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KENNEDY accompanied Stansfield into the Embassy while everyone else stayed with the vehicles. Rollie Smith was waiting for them and escorted them through security with only a word. Kennedy had heard a great many stories about Smith over the years. He had a substantial mustache
that he kept perfectly trimmed and waxed. He had started growing it in his early twenties to help diminish his overbite, and over the years it became his signature trait, that and his bow ties. Smith prided himself on being the consummate British gentleman. He was a lifelong member of Britain’s Secret Intelligence Service, more commonly known as MI6. His father had been a midlevel diplomat for Britain’s Foreign Office, and the young Smith and his two sisters had spent almost their entire youth living on the Continent. Their father’s longest posting was in France, but he’d also spent time in Belgium, Austria, and Germany.
Smith was eighteen and living in Belgium when Hitler rolled into Poland and kicked off World War II. The following spring the Nazis did their famous end run around the Maginot Line and the family was recalled to London. The father recognized that young Roland was going to join the war effort with or without his permission, so he pulled a few strings and got Rollie placed with MI6. Four years later he met an American who had spent the greater portion of the last year of the war behind Nazi lines.
Over the following decades, as the Cold War heated up, Thomas Stansfield and Rollie Smith shared a common passion—they both wanted to destroy the Soviet Union. Sometimes they were stationed in the same cities, their embassies often only blocks from each other. Other times they were continents away, but the distance never mattered. They remained the closest of friends and confidants.
The two men greeted each other with solid handshakes and warm smiles. They were stoically and unapologetically from a generation in which men did not hug men.
Smith turned his charm on Kennedy. “What a nice surprise to see you, Dr. Kennedy.”
Kennedy smiled. “And you as well, Sir Roland.” For some reason, Kennedy couldn’t help but think of George MacDonald Fraser’s hilarious character Flashman whenever she encountered Smith.
Smith was either in a hurry or more than likely shared the same fear that was common with intelligence officers the world over. Talking in transient, unsecure places was never a good idea, unless you wanted to be heard. As was the case with the U.S. Embassy in Paris, MI6’s secure offices were located in the second subbasement. They took the stairs, and when they got to a heavy steel door with a camera above it, Smith punched a code into a cipher lock and they entered. He greeted a man behind a desk but didn’t bother with introductions. They continued down a long hall with ugly cream-colored walls and linoleum floors. Unlike the rest of the Embassy, this area had missed the big remodeling.
Smith opened a door on the right and motioned for Kennedy and Stansfield to enter. Kennedy felt immediately familiar with the type of room. The floor was rubber and the walls and ceiling were covered in gray acoustic foam. This was where the MI6 gang would hold their most delicate meetings. The table had four chairs on each side and a chair at each end. At the far end a very small man dressed in black was seated and smiling at her. She smiled back and guessed his age to be somewhere close to ninety.
Kennedy noticed the white tab at the front of the man’s collar. She approached him, extended her hand, and introduced herself.
The man continued to smile and in French said, “Very nice to meet you, Ms. Kennedy. I am Monsignor Peter de Fleury.”
Stansfield asked, “I’m not going to have to kiss the back of your hand now, am I?”
“Yes,” the old priest said, “and my bony white butt while you’re at it.”
Kennedy was caught completely off-guard. Her boss never joked.
Stansfield and Smith were now laughing like schoolboys.
“Your Eminence,” Stansfield said, “it is such an honor to be in your holy presence.”
De Fleury smiled and said, “I should have you excommunicated.”
“You probably should, and then I’ll just join the Church of England like Rollie here.”
“And you will burn in hell with Rollie and all the other pagans.”
Now all three of them were laughing, and they continued their ribbing for another few minutes until they finally settled down. De Fleury looked at Kennedy and said, “I’m sorry you have to put up with such childish behavior, but you should have seen these two at the end of World War II.” The monsignor turned his cloudy eyes on Smith and Stansfield and said, “Remember the time I had to save you from that whorehouse when the—”
“Hey, hey,” Stansfield shouted, “don’t start telling lies, or I’ll be forced to hand my secret files over to the Vatican. You’ll be stripped of that new fancy title and live out your final years in shame.”
“Go ahead,” de Fleury replied. “It would be the most exciting thing those old peacocks have read in years.”
There was another round of laughter and more stories. Kennedy had never seen her boss like this, and it made her view him in a different light. With his relative youthfulness and sharp mind it was easy to forget that he had served in World War II. When the men had finally settled down and were done teasing each other things took on a more serious tone.
Smith turned to Stansfield and said, “I wish things were different right now. I would love nothing more than to spend an evening with the two of you telling lies about each other, but I’m afraid in light of what happened last night that is not going to happen on this trip. The DGSE will be harassing you, no doubt.”
Stansfield was unfazed. “Once you’ve run a station in Moscow, the DGSE isn’t so intimidating.”
“True,” Rollie said in a reflective tone, “but this new man they have running their Special Action Division is not someone to take lightly.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“Peter will fill you in on something very important in a moment, but first I, too, have something rather important to share.”
This was not a surprise to Stansfield. He had taken a call from Rollie at home on Saturday. A few coded words were dropped into the conversation and when Stansfield arrived at the office he found a secure cable from his London station chief waiting for him. It was a request for a face-to-face meeting. The topic to be discussed was the murder of the Libyan oil minister. “I appreciate you reaching out, Rollie.”
“That’s how you and I do things. We look out for each other.” Smith drummed his fingers on the table for a moment and then said, “The Libyan oil minister, Tarek al-Magariha . . . he was on our payroll.”
