Стюарт Вудс - Stealth

A few minutes later, his whisky gone, there was a knock on the door and a handsome, muscular, young man in a tight-fitting polo shirt entered, carrying a case. Fife-Simpson had expected a woman, but what the hell.

“Good afternoon,” the young man said. “My name is Pierre.” He set his case on the floor and indicated that Roger should mount the massage table, facedown. “Are you well today?” Pierre asked, helping him get comfortable.

“I’m a bit tired,” Roger said.

“Perhaps what would help is a small injection of vitamin B-twelve,” Pierre said. “I am licensed to administer it, and it will greatly enhance your massage experience.”

“Oh, all right,” Roger replied.

“Just a little pinch,” Pierre said. Roger felt a stab in a buttock. “There, now just relax.” He lowered the sheet and began rubbing Roger’s back.

Roger took a few deep breaths, then drifted off.

Pierre pinched his other buttock, hard. “Feel that?” No response. Pierre went to the bed and pulled back the covers, then he lifted Fife-Simpson bodily and carried him there. He took note of the camera positions in the crown molding, then put on a baseball cap, the bill of which would shield his face from view. He stripped off his own clothing, massaged himself until he was engorged and camera-ready, then turned Fife-Simpson on his belly and began posing him in various positions.

Roger came slowly awake, lying on his back, as the masseur massaged his legs, then pulled the sheet over him.

“There,” Pierre said. “Did you enjoy your massage?”

“Yes,” Roger muttered. “Very nice.”

“I will go now, and you may continue to rest, if you wish. Marie will put away the massage table later.” Pierre closed his case, picked it up, and departed.

In London, back at the Circus, Sims opened the door to the operations room and admitted Dame Felicity.

“How did it go?” she asked.

“Perfectly,” Sims replied. “Pierre gave us everything we could possibly want, not to mention what he gave the brigadier.”

“Let me see the tapes.” She took a chair and watched the array of monitors before her, each aimed at the massage table from different angles. The masseur entered the room, Fife-Simpson climbed onto the table, and, after a moment, the injection was administered, and he seemed to fall asleep.

Felicity watched with amazement, her eyes flicking from one monitor to the next, while Pierre, who had the largest penis she had ever seen, turned his attentions to his client. “My God,” she said, after half a minute of this, then she stood up. “All right, I’ve seen quite enough,” she said. “I’ll leave you to it.”

“Thank you for joining us, Director. Now we’ll edit the raw footage, you should excuse the expression, into a harmonious whole and transfer it to our special website. Once done, I’ll give you the code and password.”

“Jolly good,” she said. “I’ll see the final cut on the website when you’re done.”

“I’ll call you,” Sims said.

Back in her office, Felicity phoned Admiral Sir Timothy Barnes. “Scramble,” she said.

“Scrambled,” Barnes replied.

“The brigadier arrived pretty much on schedule, and things went very much as planned,” she said.

“I’m glad it went well.”

“Tell me, Tim. Is Roger likely to come back to you for a favorable reassignment?”

“I think that’s quite likely,” Barnes replied, “given his past conduct.”

“I think it might be appropriate if you found him a post in a setting somewhat less comfortable than the Scottish Highlands — something more remote, perhaps.”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” Barnes replied, “and we have an upcoming vacancy. Something that might cause him to consider retirement.”

“Anything available at either the north or south poles?” Felicity asked, archly.

Barnes laughed heartily. “I wish,” he said. “Oh, I wish.”

“I’m sure whatever you have in mind will do very nicely,” she said. “Let me know of his final disposition.”

“I shall do so,” Barnes replied.

She heard a knock on her door. “Hold on a moment, Tim,” Felicity said. “Come in!”

Sims entered and handed her a slip of paper. “Here are the entry code and password to the website,” he said. “Everything will be up and running by five PM. And, by the way, we’re adding some dialogue to the audio — grunts and ecstatic groans.”

She turned back to her phone conversation. “Tim?”

“I’m here.”

“I’m going to read you the entry code and password to a highly secret website, created especially for this event. After five o’clock, you’ll be able to view the brigadier’s holiday video.”

“That’s grand, Felicity. I’ll pass it on to the First Lord of the Admiralty and the foreign minister. I don’t think it will need to go any further than that.”

“That should be quite far enough,” she replied. “When it has done its work we’ll archive it, just in case it’s needed in the future.”

They both said goodbye and hung up.

Brigadier Fife-Simpson arrived back at his London flat, checked his mail, and found a request from the First Sea Lord that he appear at the Admiralty the following day for a reassignment interview.

At the appointed hour, dressed in his uniform, he reported to Admiral Sir Tim Barnes as instructed. He was greeted warmly by his old friend and given coffee, then Sir Tim got to the point.

“Roger,” Sir Tim said, “I’ve been looking through our vacancy lists for a new assignment for you.”

“I’m raring to go, Tim,” the brigadier replied, being so bold as to address him familiarly, since they were alone.

“I’ve found you something — a command, actually, that while it may seem a bit farther south than what you’re accustomed to, might be just the sort of assignment that could lead to greater things in the future. After all, a hardship post can look very good on one’s record when, in the future, one comes before an Admiralty board. I expect you’re aware that, now that you are of flag rank, promotions and reassignments require board approval.”

Hardship? Fife-Simpson thought, a bit alarmed. “Farther south, did you say?” he asked.

“The Falklands, actually. That’s as far south as one can go. You’d be in command of the detachment there.”

The brigadier frowned a little. “How large a detachment?” he asked.

“Twelve officers and seventy of the lower ranks. All men, I’m afraid. The First Lord thought it best, for his own reasons, not to send women down there.”

“And what does the detachment do there, sir?” He thought it best not to be familiar again.

“They guard the Falklands,” Sir Tim replied.

“From what, sir?”

“Why, from reinvasion of the Argentinians, of course. You’ll remember how hard it was dislodging them after they took the islands back from us the last time. We don’t want that happening again, do we?”

“And the Admiralty believes it could prevent a reinvasion with eighty-two men?”

“Oh, we’re much better armed and more responsive these days than back then,” Sir Tim replied. “We could reinforce your contingent in days, not weeks.”

“And how long is the posting, sir? It’s temporary, I assume.”

“No, it’s a normal two-year rotation, possibly three, should difficulties arise.” Sir Tim looked at him, frowning. “Is something wrong, Brigadier?”

“Not quite what I hoped for, sir,” Fife-Simpson replied.

“Well, in these days of peacetime, our numbers have shrunk, and so have the number of postings available. I might be able to find you something in West Africa, but the climate there is, shall we say, inhospitable, and the risk of tropical infections formidable.”