Стюарт Вудс - Stealth

“Yes.”

“There are a couple of airports down there. They could have transported him somewhere. We’ll get to work on aircraft registration numbers and flight plans filed. It occurs to me, too, that that period could coincide with the increased activity on researching you. Do you think Fife-Simpson could have brought up your name?”

“I’ve no idea. He knows my name, of course.”

“They would have milked him dry for names. So it wouldn’t surprise me that yours would come up, especially since Fife-Simpson knows you to be a friend of Felicity’s.”

“She brought him to dinner at my house,” Stone said.

“Then they certainly would have extracted that event from him, and your name as well.”

“Do you want me to do anything at this end?”

“No, you’re not trained for this sort of thing. I would like to know if anything unusual happens that you could attribute to Fife-Simpson: if you should bump into him on the street in London or get a phone call from him, for instance. If his name comes up in a conversation with someone outside of Felicity’s circle.”

“That’s a very wide circle,” Stone said.

“Granted. You’ve opened a new channel of investigation for us, Stone, and I’m grateful. This is the sort of thing that made me want to bring you inside.”

“Well, I’m just sort of lying here,” Stone said, “not exactly doing anything.”

“Let me know if someone pokes you in the ribs,” Lance said. “Bye-bye.” He hung up.

Stone thought his new status at the Agency was already making his life more interesting.

Roger Fife-Simpson had finished the Daily Telegraph and was working on the crossword when the phone on the table beside him rang. He stared at the thing, not sure if he should answer it. Before he could make a decision, Jennifer walked over and picked it up.

“Hello? Ah, yes. Where are you now? We’ll be right down.” She hung up, grabbed Roger’s hand, and pulled him to his feet. “Come with me,” she said, leading him out the door and to the elevator.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

“It’s a surprise.”

Fife-Simpson didn’t much like surprises, and he viewed this one with suspicion. They got off the elevator on the ground floor, and she led him to the garage. “I’ve bought you a surprise,” she said. They turned a corner, and a white Mercedes convertible greeted them. “What do you think?” she asked. “Or would you prefer something more reserved?”

Roger grinned. “I would not,” he said, opening the car door and climbing in. The interior was red leather.

“It’s the S550 version,” she said, “the larger one, with the V8 engine.” She dropped the key into a cup holder. “It’s keyless starting,” she said. “Foot on the brake, press that button.”

He did so, and the engine leapt to life.

“Press this button,” she said, pointing to a row of three on the bottom of the rearview mirror.

He pressed it, and the garage door opened.

“The gear lever is on the steering column,” she said. “Press down to go forward, up to reverse, and push it in for parking.”

He pressed down and drove out of the garage. It was an unseasonably warm and sunny day.

“Stop,” she said.

He stopped, and she opened the center armrest compartment and placed his hand on a switch. He fiddled with it, and the top came down and was tucked away under the rear deck. He grinned and accelerated.

An MI-6 officer on the roof of the building behind the couple’s apartment suddenly caught sight of Fife-Simpson driving away. He got on the radio. “The car that was delivered a few minutes ago has left the garage, driven by Myna Bird. Get on it!”

In the next block, on another rooftop, a CIA operative spotted the convertible and its driver and got on the radio. “Scramble,” he said. “Canary has driven away from his building in a white S550 Mercedes convertible, top down. Wren is riding shotgun.”

“Where would you like to go?” Roger asked Jennifer.

“Wherever you like. We could have lunch somewhere.”

“Let’s go to the south coast.”

“I’m all for it.”

Roger drove west to the M4 motorway, and after a few minutes, turned off on a country road south, driving fast.

“Don’t get us arrested,” she said, fastening her seat belt.

They ended up an hour or so later in the village of Beaulieu, then drove south some more and stopped at a country pub. “This looks good,” Roger said.

They got out, took an outside table, and read the menu. Roger looked up and saw a couple getting out of a Porsche. “I don’t believe it,” he said.

“Believe what?” Jennifer asked.

“You recall I was asked by Alex about an American named Stone Barrington?”

“Yes.”

“Well, there he is, and the woman with him, if you can believe it, is the American secretary of state.”

Stone took Holly’s hand and led her toward the front door of the pub, then, dead ahead, he saw Brigadier Roger Fife-Simpson. It was obvious Roger saw him, too, so there was nothing for it, he had to say hello. Stone stopped at the table and extended a hand. “Hello, Roger,” he said.

Fife-Simpson stood, shook hands, and introduced Jennifer, then Stone introduced Holly.

“What brings you down my way?” Stone asked.

“Just a joyride. New car, wanted to stretch its legs. Will you join us?”

“Thanks, I think we’ll go inside. I’m unaccustomed to so much sunshine.” They said goodbye, went inside, and found a table.

“Was that who I think it was?” Holly asked.

“It was, and the woman with him must be Jennifer Sands.”

“You should have accepted his invitation to join them,” Holly said. “That’s what Lance would have had you do.”

“Lance doesn’t comprehend how boring that man is. It would have ruined our lunch.”

“A pro would have jumped at the chance to be bored.”

“Then I’m no pro,” Stone said. “We would have learned nothing.”

“If you say so.”

“Why did you ask them to join us?” Jennifer asked.

Roger shrugged. “It was the normal thing to do, in the circumstances. Fortunately, they didn’t accept the invitation.”

“You must report this to Alex when you next speak to him.”

“All right, but it’s just a coincidence. Barrington’s house is down this road, I think.”

“You were there before, weren’t you? Aren’t you sure where it is?”

“On that occasion we approached the house from the river, on Dame Felicity’s boat,” he said.

“Believe me, Alex will not see this as a coincidence.”

Perhaps fifty yards away, on the road, the MI-6 surveillance crew had stopped and were arguing.

“We’ve got to go on and get an eye and an ear on them,” one said.

“Fuck that,” the driver said. “We’d be made in a flash. We’ll wait for him to finish his lunch, then pick up the car.”

Further back, the CIA team had stopped, too. “Let’s drive slowly by the pub and get some footage of it,” the leader said.

The driver put their van into gear and moved slowly forward, while the cameraman got into position to shoot through a port.

“Faster,” the leader said. “Don’t attract attention.” As they came up to the pub a Porsche parked and a man and a woman got out of it and walked toward the pub.

“Get those two on film!” the leader said.

“Why?”

“Because one of them is our secretary of state! Are you blind?”

“Then who’s the guy?” the cameraman asked, adjusting his shot.

“Get the plate number on that Porsche, and we’ll find out.”

Roger and Jennifer got back into the convertible and continued down the road toward the sea. They came upon a driveway. “See the sign saying Windward Hall? That’s Barrington’s place.” He slowed so they could look through the gates.