Стюарт Вудс - Stealth

“Were you a spy?”

“If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

She laughed as if she’d never heard the stale joke before.

They had another drink before dinner, then he ordered a fine claret with their food. By the time they got to the port, the brigadier was flying high, and Jennifer seemed to be as well.

“Where is your flat?” he asked.

“Just up the mews,” she said. “Only a few steps away. Would you like to stop in for a nightcap?”

“I’d like that very much.” He waved for the bill and paid, then they left.

There had been a little rain, and the cobblestones were shiny in the lamplight. She led them to a small mews house and unlocked the front door.

He looked around. There was handsome furniture and good pictures. “This is quite elegant,” he said.

“A friend owns the leasehold,” she said. “I rent from him.” She went to the small fireplace and lit the gas flame. “Cognac?”

“Perfect,” he said.

She poured them both a drink and settled onto the small Chesterfield sofa before the fireplace, patting the seat next to her. “Come, sit.”

He joined her, and they sat thigh to thigh. She turned toward him, brushing his arm with an ample breast.

“That felt good,” he said.

She gave out a low laugh. “I’m glad you think so.”

He turned his head, and her face was right there. She kissed him, then withdrew an inch. “Oh, I’m sorry. It’s too soon.”

“No,” he said, “it’s not too soon.” They kissed again; her hand was on his thigh, his on her breast. He pinched the nipple, and she made a little noise. Her hand was higher up now, then it rested on his swelling crotch.

The action accelerated, and soon they were headed for her bedroom, shedding garments. For the next half hour they had the best sex Fife-Simpson had ever experienced, and soon he was sound asleep, snoring lightly.

Jennifer disengaged, used the bathroom, then came back to be sure he was still asleep. Having ascertained that he was, she gathered his clothing and examined the contents of all the pockets of his suit. She found his identity card, confirming his name and rank and noting his service number; she checked the credit cards, made a note of the numbers, codes, and expiry dates, then folded the garments carefully, laid them on a chair, and went to her desk, switching on her laptop.

She opened her e-mail program, tapped in an address, then entered two lengthy passwords to gain access to a chat page. She typed: Stage one completed satisfactorily.

An immediate answer came back. Have you surveyed the property?

Thoroughly. It’s shut down for the night.

Send him away happy. Cultivate.

Certainly.

They signed off.

Fife-Simpson woke the following morning to the aroma of frying sausages. He could see her through the kitchen door, wearing only an apron. “I’ll give you another sausage,” he said aloud to himself. Then he got out of bed, his erect member leading the way.

The brigadier got back to his flat at mid-morning, after another roll in the hay with Jennifer Sands, plus a short nap. He slipped his key into the expensive Israeli lock that had been installed by MI-6, then turned it, and walked in.

“Good morning, Brigadier,” a male voice said.

Fife-Simpson jumped, then saw the man in the armchair facing the door. His hand reflexively went to his hip pocket, where his knife resided.

The man in the chair raised a pistol and pointed it at him. “Now, now,” he said, “none of that.” He pointed at a chair with the pistol. “Please,” he said, “sit, and let’s have a chat.”

Roger tossed his hat aside, slipped off his coat, and sat down. “What is this about?” he asked. “What do you want?”

“Just a chat, for the moment,” the man replied. He had an upper-class British accent. “How was your evening out?”

“I’m sorry if I kept you waiting,” Roger replied.

“Let’s start over. First of all, you may call me Alex. Secondly, when I ask you a question, please answer it directly, instead of deflecting. It saves time. Once again, how was your evening out?”

“Entertaining,” Roger replied.

Alex smiled. “Yes, I expect it was. Most entertaining. All you had hoped, I expect.”

“Did you arrange it for me?” Roger asked.

“Not entirely,” Alex replied. “I left that to Ms. Sands. These things are more effective when people follow their own instincts, and she enjoyed herself quite as much as you did.”

“Give her my thanks when you see her,” Roger said, drily.

“Oh, you’ll see her again, and she will be just as happy to see you as last night.”

“What do you want?” Roger asked again.

“First, I’d rather talk about what you want, apart from Ms. Sands, whom you have already won. What do you want, Roger? If I may call you that.”

“Call me anything you like.”

“Roger it is, then. There is an envelope on the table next to your chair,” he said. “Open it.”

Roger looked at the table, picked up the unsealed envelope and opened it. He found himself staring at a photo of himself and the French masseur. He grimaced in spite of himself, shoved the photo back into the envelope, and tossed it to Alex. “With my compliments,” he said. “It won’t do you any good.”

“I’m still looking for what you want,” Alex said. “If it’s what’s in the envelope, I can arrange that, too.”

“Certainly not. I was unconscious when that was taken.”

“Were you? Somehow, you seemed to be enjoying it. I have others, in other positions. Would you like to see them?”

“No.”

“A pity, they are quite artistic, in their way. The lighting is very good. It was certainly an interesting beginning to your holiday in France, wasn’t it?”

Roger didn’t reply.

“Well, now, we were talking about what you want,” Alex said. “Let’s see, you have your full pension and the monthly income from the trust your father set up for you, because he didn’t trust you to handle the money wisely. A difficult man, your father, eh?”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Roger muttered.

“So, you can live quite contentedly on your present income,” Alex said, “if you’re careful how you spend it. Perhaps if you shave a few drinks off your weekly consumption you could afford to continue seeing your shirtmaker every year or two, but not your tailor, of course. You’ll have to be very careful with your clothes. You could stop getting caught in the rain, that would help.”

“How long have you been following me?” Roger asked.

“For a great deal longer than you realize, Roger. You came to our notice for the first time when you began extorting your fellow officers, the gay ones, for career assistance. One of them was ours, you see. After that we followed you quite closely.”

Roger slumped a bit in his chair now.

“I must say, we were very disappointed when you were sacked from MI-6. We were expecting great things from you.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you,” Roger replied sourly.

“Dame Felicity turned out to be tougher than you had anticipated, didn’t she? That’s why she’s where she is... and you’re where you are.”

Alex suddenly rose, walked to where Roger sat, and pressed his pistol lightly against Roger’s temple. “Perhaps you didn’t realize that this is your gun. You could quite easily become a suicide, you know. We’ve already written you a very nice note, to help the police and the Admiralty and the Foreign Office with their investigation. You might remember, from here on, that you’re only a moment away from ending it all.”

“I have no such intention,” Roger said.

“Of course you don’t. I just need to be sure that you are aware of your circumstance at all times.” Alex returned to his chair and sat down. “Now, we were discussing what you want, Roger. How would it be if your income quadrupled overnight? That would bring your shirtmaker and your tailor back within reach. Or, if it were increased by a factor of, say, ten, the world would be your oyster. You could travel, even buy a holiday home somewhere warm in winter. You could take cruises — first class, of course. Your appeal to women would soar, I should think. How does that sound?”