“And?”
“We found the face among those attending a convention of rare book dealers in Brighton, two years ago.”
“And who is he?”
“His name is Wilfred Thomas. He has a rare-book shop in Burlington Arcade, London, and he is also a bookbinder, very expensive.”
“I know Burlington Arcade well, and I think I know the shop, too. What do we know about Mr. Thomas?”
“He is British, sixty-two years old, widowed four years ago, wife died of natural causes. He attended Harrow and Oxford, where he read history and languages.”
“Don’t tell me,” Lance said, “among them Russian.”
“Right. Something else interesting: he is the third son of the Duke of Kensington, who is the third-largest property holder in London, after the Duke of Westminster and the Cadogan Estate. His title, which he rarely uses, is the Earl of Chelsea.”
“You’re right,” Lance replied, “that is interesting. Now go back and explore connections between Thomas and Jennifer Sands, the lady with Fife-Simpson.”
“Yes, sir.” Bruce departed.
Lance got his magnifier and looked again at the faces at the table. He thought that two of the diners bore an odd resemblance to each other.
Bruce Winn came back later in the day, looking pleased with himself.
“Tell me,” Lance said.
“Wilfred Thomas and Jennifer Sands’s father, Elihu Sands, known as Eli, were lifelong friends and shared rooms at Oxford. They both met their wives at Oxford and Jennifer’s mother got pregnant while still a student. That’s all perfectly straightforward, but their history contains a rumor.”
Lance smiled. “Don’t tell me. Thomas fathered his friend’s girlfriend’s child.”
“That is the rumor,” Winn said, “but I can’t prove it.”
Lance handed him the photograph and the magnifiers. “There’s your proof,” he said. “Look at those two faces, Wilfred Thomas and Jennifer Sands. They have to be closely related.”
“I believe you’re right,” Winn said.
“So, Thomas came to Oxford and got bitten by the Communist bug, probably courtesy of his favorite don, who, I’ll bet, taught Russian.”
“And Sand’s girlfriend got bitten by Wilfred Thomas, with Jennifer as the result. I love it.”
“So do I,” Lance said, “but I don’t know if it means anything for us. Let’s just keep it in mind, for the moment.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll revise the files of the relevant parties.”
“Stay with the rumor theory, for the time being. Let’s see what else emerges. It would be interesting to know if Jennifer knows who her father is, and if Eli knew.”
“I think that would have to be a job for operations,” Winn said. “We’re unlikely to find that information in a file or a book.”
“I believe you are right,” Lance said.
When Winn had gone Lance placed a call abroad.
“This is Dame Felicity,” she said.
“Good day, Felicity, this is Lance.”
“Why, Lance, to what do I owe the pleasure?”
“It would seem that both our services have taken an interest in Brigadier Fife-Simpson.”
“Oh?”
“Certainly, and you are well aware of that, so let’s not be coy.”
“How may I help you, Lance?”
“I believe it might be in our mutual interest to share our findings with each other.”
“It might make for a more economical operation, as well.”
“Ah, I see we’re on the same page. I propose that you meet with our operative, perhaps over the weekend, and that the two of you pour out your hearts to each other.”
“Let me guess: The operative in question is Stone Barrington?”
“Convenient, isn’t it, since you are close, ah... neighbors and you will probably both be in residence at Beaulieu this weekend.”
“Quite convenient,” Felicity replied.
“May we speak again after you two have had a chat?”
“Indeed. Goodbye, Lance.”
Lance called Stone’s cell. It was after lunch in London.
“Yes?”
“Scramble.”
“Scrambled.”
“Good day, Stone.”
“Good day, Lance.”
“I have an assignment for you — a pleasant one, to be sure.”
“I’m all ears.”
“I believe Holly is leaving England shortly.”
“She is being driven to the airport as we speak.”
“First, let me tell you what new information has come our way with regard to our surveillance of the brigadier.” Lance ran down for him what had been learned and what was suspected.
“Very interesting,” Stone replied.
“It has occurred to me that there is little point in having two intelligence services conducting separate investigations into the same subject, and that it might be better for us both if we combine our assets and information.”
“I expect that might be a good idea.”
“Felicity is coming down to the Beaulieu River for the weekend. I suggest that the two of you find time for a dinner together, preferably at your house, and share everything I have told you and what she already knows.”
“That’s an agreeable idea,” Stone said. “I’m just getting into the car now for the drive down.”
“Perhaps you could give me a ring on Monday and let me know the state of your discussions and what moves the two of you might wish to make.”
“I can do that,” Stone said.
“Have a lovely weekend.” Lance hung up.
Stone had not even gotten the car started before his phone rang again. “Hello?”
“It’s Felicity, my darling.”
“How good to hear from you.”
“Will you have dinner with me tomorrow evening, just the two of us?”
“I would be delighted to give you dinner at the Hall and whatever else your heart desires.”
“That will take longer than a dinner, I think.”
“Then bring your toothbrush.”
“Done.” Felicity hung up, and so did Stone.
50
Stone met Felicity at his dock and took her lines, then they drove up to his house in the golf cart, chatting about the lovely weather and whatever else crossed their minds.
The table had been set for two in the library, but first, Stone made her a martini and himself a Knob Creek on the rocks. They raised their glasses.
“Collaboration,” Felicity suggested as a toast.
Stone raised his glass, too. “Collaboration.”
Felicity took a deep draught of her martini. “Tell me what you know about the brigadier’s situation,” she said.
“Certainly. Let’s skip backward to the evening before last,” Stone said. “I expect you’re up-to-date for the period before that.”
“All I know is that a car called for them — he in black tie and she stylishly dressed. Unfortunately, my people lost them again after that, and they did not return until after midnight.”
“Our people lost them, too, but they turned up at the Russian embassy, where the Agency, merely by chance, has a very complete and high-definition video and audio system — installed during renovations to the building last year.” Stone handed her an envelope of stills taken from the video, and Felicity went carefully through them.
“Well,” she said, “it’s like the senior dance at the school of espionage, isn’t it. I’m quite surprised that our Roger made the guest list — and at the head table, as well.”
“That surprised Langley, too,” Stone said. “This photo,” he said, pointing at one, “shows a gentleman, unidentified currently, handing Roger a Russian diplomatic passport with his photo in it and bearing the name Sergei Ivanovich Ostrovsky, which would seem to mean that they think highly enough of Roger to provide him with a means of escape from Britain or Europe, in the event that he finds himself in deep water.”