Pierre pinched his other buttock, hard. “Feel that?” No response. Pierre went to the bed and pulled back the covers, then he lifted Fife-Simpson bodily and carried him there. He took note of the camera positions in the crown molding, then put on a baseball cap, the bill of which would shield his face from view. He stripped off his own clothing, massaged himself until he was engorged and camera-ready, then turned Fife-Simpson on his belly and began posing him in various positions.

—

Roger came slowly awake, lying on his back, as the masseur massaged his legs, then pulled the sheet over him.

“There,” Pierre said. “Did you enjoy your massage?”

“Yes,” Roger muttered. “Very nice.”

“I will go now, and you may continue to rest, if you wish. Marie will put away the massage table later.” Pierre closed his case, picked it up, and departed.

—

In London, back at the Circus, Sims opened the door to the operations room and admitted Dame Felicity.

“How did it go?” she asked.

“Perfectly,” Sims replied. “Pierre gave us everything we could possibly want, not to mention what he gave the brigadier.”

“Let me see the tapes.” She took a chair and watched the array of monitors before her, each aimed at the massage table from different angles. The masseur entered the room, Fife-Simpson climbed onto the table, and, after a moment, the injection was administered, and he seemed to fall asleep.

Felicity watched with amazement, her eyes flicking from one monitor to the next, while Pierre, who had the largest penis she had ever seen, turned his attentions to his client. “My God,” she said, after half a minute of this, then she stood up. “All right, I’ve seen quite enough,” she said. “I’ll leave you to it.”

“Thank you for joining us, Director. Now we’ll edit the raw footage, you should excuse the expression, into a harmonious whole and transfer it to our special website. Once done, I’ll give you the code and password.”

“Jolly good,” she said. “I’ll see the final cut on the website when you’re done.”

“I’ll call you,” Sims said.

—

Back in her office, Felicity phoned Admiral Sir Timothy Barnes. “Scramble,” she said.

“Scrambled,” Barnes replied.

“The brigadier arrived pretty much on schedule, and things went very much as planned,” she said.

“I’m glad it went well.”

“Tell me, Tim. Is Roger likely to come back to you for a favorable reassignment?”

“I think that’s quite likely,” Barnes replied, “given his past conduct.”

“I think it might be appropriate if you found him a post in a setting somewhat less comfortable than the Scottish Highlands—something more remote, perhaps.”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” Barnes replied, “and we have an upcoming vacancy. Something that might cause him to consider retirement.”

“Anything available at either the north or south poles?” Felicity asked, archly.

Barnes laughed heartily. “I wish,” he said. “Oh, I wish.”