An hour later, Fife-Simpson sat in the bar of the Naval and Military Club, in St. James’s Square, known to its members as the “In & Out.” The brigadier was definitely Out and not In. Out meant more rain that day, and foolishly not having brought an umbrella with him to Whitehall and not having been able to raise a cab, he had been forced to walk the distance between the two.

“I say, Roger,” a voice said. “Is that you?” A man in a business suit sat down on the stool next to him.

Fife-Simpson turned and looked at him. A colonel of his acquaintance. “Hello, Nigel,” he said.

“You’re looking a bit damp, there, you know? Surely the valet will press your uniform for you.”

“Yes, he would, if I chose to spend an hour in his steamy back room. I don’t believe they’d allow me to drink here in my skivvies.”

“Ho, ho, ho, I imagine not. I read of your promotion in the Telegraph,” Nigel said. “What have they got you doing now?”

“Well, I commanded Station Two, MI-6’s training camp, for six months. Then I was made deputy director of MI-6. Mind you, that’s between you and me and the lamppost. They don’t like us talking.”

“And is that good work?”

“Not really. Not enough to do, so I packed it in—today.”

“I hadn’t realized you’d cracked the thirty-year mark.”

“I hadn’t, but the board made an exception,” Fife-Simpson replied, then realized that he had just told this very talkative man that he had been sacked. “They offered me a command,” he said quickly, “but I decided to pack it in.”

“Oh? What did they offer you?”

Fife-Simpson scrambled for a plausible story, then gave it up. “What are you doing with yourself, Nigel?”

“Oh, I’ve got number 44 Commandos,” he replied. “Not that we have a lot to do these days, except train.” He glanced at his watch. “Oh, God, my wife is standing on a street corner at Harrods. I must flee.” He clapped the brigadier on the back. “Cheerio,” he said and then fled, leaving the brigadier to himself.

Fife-Simpson poured the remainder of Nigel’s whisky into his own glass. Must be frugal from now on, he thought.

Then he thought again. With his pension and the income from his father’s estate, he would be doing rather nicely—better than half again his pay as a brigadier. He polished off his drink. “Another,” he said to the bartender. He could afford it.

He took his drink to a chair beside the fire and fell into it. He’d dry faster here.

—

Sometime later, someone shook his shoulder. “Excuse me, Brigadier, will you be having dinner?”