“Thank you for your assistance, Tim.” She hung up as they pulled to a stop at the rear entrance of her service. Back at her desk she buzzed Mrs. Green.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Take a letter to Brigadier Fife-Simpson.”

“Please go ahead.”

“‘Dear Sir: Your resignation is accepted with immediate effect and without undue regret. Kindly deposit your credentials and weapons with the commissionaire on your way out.’ Type that up for my signature, then deliver it to him. If he is out, leave it on his desk.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Mrs. Green replied, with a hint of pleasure in her voice.

29

Fife-Simpson was sitting at his desk seething at his treatment by MI-6, the Foreign Office, and the Admiralty, when someone rapped sharply on his office door. Without waiting to be asked to enter, Mrs. Green opened the door and stepped forward, handing him an envelope sealed with red wax.

“What is this?” he demanded of her.

“For your eyes only, Brigadier,” she said. “For immediate action.” She stood waiting.

Fife-Simpson examined the envelope carefully, then broke the seal and unfolded the paper. As he read it, all expression drained from his face, leaving him with his mouth open.

“This way, please,” Mrs. Green said.

He looked up at her. “What?”

“It says, ‘with immediate effect,’” she replied. “This way, please.”

He stuffed the letter into his pocket, got his coat and hat from the closet, and followed her down the corridor. “What about my personal effects?” he asked while they waited for the elevator.

“Cartwright will collect them and have them delivered to your residence,” Mrs. Green replied. The elevator arrived. “Good day,” she said, holding the door for him.

He got out of the elevator on the ground floor and found the commissionaire blocking his exit from the building.

“Credentials and weapons, please, Brigadier.”

Fife-Simpson handed over his ID and pistol.

“Holster and switchblade, please.”

He took off his coat, got out of the shoulder holster, and fished the knife from his hip pocket, then laid everything on the table.

The commissionaire helped him back on with his jacket and coat, then handed him his hat and opened the door for him. Fife-Simpson stepped out into the street. “You are to forget this address,” the commissionaire said, then slammed the door behind him and bolted it.

Fife-Simpson turned around and found a taxi waiting. His name was on a card taped to the windshield. He got in.

“I have the address,” the driver said, closing the window between them.

—

Fife-Simpson got out of the cab in front of his building and took the lift up to his flat. He hung his coat and hat carefully in the hall closet, then walked into the drawing room, loosened his necktie, poured himself a large scotch, then poured himself into his favorite chair and drank half of his drink in a single draught.