“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.

—