Стюарт Вудс - Stealth

“The duties involved would be very much like the consulting you do for us now, only more frequent and with much more official weight, not to mention the perks and benefits of a full-time senior officer — salary, insurance, pension.”

“I have never seen or heard a description of what I do now,” Stone pointed out.

“And yet, you have been doing it for some years. This would be a senior position, somewhere between station chief and director. How about ‘deputy director for special operations.’”

“And what are the ‘special operations’?”

“Whatever you and I, in consultation, want them to be. There would be no administrative duties whatever, and you could maintain your current residences, plus something rather special in D.C.”

“Something special?”

“You did a real estate swap with the Presidents Lee a few years ago, in which you gave title to the State Department of your house in Georgetown, for the use of the secretary of state.”

“I did.”

“It seems that the State Department no longer wishes to be a landlord, after the current occupant vacates. And it appears to me that she will be moving out later this year.”

“If she is elected.”

“She will have to resign as secretary of state before she declares herself a candidate — though she could continue residing in your house as long as you wish to have her there.”

Stone was now stunned. Lance was serious.

“Also, if she should not win the election, I would be very interested to have her back at Langley in a very high position, one that would virtually guarantee that she would succeed me, if I should be invited to improve my situation elsewhere.”

“I assume that you have your eye on something in particular?” Stone asked.

“I believe that, no matter who wins the election, I might be in a position to choose one or two other positions.”

“Let’s see, what might be suitable? Head of the National Security Agency? Perhaps even secretary of state?”

“That’s very flattering, Stone,” Lance said. He got to his feet and prepared to mount his horse.

“Think about it, and we’ll talk later.” He swung into the saddle, and Stone remounted and followed him.

In the late afternoon, as Stone sat in the library with his book, his cell phone rang. “Yes?”

“Is that the lord of the manor speaking?” she asked.

“Ah, Holly,” he said, feeling a wave of warmth.

“I’m absolutely certain ,” she said, “that I told you there’d be an opportunity for us to rendezvous in England around now.”

“Of course you did. I haven’t forgotten. When?”

“I’ll be popping over this weekend, and I expect I can manage a week or two between London and your Windward Hall.”

“How will you be traveling?” he asked. “I mean, in what sort of aircraft?”

“Well, I don’t rate Air Force One, but it will probably be a very nice Gulfstream 500 that various members of the Joint Chiefs of Staff have managed to corral for themselves.”

“In that case, they can dump you right into my backyard.”

“I have to jump?”

“No, there’s a very nice seven-thousand-foot airstrip on my property, with GPS approaches. They can land, boot you and your luggage out, and take off again, unhindered, then fly to wherever they were going in the first place. Got a pencil?”

“Always.”

He gave her the coordinates and frequencies for landing. “Pass that on to your pilots before you take off.”

“That sounds delightful. I’ll fly over tomorrow, then a car will whisk me to London on Sunday night.”

“Then back here when you’re done in London.”

“Of course.”

“Request an early-morning departure — that will get you here in daylight. And even if it doesn’t, there’s a beacon and runway lighting, pilot-operated on the common frequency.”

“Duly noted. What clothes will I need?”

“Oh, a couple of ball gowns and your workout gear, I suppose. Don’t forget your riding togs. I will introduce you to some horses. We’ll have at least one black tie event, maybe two, so come equipped.”

“I can do that.”

“I’d suggest you leave your London gear on the airplane and have them deliver it to your hotel. Where are you staying?”

“In the Agency’s suite at the Connaught. Lance was helpful.”

“Speaking of Lance, I’ll want to talk to you about him.”

“Give me a hint?”

“Nope.”

“Oh, all right.”

“Call me at this number on your satphone when you’re fifteen minutes from touchdown, and I’ll meet you at the airstrip.”

“Wonderful. See you then.”

The morning after his meeting with the First Sea Lord, Brigadier Fife-Simpson had another phone call.

“Hello?”

“This that Brigadier Fife-Simpson?” a woman asked.

“It is.”

“This is Captain Helen Frogg. I’m calling on behalf of the Commandant General of the Royal Marines, General Sir Jeremy Pink.”

“Yes?”

“You are requested to present yourself to the commandant at Naval Headquarters in Whitehall at three o’clock this afternoon.”

“Yes, I’ll be there.”

“Thank you, Brigadier.” She hung up.

Now there was a ray of hope in the gloom, the brigadier felt. Otherwise he would not be seeing the commandant. He took his uniform to the neighborhood dry cleaners and waited while it was pressed, then he returned to his flat and got into it.

At three o’clock sharp, the brigadier presented himself at the offices of the commandant, and, to his surprise, was not kept waiting but told to go straight in. He marched into the office, braced, and saluted. “Brigadier Fife-Simpson reporting as ordered. Good morning, Commandant.”

Instead of being asked to sit, the commandant rose from his desk and directed the brigadier to the conference table at one end of his office, where there were some papers stacked, then told to sit. He did, and the commandant sat opposite him at the table.

“Now then, Brigadier,” he said, “at the request of the First Sea Lord, I am presenting you with two options. First, there is the post of commander of the Royal Marine detachment in the Falkland Islands.” His nose wrinkled. “I’ve served there, and I don’t recommend either the climate or the landscape. The sailing is pretty good, though, if you have a yacht. Alternatively, I am pleased to tell you that, after the intervention of the First Sea Lord, the promotions board has, in your case, agreed to waive the thirty-year-service requirement for full retirement pay and benefits. Your choice is clear: If you wish to accept the Falklands posting, kindly sign the documents on your left. If you, alternatively, wish to accept retirement with immediate effect and full benefits, kindly sign the document on your right.” The commandant took a fountain pen from his jacket pocket, unscrewed the cap, and laid the instrument on the table between the documents.

“Sir...”

The commandant interrupted him. “I assure you, Brigadier, there is no other posting available.”

The brigadier picked up the pen, thought briefly of the Falklands, then signed his retirement document.

The commandant picked up his pen, screwed on the cap, returned it to his pocket, and stood, gathering and sorting papers.

The brigadier stood and saluted him.

The commandant offered him a handshake and thanks for his service.

Thus dismissed, the brigadier turned and, with an envelope containing his retirement documents and those explaining the terms, marched out of the office and into civilian life.

An hour later, Fife-Simpson sat in the bar of the Naval and Military Club, in St. James’s Square, known to its members as the “In & Out.” The brigadier was definitely Out and not In. Out meant more rain that day, and foolishly not having brought an umbrella with him to Whitehall and not having been able to raise a cab, he had been forced to walk the distance between the two.