His telephone rang, and he reflexively picked it up, even though he didn’t wish to speak to anyone. “Brigadier Fife-Simpson,” he said into the phone.

“Will you speak to the First Sea Lord?” a woman’s voice said.

“Of course,” he replied, brightening. This might be something good.

“Hello, Roger,” a familiar male voice said. “It’s Tim Barnes. How are you?”

“I’ve been better,” Fife-Simpson replied.

“Perhaps what you need is a holiday. I have just the thing for you.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Kate and I had planned a holiday at Cap d’Antibes, in the South of France, at a lovely place owned by some friends. However, as all too often happens, the Royal Navy has decided to put itself first, and we have to cancel. We have the house for a week. Would you like to have it, as our guest, starting tomorrow?”

“Ra-ther!” Fife-Simpson replied gleefully.

“All right. I’ll have my plane ticket changed to your name. You’re on British Airways 106 to Nice, tomorrow morning at eleven AM. There’ll be a car and driver to meet you at the other end.”

“Tim, this is just wonderful, and at a moment when it will do the most good.”

“A couple named Marie and Oskar run the place, and she cooks like an angel. The house is stocked with food and drink, on us, and I’ve made an appointment for myself at five tomorrow afternoon for a massage. Shall I leave that in place for you?”

“Oh, yes, please.”

“Very well, then. Have a wonderful holiday, and be sure to drop us a postcard.”

“Thank you again, Tim.”

“Don’t mention it. Goodbye.” He hung up.

Fife-Simpson leapt from his chair, tossed down the remainder of his drink, and went to find his luggage. When he was all packed he ordered in a pizza, opened a bottle of wine, and settled in for dinner.

—

Dame Felicity buzzed Mrs. Green.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Find Sims in operations and send him up to me, please.”

“Right away, ma’am.”

—

Sims was a rangy lad of thirty-five whose suit never quite fit him, but who had a quick mind and a sly nature.

“Take a seat, Sims,” Felicity said, and he did so.

“You remember the little op we pulled off at the place on Cap d’Antibes two years ago?”

“Of course, Dame Felicity. One of our better ones, I thought.”

“All of our video and audio working there?”

“We keep it in good nick,” he replied.

“Good. A man called Roger Fife-Simpson is arriving at the Nice airport tomorrow at two o’clock local.”

“Would that be our brigadier?” Sims asked.

“Yes, our now late, lamented brigadier. Have him met and transported to the house. And, of course, let our people there know to expect him.”

“Yes, ma’am. Do you wish him, ah, entertained?”

“Yes, please. He has been told to expect a massage therapist at five PM. Arrange that.”

“Male or female?”