“No,” he said, “it’s not too soon.” They kissed again; her hand was on his thigh, his on her breast. He pinched the nipple, and she made a little noise. Her hand was higher up now, then it rested on his swelling crotch.

The action accelerated, and soon they were headed for her bedroom, shedding garments. For the next half hour they had the best sex Fife-Simpson had ever experienced, and soon he was sound asleep, snoring lightly.

—

Jennifer disengaged, used the bathroom, then came back to be sure he was still asleep. Having ascertained that he was, she gathered his clothing and examined the contents of all the pockets of his suit. She found his identity card, confirming his name and rank and noting his service number; she checked the credit cards, made a note of the numbers, codes, and expiry dates, then folded the garments carefully, laid them on a chair, and went to her desk, switching on her laptop.

She opened her e-mail program, tapped in an address, then entered two lengthy passwords to gain access to a chat page. She typed: Stage one completed satisfactorily.

An immediate answer came back. Have you surveyed the property?

Thoroughly. It’s shut down for the night.

Send him away happy. Cultivate.

Certainly.

They signed off.

—

Fife-Simpson woke the following morning to the aroma of frying sausages. He could see her through the kitchen door, wearing only an apron. “I’ll give you another sausage,” he said aloud to himself. Then he got out of bed, his erect member leading the way.

38

The brigadier got back to his flat at mid-morning, after another roll in the hay with Jennifer Sands, plus a short nap. He slipped his key into the expensive Israeli lock that had been installed by MI-6, then turned it, and walked in.

“Good morning, Brigadier,” a male voice said.

Fife-Simpson jumped, then saw the man in the armchair facing the door. His hand reflexively went to his hip pocket, where his knife resided.

The man in the chair raised a pistol and pointed it at him. “Now, now,” he said, “none of that.” He pointed at a chair with the pistol. “Please,” he said, “sit, and let’s have a chat.”

Roger tossed his hat aside, slipped off his coat, and sat down. “What is this about?” he asked. “What do you want?”

“Just a chat, for the moment,” the man replied. He had an upper-class British accent. “How was your evening out?”

“I’m sorry if I kept you waiting,” Roger replied.

“Let’s start over. First of all, you may call me Alex. Secondly, when I ask you a question, please answer it directly, instead of deflecting. It saves time. Once again, how was your evening out?”

“Entertaining,” Roger replied.

Alex smiled. “Yes, I expect it was. Most entertaining. All you had hoped, I expect.”

“Did you arrange it for me?” Roger asked.