that,” the driver said. “We’d be made in a flash. We’ll wait for him to finish his lunch, then pick up the car.”
Further back, the CIA team had stopped, too. “Let’s drive slowly by the pub and get some footage of it,” the leader said.
The driver put their van into gear and moved slowly forward, while the cameraman got into position to shoot through a port.
“Faster,” the leader said. “Don’t attract attention.” As they came up to the pub a Porsche parked and a man and a woman got out of it and walked toward the pub.
“Get those two on film!” the leader said.
“Why?”
“Because one of them is our secretary of state! Are you blind?”
“Then who’s the guy?” the cameraman asked, adjusting his shot.
“Get the plate number on that Porsche, and we’ll find out.”
46
Roger and Jennifer got back into the convertible and continued down the road toward the sea. They came upon a driveway. “See the sign saying Windward Hall? That’s Barrington’s place.” He slowed so they could look through the gates.
“A handsome house,” Jennifer said.
“Handsome inside, too.” Shortly they passed a van at the side of the road, and a minute later, it fell in behind them, a quarter-mile back.
Stone and Holly finished their lunch and walked back to their car. Fife-Simpson and his lady had disappeared. They drove back to the house, and as they entered the library, a phone was ringing. It was his Agency iPhone, sitting on the coffee table. Stone picked it up. “Hello?”
“Scramble.”
“Scrambled. What is it, Lance?”
“What were you doing at the same pub as Fife-Simpson and his paramour?”
“What a charmingly old-fashioned thing to call her,” Stone said.
“Explain, please.”
“We went to a local pub for lunch. So did Fife-Simpson, apparently, and they got there first and sat outside. We greeted them, then went inside. That’s about it.”
“I dislike coincidences,” Lance said.
“It doesn’t matter if you dislike them,” Stone replied, “they happen anyway.”
“Nevertheless...”
“Lance, how the hell did you know about this? We just came back. Are you having us followed?”
“No, MI-6 is having Fife-Simpson followed, and my people are following MI-6. You know that.”
“That’s right, I do. Fife-Simpson said he was trying out a new car and drove down here.”
“He wasn’t lying. We checked it out, and Ms. Sands bought it for him, though it’s registered in her name. She must not feel entirely confident of his continuing affection.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re following MI-6, instead of me.”
“Is Holly with you?”
“Yes.”
“Did she meet Fife-Simpson?”
“Yes, he invited us to share his table, but we elected to lunch inside.”
“Just as well. I wouldn’t want you photographed with those people.”
“Do you think the Russians are following him, too?”
“No, the woman is, effectively, the Russians. She’s living with him, so there’s no need for other surveillance on their part.”
“Do the Russians rent expensive flats and buy expensive cars for all of their foreign agents?”
“They do not. But Ms. Sands is wealthy and she seems to be in love.”
“Go figure.”
“I have nothing else for you. Do you have anything for me?” Lance asked.