Стюарт Вудс - Stealth

“Thank you very much, Lance,” Holly said. “Now you may switch off your own surveillance equipment so that we can have some privacy.”

“Of course,” Lance said. “Consider it done.” He hung up.

“Do you think he switched everything off?” Stone asked.

“Probably,” Holly said. “Let’s make it very dark in here, though.”

The two of them went around the bedroom, checking that all the curtains were drawn and shades lowered and night lights extinguished, Holly used her detection device, with negative effect, then they got naked and hopped into bed.

“Isn’t darkness wonderful?” Stone asked. “I like feeling my way.”

“I like it, too,” she said.

Lance Cabot sat at his desk and looked at stills of the video taken the evening before at the London Russian embassy. His secretary announced Bruce Winn, an Agency analyst on the Russian desk.

“Come and look over my shoulder,” Lance said to Winn, who did so. Lance held the magnifier with one hand and pointed with the other. “We know that these three men are the station chief, the naval attaché, and the ambassador, all with their wives.”

“Yes, Lance, that’s correct.”

“But who is this man?” Lance asked, pointing at a middle-aged male at the table, apparently unaccompanied.

“I confess he is unfamiliar to me,” Bruce replied.

“I want you to run this through the facial identification software and see if we can make him.”

“Right away,” Bruce replied, then left the office.

Three hours later, Bruce Winn revisited Lance.

“Did you make him?” Lance asked.

“Yes, but not where we expected to. We ran him against every employee of Russian intelligence known to us, also through the Russian navy and army, and got nothing, so we had to go random, run him against all known faces in Britain.”

“And?”

“We found the face among those attending a convention of rare book dealers in Brighton, two years ago.”

“And who is he?”

“His name is Wilfred Thomas. He has a rare-book shop in Burlington Arcade, London, and he is also a bookbinder, very expensive.”

“I know Burlington Arcade well, and I think I know the shop, too. What do we know about Mr. Thomas?”

“He is British, sixty-two years old, widowed four years ago, wife died of natural causes. He attended Harrow and Oxford, where he read history and languages.”

“Don’t tell me,” Lance said, “among them Russian.”

“Right. Something else interesting: he is the third son of the Duke of Kensington, who is the third-largest property holder in London, after the Duke of Westminster and the Cadogan Estate. His title, which he rarely uses, is the Earl of Chelsea.”

“You’re right,” Lance replied, “that is interesting. Now go back and explore connections between Thomas and Jennifer Sands, the lady with Fife-Simpson.”

“Yes, sir.” Bruce departed.

Lance got his magnifier and looked again at the faces at the table. He thought that two of the diners bore an odd resemblance to each other.

Bruce Winn came back later in the day, looking pleased with himself.

“Tell me,” Lance said.

“Wilfred Thomas and Jennifer Sands’s father, Elihu Sands, known as Eli, were lifelong friends and shared rooms at Oxford. They both met their wives at Oxford and Jennifer’s mother got pregnant while still a student. That’s all perfectly straightforward, but their history contains a rumor.”

Lance smiled. “Don’t tell me. Thomas fathered his friend’s girlfriend’s child.”

“That is the rumor,” Winn said, “but I can’t prove it.”

Lance handed him the photograph and the magnifiers. “There’s your proof,” he said. “Look at those two faces, Wilfred Thomas and Jennifer Sands. They have to be closely related.”

“I believe you’re right,” Winn said.

“So, Thomas came to Oxford and got bitten by the Communist bug, probably courtesy of his favorite don, who, I’ll bet, taught Russian.”

“And Sand’s girlfriend got bitten by Wilfred Thomas, with Jennifer as the result. I love it.”

“So do I,” Lance said, “but I don’t know if it means anything for us. Let’s just keep it in mind, for the moment.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll revise the files of the relevant parties.”

“Stay with the rumor theory, for the time being. Let’s see what else emerges. It would be interesting to know if Jennifer knows who her father is, and if Eli knew.”

“I think that would have to be a job for operations,” Winn said. “We’re unlikely to find that information in a file or a book.”

“I believe you are right,” Lance said.

When Winn had gone Lance placed a call abroad.

“This is Dame Felicity,” she said.

“Good day, Felicity, this is Lance.”

“Why, Lance, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“It would seem that both our services have taken an interest in Brigadier Fife-Simpson.”

“Oh?”

“Certainly, and you are well aware of that, so let’s not be coy.”

“How may I help you, Lance?”

“I believe it might be in our mutual interest to share our findings with each other.”

“It might make for a more economical operation, as well.”

“Ah, I see we’re on the same page. I propose that you meet with our operative, perhaps over the weekend, and that the two of you pour out your hearts to each other.”

“Let me guess: The operative in question is Stone Barrington?”

“Convenient, isn’t it, since you are close, ah... neighbors and you will probably both be in residence at Beaulieu this weekend.”

“Quite convenient,” Felicity replied.

“May we speak again after you two have had a chat?”

“Indeed. Goodbye, Lance.”

Lance called Stone’s cell. It was after lunch in London.

“Yes?”

“Scramble.”

“Scrambled.”

“Good day, Stone.”

“Good day, Lance.”

“I have an assignment for you — a pleasant one, to be sure.”

“I’m all ears.”

“I believe Holly is leaving England shortly.”

“She is being driven to the airport as we speak.”

“First, let me tell you what new information has come our way with regard to our surveillance of the brigadier.” Lance ran down for him what had been learned and what was suspected.

“Very interesting,” Stone replied.

“It has occurred to me that there is little point in having two intelligence services conducting separate investigations into the same subject, and that it might be better for us both if we combine our assets and information.”

“I expect that might be a good idea.”

“Felicity is coming down to the Beaulieu River for the weekend. I suggest that the two of you find time for a dinner together, preferably at your house, and share everything I have told you and what she already knows.”

“That’s an agreeable idea,” Stone said. “I’m just getting into the car now for the drive down.”

“Perhaps you could give me a ring on Monday and let me know the state of your discussions and what moves the two of you might wish to make.”

“I can do that,” Stone said.

“Have a lovely weekend.” Lance hung up.

Stone had not even gotten the car started before his phone rang again. “Hello?”

“It’s Felicity, my darling.”

“How good to hear from you.”

“Will you have dinner with me tomorrow evening, just the two of us?”

“I would be delighted to give you dinner at the Hall and whatever else your heart desires.”

“That will take longer than a dinner, I think.”

“Then bring your toothbrush.”

“Done.” Felicity hung up, and so did Stone.