Westwind

18

The Isle of Dogs was everything Hepton had been expecting. It was, in fact, a building site, a hotchpotch of half-completed monoliths and half-demolished houses. The headquarters of the Herald, however, if not what he had hoped to find (he had fond memories of The Front Page and Citizen Kane) was certainly what he had thought he might find. The metal and glass cube that was home to the newspaper was protected by a high security fence. A barrier lay across the road at the entrance to the site, and two security men watched from their little prefabricated building there, while video cameras scanned the perimeter.

‘Checkpoint Charlie, they call it,’ said Hepton’s taxi driver, accepting the fifteen pounds’ fare and a small tip. ‘Cheers then.’ And with that he wheeled the taxi around and away.

Hepton stared again at the construction before him, trying to find some hint of a soul. There was none. He walked towards the barrier. One of the security guards donned a cap and came to meet him.

‘Can I help you, sir?’

‘I’m here to see one of the journalists, a Miss Jilly Watson.’

‘Watson, did you say?’ The guard was already turning back towards his office. ‘Follow me, sir. Expecting you, is she?’

‘No, not really. I’m a friend of hers.’

‘I see, sir.’

The other guard lazily watched several screens, each one showing a corner of the compound. There was a mug of dark brown tea in front of him, proclaiming its owner to be the World’s Best Dad. Another bank of screens showed the interior of the large building behind them, where the workers moved like ants. The first guard looked through a sheaf of A4 printed paper on his desk.

‘Watson, J. Extension three-five-five,’ he said to himself. He punched several numbers into his telephone receiver, and, looking up, saw that Hepton was watching the screens. ‘Good, aren’t they?’

‘Yes,’ Hepton responded. It seemed everyone was a spy these days. And everyone had a camera trained on them.

The guard’s call had been connected. ‘Hello, it’s the gate here. Got someone to see Miss Watson.’ He listened to a voice speaking at the other end, then put his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘What’s the name, sir?’

This was the moment Hepton had dreaded. ‘Martin Hepton,’ he said.

‘Martin Hepton,’ the guard repeated into the mouthpiece. There was a pause while he listened again, then he motioned with the telephone towards Hepton. ‘Wants a word, Mr Hepton,’ he said.

Hepton took the receiver cautiously. ‘Hello?’ he said.

‘Martin? Is that you?’ Jilly Watson’s voice sounded vibrant.

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘What are you doing here?’ But it wasn’t a sniping question; rather, it was filled with honest and welcome surprise. Hepton lightened: she was pleased that he had come.

‘I wanted to see you,’ he said.

‘Great! But they won’t let you in here. You need passes and all that kind of stuff. We’re not allowed visitors; a bit like a prison.’ She laughed. ‘If nobody gets in, nobody can steal our scoops, that’s what they reckon. What time is it?’ She checked her watch. ‘One thirty already! Christ, I haven’t eaten yet, have you?’

‘No.’

‘Well, that’s settled then. You can take me to lunch. There isn’t much around here, but there’s a wine bar not too far. Do you have a car?’

‘No, I came by taxi.’

‘Well, wait at the gate and I’ll bring my car round. Okay?’

‘Fine.’

‘Martin...?’

‘Yes?’

‘It’s good to hear your voice.’

Click. The connection went dead.

‘Coming down, is she, sir?’ asked the first guard. Hepton nodded. ‘Nobody’s allowed in, you see,’ the guard went on. ‘Security.’

‘Bloody daft if you ask me,’ rejoined the second guard, cupping his hands around his mug. The first guard now took off his cap and sat down.

‘Ours not to reason why,’ he said.

Hepton nodded agreement, but he wasn’t about to complete the couplet.

The guard operated the barrier from inside the gatehouse, while Hepton slid into the reassuringly familiar seat of Jilly’s red MG sports car. She leaned across to peck him on the cheek, then waved towards the gatehouse and revved the car out onto the main road.

‘You look great!’ Hepton shouted above the wind and the sound of the engine.

‘So do you,’ Jilly replied. ‘You never used to dress like that.’

Hepton examined his newly purchased clothes. ‘I’m on holiday.’

‘In London?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you thought you’d surprise me. How lovely.’ The smile left her face. ‘I did mean to get in touch, Martin. I didn’t want to lose you as a friend. But...’

‘Forget it.’ He tried to steel himself; this wasn’t the time to become emotional. ‘So how’s the job?’

