Стюарт Вудс - Stealth

“Thank you so much, Felicity,” he said.

“Thank you for your assistance, Tim.” She hung up as they pulled to a stop at the rear entrance of her service. Back at her desk she buzzed Mrs. Green.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Take a letter to Brigadier Fife-Simpson.”

“Please go ahead.”

“‘Dear Sir: Your resignation is accepted with immediate effect and without undue regret. Kindly deposit your credentials and weapons with the commissionaire on your way out.’ Type that up for my signature, then deliver it to him. If he is out, leave it on his desk.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Mrs. Green replied, with a hint of pleasure in her voice.

Fife-Simpson was sitting at his desk seething at his treatment by MI-6, the Foreign Office, and the Admiralty, when someone rapped sharply on his office door. Without waiting to be asked to enter, Mrs. Green opened the door and stepped forward, handing him an envelope sealed with red wax.

“What is this?” he demanded of her.

“For your eyes only, Brigadier,” she said. “For immediate action.” She stood waiting.

Fife-Simpson examined the envelope carefully, then broke the seal and unfolded the paper. As he read it, all expression drained from his face, leaving him with his mouth open.

“This way, please,” Mrs. Green said.

He looked up at her. “What?”

“It says, ‘with immediate effect,’” she replied. “This way, please.”

He stuffed the letter into his pocket, got his coat and hat from the closet, and followed her down the corridor. “What about my personal effects?” he asked while they waited for the elevator.

“Cartwright will collect them and have them delivered to your residence,” Mrs. Green replied. The elevator arrived. “Good day,” she said, holding the door for him.

He got out of the elevator on the ground floor and found the commissionaire blocking his exit from the building.

“Credentials and weapons, please, Brigadier.”

Fife-Simpson handed over his ID and pistol.

“Holster and switchblade, please.”

He took off his coat, got out of the shoulder holster, and fished the knife from his hip pocket, then laid everything on the table.

The commissionaire helped him back on with his jacket and coat, then handed him his hat and opened the door for him. Fife-Simpson stepped out into the street. “You are to forget this address,” the commissionaire said, then slammed the door behind him and bolted it.

Fife-Simpson turned around and found a taxi waiting. His name was on a card taped to the windshield. He got in.

“I have the address,” the driver said, closing the window between them.

Fife-Simpson got out of the cab in front of his building and took the lift up to his flat. He hung his coat and hat carefully in the hall closet, then walked into the drawing room, loosened his necktie, poured himself a large scotch, then poured himself into his favorite chair and drank half of his drink in a single draught.

His telephone rang, and he reflexively picked it up, even though he didn’t wish to speak to anyone. “Brigadier Fife-Simpson,” he said into the phone.

“Will you speak to the First Sea Lord?” a woman’s voice said.

“Of course,” he replied, brightening. This might be something good.

“Hello, Roger,” a familiar male voice said. “It’s Tim Barnes. How are you?”

“I’ve been better,” Fife-Simpson replied.

“Perhaps what you need is a holiday. I have just the thing for you.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Kate and I had planned a holiday at Cap d’Antibes, in the South of France, at a lovely place owned by some friends. However, as all too often happens, the Royal Navy has decided to put itself first, and we have to cancel. We have the house for a week. Would you like to have it, as our guest, starting tomorrow?”

“Ra-ther!” Fife-Simpson replied gleefully.

“All right. I’ll have my plane ticket changed to your name. You’re on British Airways 106 to Nice, tomorrow morning at eleven AM. There’ll be a car and driver to meet you at the other end.”

“Tim, this is just wonderful, and at a moment when it will do the most good.”

“A couple named Marie and Oskar run the place, and she cooks like an angel. The house is stocked with food and drink, on us, and I’ve made an appointment for myself at five tomorrow afternoon for a massage. Shall I leave that in place for you?”

“Oh, yes, please.”

“Very well, then. Have a wonderful holiday, and be sure to drop us a postcard.”

“Thank you again, Tim.”

“Don’t mention it. Goodbye.” He hung up.

Fife-Simpson leapt from his chair, tossed down the remainder of his drink, and went to find his luggage. When he was all packed he ordered in a pizza, opened a bottle of wine, and settled in for dinner.

Dame Felicity buzzed Mrs. Green.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Find Sims in operations and send him up to me, please.”

“Right away, ma’am.”

Sims was a rangy lad of thirty-five whose suit never quite fit him, but who had a quick mind and a sly nature.

“Take a seat, Sims,” Felicity said, and he did so.

“You remember the little op we pulled off at the place on Cap d’Antibes two years ago?”

“Of course, Dame Felicity. One of our better ones, I thought.”

“All of our video and audio working there?”

“We keep it in good nick,” he replied.

“Good. A man called Roger Fife-Simpson is arriving at the Nice airport tomorrow at two o’clock local.”

“Would that be our brigadier?” Sims asked.

“Yes, our now late, lamented brigadier. Have him met and transported to the house. And, of course, let our people there know to expect him.”

“Yes, ma’am. Do you wish him, ah, entertained?”

“Yes, please. He has been told to expect a massage therapist at five PM. Arrange that.”

“Male or female?”

“Male, and make him handsome, muscular, and well hung.”

“Is the brigadier that way inclined?”

“That remains between the brigadier and his psychotherapist,” she said, “but don’t bother with seduction, just give him a nap and use the opportunity to take some holiday snaps of the two of them in living color and in poses I’ll leave to you and the masseur.”

“Understood. And what disposition of the photographic material shall I make?”

“Everything for my eyes only, and don’t hang on to the negatives. I want it all.”

“I’ll need a signed work order,” he said. “How shall I characterize the operation?”

She handed him the blank form, signed. “Call it therapeutic.” She sent him on his way.

Brigadier Fife-Simpson stepped out of customs in Nice and into the main hall. He immediately spotted a man in a dark suit holding a sign bearing his name. He checked his watch. His flight had been forty minutes late, and customs had taken longer than he had expected. Roger handed the man his luggage and followed him outside to the curb, where a Mercedes awaited.

A half hour later, after a drive past many beautiful houses, the car turned into a driveway guarded by a high hedge and drove to the front door of a charming cottage, where two servants met and greeted him effusively and took his luggage inside. He was shown to a large, comfortable bedroom, where a massage table had been set up.

He was offered food and drink and opted for the drink, in order to keep the champagne buzz from the flight going.

“Your massage therapist is due in half an hour,” Marie said. “There is a robe in your bathroom.”

He unpacked, changed into the robe, and was seated in a cushy chair when Marie returned with his large whisky. “Enjoy,” she said.