“I believe I have just the thing, sir,” the man said. “One moment.” He disappeared through the screen and returned with a wooden box. “Here we are,” he said, opening it. “A Colt Government .380, small, flat, and light. And a small, but effective, silencer.”

“Perfect,” the brigadier replied.

“What sort of holster do you require, sir?”

“Shoulder, I should think.”

The sergeant disappeared again and returned with a cardboard box. “If you’ll just slip off your jacket, I’ll fit it for you, sir.”

Fife-Simpson did so, and the sergeant slipped him into the leather and adjusted the straps. “How’s that, sir?”

The brigadier shoved the pistol into the holster. “Perfect,” he said.

“As to ammunition, would fifty rounds do you?”

“That would be good.”

“Any preference, sir? We like the Federal Hydra-Shok.”

“Very good.”

The sergeant left and returned with a plastic box; he removed the pistol from its holster, popped the magazine, and loaded it and the spare in the box speedily. He tucked the pistol back into its holster, then inserted the spare magazine and the silencer into their receptacles on the holster. “There you are, sir. Is there anything else you’d like?”

“I’d like a knife, please. A switchblade, if you have it.”

“Of course, sir.” He left and returned with another wooden box, containing a six-inch-long knife. He flicked it open and handed it to the brigadier. “Careful with it, sir. It’s razor-sharp. You could shave with it, in a pinch. And the blade is five and three-quarter inches.”

Fife-Simpson hefted the knife, felt its blade, folded it, and slipped it into a hip pocket, where his tailor had made a place for it.

“Sign here, sir,” the sergeant said, handing him the form and a pen.

The brigadier signed it, slipped on his jacket, and picked up the ammunition box. “Thank you, Sergeant,” he said. “Good day.” He left the room and marched back to his office, where he found on his desk a roast beef sandwich and a thermos of coffee and a note from Cartwright. There’s a canteen on subcellar 3, if you prefer.

21

Stone awoke the following morning to see Felicity coming out of her bathroom adjusting her clothing. “Must flee,” she said. “I had a text a few minutes ago, and my presence is required in London.”

Stone rang Stan and asked him to transport her to the dock.

Felicity bent over and kissed his penis. “Thank you for a lovely evening,” she said to it.

“You are most welcome, as always,” Stone replied.

She kissed him lingeringly on the lips and departed.

Stone rang downstairs for breakfast.

—

Dame Felicity arrived in the little alley off Shaftesbury Avenue and pulled up to the steel door. As she stepped from her car the door opened, and the commissionaire greeted her. “Good morning, Director,” he said, giving her a little bow. “By the way,” he said, “your new deputy arrived yesterday.”