On Friday, a Strategic Services Gulfstream 4 picked up Dino and Viv for the trip back across the Atlantic. “This is a bit of a demotion from the G-600, isn’t it?” Stone needled Viv.
“I’m told it will go the distance, and that’s all we require,” she replied, kissing him goodbye. “I feel better leaving you in the clutches of Rose, since we made an honest woman of her.”
“Come now, she was always an honest woman. We just had to find it out.” He gave Dino a hug, slapped him on the back, and followed him aboard the aircraft. “Nicer than I thought,” he said, looking around the cabin, “and you have only a couple of companions to share it with.” There were two other Strategic Services executives aboard.
“I’ll live,” Dino said. Then Stone deplaned and drove away with Rose in his golf cart, as the G-4 taxied to the end of the runway for takeoff.
“Viv must be pretty high up in her company,” Rose said, “to be picked up at a private airstrip for a transatlantic flight.”
“She is the number-two person, after Mike Freeman, who is chairman and CEO. It doesn’t hurt that Dino is the New York City police commissioner, and as such, he’s the sort of person worth doing favors for.”
“Did you build the airstrip?”
“No, the Royal Air Force was kind enough to do that during World War II. They used it to test new bombers and fighters, and to launch aircraft flying to France to parachute members of the Special Operations Executive into that country, to execute skullduggery against the Nazis.”
“Did the Germans ever bomb it?”
“No, it didn’t appear on any aeronautical charts, and it was heavily disguised in the daytime by fake farmhouses and hayricks on wheels that could be rolled away after the sun went down. Clever people, you Brits.”
“What shall I wear to dinner this evening?”
“It’s black tie for me, so dress accordingly.”
“Do we have guests?”
“We do: Dame Felicity and a gentleman named Lance Cabot, who some say is not a gentleman. He is the director of Central Intelligence for the U.S. and, as such, the director of the CIA.”
“Spooky dinner,” Rose said.
“Well put.”
Brigadier Roger Fife-Simpson stepped into a large, well-lit room that appeared to be a laboratory, except for the many objects lining its countertops. He was introduced to the director of technical services by his escort, Meg, and handed a small black case. “Open it,” the director said. Fife-Simpson released the two latches and found inside a clarinet, broken down into its pieces. “I’m afraid I don’t play,” he said.
“Now press down firmly on the mouthpiece in its cap.”
The brigadier did so, and the inside of the case flipped up to reveal another compartment underneath. Inside were a small pistol, a magazine, three metal tubes, and a slim telescopic sight. The director screwed the three pieces together, snapped the sight into place, and then handed the assembled weapon to Fife-Simpson. “There you are,” he said, “perfectly equipped for an assassination.”
The brigadier sighted around the room. “How accurate is it?”
“To a hairbreadth,” the director replied. “Oh, and here’s something else we’ve developed.” He handed his visitor a handsome fountain pen.
Fife-Simpson unscrewed the cap, inspected the pen closely, then felt the nib. He snatched his hand away. “It stung me,” he said.
“Sorry about that,” the director said. “Don’t worry, it’s not the cyanide version.” He turned to an assistant. “Antidote, please,” and the young man began rummaging through drawers.
“I’m sorry this is taking so long,” he said to the brigadier. “I expect you’re feeling drowsy.”
Fife-Simpson responded by sagging into Meg’s arms. She and the director transferred the limp form to a sofa on one side of the room. “I’m afraid he’ll be out for half an hour or so,” the director said.
“Oh, good. I can use the rest,” Meg said.
The director received a capped syringe from his assistant and handed it to Meg. “Stick him with that when you’re ready to have him back. It works quickly on any part of the body and can be administered through clothing.” He went back to work, and Meg sat down on the unused end of the sofa, glad for some rest from the brigadier.
Lance arrived at Windward Hall from London as evening fell. Stone and Rose came out the front door to greet him. Stone introduced Rose to Lance. “We’re just going down to fetch Dame Felicity,” he said. “Come with us.”
They got into the golf cart and drove the quarter mile to the dock, where her boatman was just making fast the boat’s lines. Stone helped Felicity ashore, and since everyone now knew everyone, introductions were unnecessary.
Back at the house, Geoffrey served them drinks.
“Thank you for taking the brigadier off my hands for a bit,” Felicity said to Lance.
“Speak of the devil,” Lance said. “I had a call a few minutes ago saying that Fife-Simpson was just rendered unconscious in our technical service department by a sting from a hypodermic disguised as a fountain pen—inadvertently, of course.”
“Of course,” Felicity replied.
“They’ll bring him around soon.”
They were called to dinner, and an old claret was uncorked, tasted, decanted, and poured.
“You said on the phone that you had met Fife-Simpson before?” Felicity asked.
“Yes. The first instance occurred in the casualty ward of a Belfast hospital. I had been observing the work of the Army and Royal Marines in the city and received a superficial bullet wound for my trouble, and while I was being treated, Fife-Simpson—a lieutenant at the time—was brought in. He had been badly beaten, and a friend, another lieutenant, was very concerned. The friend told me that he and a squad of military policemen had extracted young Roger from the clutches of an IRA scrum. The lieutenant said that Fife-Simpson had asked to be taken to a gay bar, but there was a mix-up. The lieutenant, by the way, was to become Admiral Sir Timothy Barnes, now serving as the First Sea Lord.”
“Oh, is the brigadier gay?” Felicity asked.
“I don’t think so. Rather, he is a gay basher, or, as some say, a gay trasher, who has helped along his career in the military by forming friendships with homosexual officers. Then, when it suited him, to gently blackmail his way into better fitness reports and promotions.”
“That is disgusting,” Felicity said.
“Do you know, Stone,” Rose suddenly interjected, “the brigadier asked me if you were gay.”
Felicity and Lance burst out laughing.
“Don’t worry,” Rose said, placing a hand on Stone’s arm, “I’ll give you a good report.”
More laughter.