Стюарт Вудс - Stealth

Stone scanned them. “These make it seem as though the transaction never took place. Okay. So you’re moving out?”

“Certainly not. I’m very comfortable there. Apparently there’s no ethical problem if I’m fucking the owner of the house I live in.”

“I find that baffling.”

“The federal bureaucracy at its most discerning. There’s a property tax bill in there, too, overdue. The department, in its confusion, never paid them.”

“Swell, I’ll fax it to Joan for payment.”

“The good thing about all this is that I found out how really sweet you are, when you proposed such a thing. You did yourself a lot of good there, buster.” She took his face in her hands and kissed him, and one thing led to several others.

Stone called Lance.

“Yes?”

“Scramble.”

“Scrambled.”

“Holly and I drove up to London earlier today, and we were apparently followed by a white Mercedes Sprinter all the way to the hotel. Do you have an opinion on which of the relevant intelligence groups is behind that?”

“Not us,” Lance said. “Could be either of the others — or, perhaps more likely, the State Department.”

“They have people who do that?”

“Of course.”

“Should I do anything about it?”

“What would you do?”

“I don’t know, let the air out of their tires?”

“That would be fun, if it’s the Russians, less fun if it’s the Brits, and no fun at all if it’s State. By the way, are you in State’s suite at the Connaught?”

“We are.”

“Are you participating in the making of a sex video for their benefit?”

“Holly says all that is switched off, and she has a detector that confirms it. I watched her wave it around.”

“Nevertheless, you should be careful about what you’re waving around,” Lance said.

“I shouldn’t trust Holly to turn it off?”

“You shouldn’t trust those people in the van to turn it off.”

“That’s if they’re from State.”

“Behave as if they are, and you won’t have to watch the tape on the Internet. Goodbye.” Lance hung up.

“Holly?” he said.

“Mmmmfh?” she replied into her pillow.

“Do you trust your people not to record our activities here?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I saw to it, early on, that they’re scared shitless of me.”

“Oh, good.”

The Russian embassy sent a car for Roger and Jennifer. Upon arrival it was driven into an underground garage before the door opened, and they were directed to an elevator.

“A precaution,” Jennifer said. “They don’t want anyone photographing your arrival.”

“Who would care?” Roger asked.

“Your former employers,” she said. “Don’t be naïve, Roger. You must always be aware of your surroundings and circumstances. The Russians admire such caution.”

They were met on the ground floor of the embassy and escorted into what must have once been a ballroom. Roger reflected that the Russians didn’t have much use for ballrooms these days. “I was expecting a bigger crowd,” he said, “but there are no more than thirty people here.”

“I told you, it’s all family. All these people work in intelligence in the embassy complex and have high security clearances — as do we, incidentally.”

“When did that happen?”

“Right after you were cleared in Crimea.”

Alex spotted them from across the room and approached. “Good evening,” he said, embracing both. “Roger, I hear you are driving a very elegant new car.”

“I am,” Roger replied, “and I thank you for anything you might have done to make that possible.”

“I only make Jennifer possible,” Alex replied. “She does the rest.”

“Then thank you for Jennifer.”

“Oh,” Alex said, reaching inside his jacket. “I have something for you — a little gift.”

Roger had thought he would produce a gun, but instead he was handed a Russian diplomatic passport. He looked inside and found his photograph, apparently taken in Crimea, and the name “Sergei Ivanovich Ostrovsky.”

“It is a mark of our faith in you, Roger, that you should own this. If you should ever have to disappear from England or from anywhere else, thoroughly destroy all your documents and use this, anywhere in the world. We will also be supplying you with a Russian driving license and other personal papers, including an appropriate birth certificate. Among the other materials is a personal history, which you must immediately memorize, in case you should ever be interrogated by unfriendly entities.”

“Thank you again,” Roger said.

“I understand from your records that you speak some Russian?”

“Enough to order dinner and vodka, but not to converse fluently.”

“Beginning tomorrow, you will undergo an advanced course in our language, and your professor will be Jennifer, who is superbly qualified.”

“Why would I need the language?”

“It’s like the passport, for use if you should have to run. Also, I should point out that my colleagues tend to view with suspicion operatives who are not conversant in Russian.”

“I see.”

“Come, now. It’s time for you to meet some very important people.” In short order, Roger was introduced to the station chief for Russian intelligence, the Russian naval attaché, and the Russian ambassador to the United Kingdom and their wives. At dinner they were all at the same table, being serenaded by a small string orchestra, along with a zither, followed by a pas de deux by ballet dancers from the Kirov company, in St. Petersburg.

Much vodka was consumed, and some of the diners were moved to sing along with the orchestra. Several were inspired by the dancers to engage in athletic Russian choreography, with much clapping from their audience.

It was after midnight before Roger and Jennifer could make their way to their car and return to the flat.

Stone and Holly were returning from dinner at Harry’s Bar, when his phone rang. “Hello?”

“Scramble,” Lance said.

“Scrambled.”

“Have a seat and make yourselves comfortable. I want to show you something.”

They did so, and an image appeared on the iPhone screen of a large room with tables and diners and a string orchestra.

“Do you see him?” Lance asked.

“See who?”

“Brigadier Fife-Simpson. Wait, I’ll zoom in on his table.

“Got him,” Stone said, “and that’s his girlfriend, too. Where is this happening?”

“At the Russian embassy in London. All the participants are Russian intelligence, and the brigadier and his lady are at a table with the local station chief, the naval attaché, and the ambassador. This is very significant. It indicates that they place a high value on Roger, probably higher than he understands. Just a minute.” Lance backed up the video a few minutes until Roger and Jennifer were speaking to a man who took something from his pocket and handed it to Roger. At the appropriate moment, Lance froze the images and zeroed in on the object. “That,” he said, “is a Russian diplomatic passport with Roger’s photograph in it and the name ‘Sergei Ivanovich Ostrovsky.’ The Russians don’t hand out those as party favors, so our boy is now, as our Southern friends might say, ‘in high cotton.’”

“How on earth did you get these pictures?” Stone asked.

“The embassy underwent some renovations last year, and that gave us the opportunity to install the necessary state-of-the-art equipment. Astonishing quality, isn’t it?”

“It certainly is.”

“By the way, while you two were dining at Harry’s Bar, two men in head-to-toe black duds and hoods visited your suite and discreetly ransacked it. I expect they were traveling in the Sprinter that tailed you to London earlier today. They would probably have installed audio and video equipment, but we dispatched a maid to the room with fresh towels, to rout them, so you may feel secure now.”