Стюарт Вудс - Stealth

“Thank you, sir, I don’t think so. May I ask: Do I have another alternative?”

“Well, there’s always retirement, I suppose.” He looked at the file before him. “You’ve another year before being eligible for a full pension, though. Perhaps I could fudge that a bit, if you wish me to.”

“May I have a few days to consider my options, sir?”

“Of course, Roger. Ring me as soon as you can and let me know your wishes in the matter. In the meantime, I’ll see what might be done about the pension.” He stood, signaling that the meeting was at an end. “I might be able to do something without board approval.” As he spoke he tilted the file in his hand, and an index card fell out onto the coffee table. Sir Tim picked it up and looked at it. “Oh, yes, I was given this to hand to you by the First Lord. It appears to be a website. Something to do with the Falklands, I imagine.” He handed it to the brigadier, who tucked it into a pocket, then saluted and left the room.

It had begun to rain. It took the yeoman at the front door a few minutes to find him a cab. By then it was coming down so hard that he got quite wet while getting into the taxi, which did not help to lift the depression that had befallen him on hearing of his new posting. The Falklands, for God’s sake! It was the other end of the earth! Bleak and with no women. And two years of it, perhaps three!

Back at his flat, he shucked off the tunic and hung it in his closet to dry. As he did, he came across the card Sir Tim had given him. He flopped down in his chair. Retirement? What would he do in retirement? He had no civilian connections whatever, and no training that would qualify him for a job in the city or in the courts. He’d sold the family’s country property after his father’s death, and he still had that money, so he could live. He imagined his existence, and that depressed him further.

It became clear to him as he sat there that he was going to have to bring some pressure to bear on old Tim; it had worked before, it could work again. Maybe some administrative post at the Admiralty; that would be bearable. He picked up his laptop and turned it on.

As the screen came up it was occupied by a message, demanding a user name and a password. He was expecting nothing like that, so he attempted to exit and go to his e-mail, but it would not budge. He restarted the computer to clear it, but got the same message.

He looked at the card Tim had given him and tried typing in the entry code and password it contained. Instantly a photograph appeared: it was a medium shot of himself, naked and in bed with a man, whose face was obscured. He scrolled down and found half a dozen other photos, from different angles and himself in different poses. He shrank away from the computer, as if it were a poisonous reptile.

Mercifully, the video ended, but there was another on-screen message: Consider your options.

Fife-Simpson fell back into his chair. What he had seen on screen had shocked him to the core. It was no longer a criminal act, but for an officer of flag rank, it would be a career-ender; whoever had sent the video was clearly threatening that it could get out.

Retirement was beginning to look better to him. Certainly, better than the Falkland Islands.

Stone and Lance took a ride together at mid-morning. After jumping the wall Lance pulled up under a tree and got down from the saddle. Stone followed him. Lance sat down with his back against the tree. “Join me?” he asked.

Stone joined him.

“This might be a good moment for a little chat,” Lance said. “I don’t suppose the horses or their tack are bugged, are they?”

“I think not,” Stone replied.

“I was thinking about our relationship,” Lance said.

“‘Relationship’?”

“Between you and the Agency. I think it has been valuable to both of us on occasion, has it not?”

Stone thought about that in terms of what Lance had done for him, not what he had done for the Agency. “I suppose so,” Stone said. “At widely separated intervals.”

“I was thinking that the relationship might be more satisfying, if the intervals were shorter.”

“What, exactly, do you have in mind, Lance?” He was curious, but guarded, as he always was with Lance.

“Well,” Lance said, “you have homes in places where we do business, so to speak — New York, Los Angeles, England, and Paris. Perhaps it’s just as well that you disposed of your Connecticut property.”

Stone remained silent.

“Allow me to elucidate.”

“Please do,” Stone said.

“Because of your widespread holdings and your apparent ability to do business while visiting them, while doing not much work for Woodman & Weld...”

“Let me stop you right there,” Stone said. “I do a great deal more work for the firm than you are, perhaps, aware of.”

“I’m aware of a great deal,” Lance said. “It’s in the nature of what I do.”

“You are sometimes underinformed, Lance,” Stone said.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to cast aspersions on your practice of the law.”

“Didn’t you?”

“I’m merely pointing out that, in spite of being an important partner at your firm, you manage to have a great deal of flexibility in the way that you do your work.”

“I suppose that may be true,” Stone said, then immediately regretted it. He had given Lance a foothold, and Lance could do a lot with a foothold.

“I’m merely suggesting that we might formalize our relationship just a bit.”

“How much of a bit?” Stone asked.

“Well, I believe that you might find more serious work with us a good deal more satisfying — even entertaining — than just being a consultant for the Agency.”

“Are you telling me that your firm is more fun than my firm?”

“Oh, most definitely, Stone. We have such a good time, saving the world. Wouldn’t you like to have a hand in saving it? At the end of it all, you might find your memories more gratifying than just having made it rain at Woodman & Weld.”

“I grant you that making rain at a law firm is not the most fun you can have, but the material rewards compensate quite nicely.”

“I know how much money you make there, Stone,” Lance said, “and I know how much money you have tucked away. You could shift gears in your life quite easily and never miss a meal, as it were.”

“I’ve thought about that,” Stone said, “but retirement doesn’t appeal to me.”

“Then why not do work that is more important than just making money?”

“Let me be frank, Lance. Being at your beck and call, as a consultant, is preferable to being at the end of your leash, no matter how long a leash it might be.”

Lance chuckled. “Let me tell you something you don’t know about my management style,” he said. “In dealing with my most important colleagues, I hardly ever give orders; it’s my view that, if I can’t persuade them that what I want done is the right thing to do, then we look for another way, one that, more often than not, is suggested by them. Then they go away happy and get it done.”

“Let’s cut to the chase, Lance,” Stone said. “What, exactly, do you want me to do?”

“It’s not just what I want,” Lance said. “It’s also about how you want to spend your life.”

“And, in your view, how should I spend it?”

“I’m thinking of creating a new position at the Agency that might suit you very well.”

“And what is the new position?”

“It doesn’t have a name yet. It might be called something like ‘senior colleague.’ Perhaps you can suggest something better.”

“I can’t suggest anything until I hear a better description of the duties involved.”