Стюарт Вудс - Stealth

“Rose actually told me about that,” Stone said, “but without the Lady Balfour part.”

“It seems,” Felicity said, “that Ms. McGill is, in fact, Lady Margot Balfour.”

“No, no,” Viv said. “The good lady was supposed to have married the 4th Viscount Oakham last spring...”

“But she didn’t,” Felicity interjected.

“Well, no, she could hardly do that,” Viv said, “since her car was T-boned by a gasoline delivery truck when she was on the way to her rehearsal dinner. She and her maid of honor were killed instantly.”

Felicity was, for once, speechless.

“Did I say something wrong?” Viv asked.

“What is your source for that information?” Felicity finally asked.

“A researcher at my London office found a Times obituary,” Viv said.

“You said this was last spring?”

“April, I believe.”

“Looks like somebody forgot to change the name on the Ennismore Mews deed — and the utilities,” Stone said.

Viv looked at her watch. “My office is closed,” she said. “I’ll speak to them again tomorrow.”

“My office never closes,” Felicity said. She stood, walked to where her handbag lay on the sofa, retrieved her phone, and began using it. “Call me the minute you sort this out,” she said finally, and hung up.

Stone held her chair for her.

“My people are digging further,” Felicity said.

“Have you spoken to Brigadier Fife-Simpson about Rose?” Stone asked.

“I’m not ready to bring him into this,” she replied. “And I’ve instructed my staff to that effect.”

They had dessert and were on coffee and brandy when Felicity’s handbag rang. She dug out her phone, sat before the fire, and spoke for a few minutes, then hung up. The others joined her.

“Well?” Stone asked.

“Here it is,” Felicity said. “Lady Margot Balfour is, indeed, deceased. She had a younger sister named Rose, who, while she was at Oxford, was married to a fellow medical student named John McGill. She divorced him two years ago, and has continued to use his name, but is still listed as Rose Balfour on the medical register. She was also named in her sister’s will as sole heir, so she now owns the Ennismore Mews house, or will when the estate is finally sorted out.”

“So Rose has not been lying?” Stone asked.

Viv spoke up. “There remains her contention that St. George’s Hospital is still located on Hyde Park Corner, which it has not been since 1989.”

Stone turned to Felicity. “And do you still contend that MI-6 does not employ a Rose McGill?”

“According to our records,” she replied.

“Or a Rose Balfour?”

“That is another question, which I cannot confirm or deny.”

“Ahh, I’m relieved to hear that.”

“Why are you relieved that she won’t confirm or deny it?” Viv asked.

“Because that means that there is a Rose Balfour in their employ.”

“Oh, all right,” Felicity said. “I’ll tell you this much: she became an MI-6 asset while a student at Oxford.”

“Only an asset, not an agent?”

“I can neither confirm nor deny that.”

Everyone groaned.

“I cannot, at my whim, revise the Official Secrets Act,” Felicity said primly.

“Of course not,” Stone said, “even when you’re among friends.”

“I am among friends, for this purpose, only when I am alone in my office,” she replied. “That is not to disparage any of you, but in my work, good practice demands extreme caution.”

“We entirely understand,” Stone said placatingly, while he replenished her brandy.

“And when are you seeing Rose, Stone?” Viv asked.

“This weekend.”

“When, this weekend?” Felicity asked.

“She said she’ll call me when she gets her schedule sorted out.” He leaned over and whispered, “We’re on safe ground tonight.”

“I heard that,” Dino said.

“No, you did not,” Stone replied, fixing him with his gaze.

“Right, I didn’t hear that, I just assumed it.”

“Never assume,” Felicity said.

“You know,” Dino said, “if I never told anybody anything in my office, and if I didn’t assume a lot, I’d never get anything done.”

“It’s not about what you do,” Felicity said, “it’s about what you don’t do.”

“I’ll try and remember that,” Dino said.

Felicity put the back of her hand to her lips and yawned. “If you’ll all forgive me,” she said, “I believe I will get some rest.”

“Let me show you the way,” Stone said, rising.

Brigadier Roger Fife-Simpson rapped sharply with his heavy umbrella handle on the gray steel door in an alley off Charing Cross Road. A tiny window in the door opened. “Fife-Simpson,” he said to the eye behind the door.

“Wrong address,” a muffled voice said sharply, and the window closed.

Fife-Simpson rapped again, this time harder. The tiny door opened. “Yes?”

“I work here,” the brigadier replied.

“Name?”

“Brigadier Roger Fife-Simpson.”

“One moment,” the voice said, and the tiny door closed again.

The brigadier, who was not accustomed to being kept waiting on a doorstep, stood tapping a well-shod foot. Half a minute passed, and he put umbrella to steel once again.

This time, the big door opened, and a man wearing the black uniform of a commissionaire, an association of retired military people who provided reception and security services to businesses and some government officers, ushered him in. “Briefcase and umbrella on the moving belt,” he said, pointing. His uniform sleeve wore the stripes of a master sergeant.

Fife-Simpson set them down and watched them stop under a machine of some sort, then watched as the two objects were x-rayed.

“Hat,” the commissionaire said, removing it for him, turning out the lining and feeling it everywhere, then handed it back to him. “Overcoat off, please,” the man said.

Fife-Simpson shucked off the garment and handed it to him.

The man felt every square inch of the coat, then handed it back to him and gave him a very thorough frisking, not forgetting his crotch.

The commissionaire handed him a slip of paper. “Collect your things. Elevator to the sixth floor, turn left, end of the corridor,” he said.

Fife-Simpson collected his things, then got on the elevator and pressed the button, glancing at the paper. Room 630. The elevator arrived and opened, and he turned left and marched down the corridor. The door straight ahead of him opened before he could reach for the knob, and a middle-aged woman in a frumpy business suit greeted him. “Good morning, Mr. Fife-Simpson,” she said.

“Brigadier Fife-Simpson,” he replied. He then noticed that they were standing not in an office, but a kind of library, lined with steel shelving and with a matching conference table in the middle of the room, surrounded by a dozen steel chairs.

“Have a seat,” the woman said. “Your office is not ready just yet. Someone will come for you.” She stepped out of the room, closing the door behind her and leaving Fife-Simpson alone.

The brigadier looked around the room in disgust. He hung his British Warm coat on a peg beside the door, along with his umbrella, then set his briefcase and trilby hat on the table and sat down. He opened the briefcase, extracted a copy of the Daily Telegraph , and began reading the newspaper. Waiting was a skill best learned in the Royal Marines, he thought, where much of it was required.

Twenty-one minutes later the door was opened by a younger, better-dressed woman. “Good morning, Brigadier,” she said. “If you would come with me, please.”