Стюарт Вудс - Stealth

This was very unlike Alex, Roger thought. Today he was more host than spy.

“Milk or lemon?” he asked.

“Lemon,” Roger replied, and Alex supplied it.

“My real name is Wilfred Thomas,” he said as he poured the tea. He set the cups on the table next to him, picked one up, and sipped.

“How do you do?”

Wilfred smiled. “Very well, thank you. And so do you.”

“I do?”

“Roger, we did not recruit you merely as a matter of opportunism,” Wilfred said. “We picked you because you do not fit the profile of the usual asset. That person is a minion — a clerk, a janitor, a secretary — someone unnoticeable. You, on the other hand, are a difficult man — one who is always noticed and often disliked. The main thing noticeable about you is that you bear a grudge against the person who sacked you, and we have kept you well away from her.”

Roger nodded. “Your assessment seems correct.”

“Your grudge is, as the Americans would say, ‘gravy.’ As it was with Simon Garr.”

“You are correct.”

“Our British counterparts at MI-6 would not consider you a threat, because you would be so obvious.”

“That’s good thinking.”

“The other thing that makes you attractive to us is that you see things through. You are relentless, and not easily discouraged.”

Roger nodded. “Correct.”

“I share that trait,” Wilfred said, “but perhaps less noticeably.”

“Do you?”

“Yes, and I also have an unshakable faith in the decisions I make. You, for instance: I would not have told you my name if I believed you to be susceptible to betraying me to our fellow countrymen.”

“Thank you, Wilfred,” Roger replied.

“Nor would I have made you a Russian citizen, under the name in your new passport. That was a very strong signal to my superiors that I have absolute faith in you.”

“Thank you again,” Roger said.

“MI-5 or MI-6 will tumble to me in due course, because I am a scion of a famous British family name, Thomas. You would know my father as the Duke of Kensington.”

“Ah, yes,” Roger said, as if he hadn’t known.

“I am also,” Wilfred said, “your father-in-law.”

Roger permitted his eyebrows to rise. “You’re Jennifer’s father?”

“I am. Her supposed father and I were lifelong friends, until his death four years ago.”

“Did he know about Jennifer?”

“I expect so. The resemblance became stronger as she grew. Her mother, of course, knew. The two of us relished our secret.”

“Did you tell Jennifer?”

“No, I waited for her to suss it out, and she did. She was very pleased.”

“It must be unusual in the Russian service for a father to employ his child as an agent.”

“Not at all,” Wilfred said. “The bond of family is very strong. After all, who can you trust more?”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“Not your family, though,” Wilfred said. “You disliked your father.”

“I certainly did. Nothing I did was ever good enough for him. I was disappointed that he died before I achieved flag rank.”

“Yes, it would have given you pleasure for him to know that, wouldn’t it?”

“The greatest pleasure,” Roger admitted. “I would have loved to see his face when I told him. I dream about that, sometimes.”

“Your father knew Dame Felicity Devonshire’s father, did he not?”

“Yes, they were at school together and maintained their friendship their whole lives.”

“Your next target is Dame Felicity,” Wilfred said, then gave that a moment to sink in. “Would you have gotten pleasure from him knowing that you had killed his friend’s daughter?”

“I had never thought of that, but yes, very much so.”

“Doing so would be a great blow to British intelligence,” Wilfred said. “There’s really no one to replace her. If she were gone, whoever sat at her desk would, by definition, be inferior, perhaps even inept. The Russians have always taken pleasure in the ineptness of their British opponents. That’s why they were so fond of Kim Philby. The British knew for years that he was a mole, but they couldn’t prove it. The Russians would shoot such a person and not bother with proof.”

“Very efficient, the Russians.”

“They, as a race, also enjoy vengeance,” Wilfred said. “That is why the assassination of Dame Felicity would be what the Americans call a ‘twofer.’”

“And who would be the other half of that?” Roger said.

“Someone else you dislike,” Wilfred replied.

Roger smiled a little. “Barrington,” he said. “But what is he to Russia?”

“First of all, he has had a number of encounters with their mafia, over the years, and their mafia is, of course, very close to the government at its top. But Barrington has another, perhaps more satisfying qualification.”

“And what would that be?”

“He is quite close to Lance Cabot — a favorite, even. Cabot has recently brought him inside the CIA. Whereas before he was a consultant, he is now a personal adviser to Cabot, with the rank of deputy director.”

“What qualifications has Barrington for that rank?”

“None, apart from intelligence and wit. The rank is a mark of Cabot’s regard for him, to those both inside and outside the Agency. We have learned that this does not set well with others of that rank, and those who hope to achieve it.”

“I should think not.”

“Taking out Barrington would be a deeply painful blow to Cabot, one likely to affect his judgment. Taking out Dame Felicity would, as I have said, be a serious wound to British intelligence.”

“I see,” Roger said.

“And taking them out together, simultaneously, would be a more grievous wound than I can characterize,” Wilfred said. “Suffice it to say, it would shake the Western services to their core.”

Wilfred poured them another cup of tea. “This is a sufficiently important operation to employ more than one method,” he said. “You should have a choice. At Station Two, we relied on only one method.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“I think the most satisfying method would be an apparent murder-suicide. Either one could be made out to be the murderer.”

“Felicity,” Roger said. “It could be said that the pressures of her position brought this on.”

“I agree. I think it would be a very good idea, too, for Felicity to have some competition with regard to Barrington.”

“Is Felicity fucking Barrington?” Roger asked, surprised.

“For years,” Wilfred replied. “In New York, London, and at his estate, Windward Hall, which you have visited in her company.”

“Yes, I have, but I had not cottoned to their affair.”

“Felicity is a subtle woman. Still, she has her weaknesses.”

“Such as?”

“She likes both men and women in bed — preferably at the same time.”

“The woman, Rose,” Roger said, nodding. “I admire her taste in women.”

“So do I, and Barrington’s taste, as well.”

“A double murder and a suicide?” Roger asked. “How would we manage that?”

“Careful planning,” Wilfred replied. “And stealth .”

“I can’t disagree, but first we would have to get them into bed, all at the same time,” Wilfred said. “I have had word from a wiretap that they will all be at Barrington’s place next weekend.”

“Wilfred,” Roger said, “I am grateful for your confidence in me, but I cannot imagine how it would be possible to get three people in bed together and shoot them all.”

“Suppose they were all unconscious?”

“Certainly that would make it easier, but how do we induce unconsciousness? If we drugged them, an autopsy with a tox screen would reveal it and point the police to an outside killer.”