‘Oh, fine.’ But her voice had taken on a false edge.

‘Really?’ he prompted.

‘Well, no... not really. In fact, it’s awful. I seem to get all the shitty jobs to do, all the really boring things. I think the editor likes the idea of me, he just doesn’t like me. If that makes any sense.’

Hepton nodded. ‘It makes sense.’ He could no longer contain his next question, his first real question. ‘Have you heard anything from Mike Dreyfuss?’

‘No, nothing, I sent some flowers to the hospital in Sacramento, but I don’t know if they arrived. Did you know they’d taken him to Sacramento? They tried to keep it a secret, but our sister paper in the States found out.’ She sighed. ‘Poor Mickey.’

‘Yes. I’m trying to get in touch with him.’

‘With Mickey? But why?’

So he told her.

They sat at a corner table in the wine bar. The waitress had cleared away their plates and brought them coffee. There was an inch of wine left in the bottom of the bottle, and Hepton poured it into Jilly’s glass. She had sat quietly and attentively all through lunch, while he had continued his story. Now and then she would ask a question, in order to clarify some point, but other than that she was silent. Hepton remembered the day she had ordered him to teach her about satellites. She had been the same then.

Occasionally she jotted a few notes into a clean page of her Filofax, and when Hepton had finished talking, she drew a thick line beneath what she had written so far, then numbered the individual points.

‘Well?’ he asked. ‘Do you think I’m going mad, or is something happening out there?’

She gave her answer some thought. ‘I don’t think you’re mad, no. But at the moment you don’t really know what’s going on, you don’t have any proof that anything’s going on, and you’ll have a hard job convincing anyone that anything’s going on. Despite which, I believe you. But then I’m a reporter, we’ll believe anything.’ She saw that Hepton was looking dispirited and squeezed his hand. ‘You’re safe now, Martin. You’ve got me to look after you.’ He smiled at this, but knew she could see he was tired; more than that, he was drained. He needed rest and sleep and to forget about the past few days for a little while.

‘Come on,’ she said. ‘I’ll put lunch on expenses, then give the office a ring.’

‘Why?’

‘To tell them I’m not coming in this afternoon. I’m going to be working on something, and you’re going to be resting.’

‘I am?’

‘My flat’s not far from here. You can stay there while I go into town.’

‘What are you going to do?’ Hepton did feel drowsy, but then he’d had the larger share of the wine. He could feel the effort in each word he spoke aloud.

‘I’m going to see what I can find out about this George Villiers character, among other things.’

‘Jilly...’

‘What?’

‘You’re sure it’s okay for me to go to your place? I mean...’

‘It’s all right, Martin. There’s no other man around just at the moment. Christ, I wish I had time for one.’ She paused, then tapped the Filofax. ‘I want to take a look at this. God knows, it’ll make a nice change for me to do some sleuthing again. Who can say, there may even be a story in it.’

Hepton was asleep on his feet by the time they reached Jilly’s apartment block by the river. He had been expecting, if anything, an old converted warehouse, but in fact the block was of recent design.

‘Mock warehouse,’ Jilly explained.

There was a security system at the main entrance, and each flat had its own little video screen so that callers could be identified before being let in. That might come in handy, Hepton thought to himself.

The flat itself wasn’t huge, though Jilly stated that by London standards it was more spacious than most. The living area was open-plan, with a bedroom and bathroom off it. There was a narrow veranda — not for the nervous — outside the French doors that took up the far wall. And yes, there were views of the Thames, though fairly unsavoury ones. The river itself was a mottled grey colour, and across the water there were gasometers, a stretch of wasteland and not much else.

‘You can see for miles,’ Jilly said. ‘Make yourself at home. I’ll try not to be too long, though parking can be hell itself in town.’

‘Where exactly are you going?’

She tapped the side of her nose. ‘Journalists never reveal their sources, especially before they’ve visited them. It’s bad luck.’ She bent down to give him a peck on the cheek, then closed the door behind her and was gone.

Hepton was surprised. He really didn’t feel anything more than friendship towards her now. When she’d been far away and inaccessible, he had longed for her, but now that they were together again, there wasn’t the same spark. Perhaps Jilly had been right to come to London. Their affair would have fizzled out in any case, wouldn’t it? Better to make a clean break. He lay along the sofa and closed his eyes, not intending to sleep. He just wanted to rest...

He awoke to the sound of a purring telephone. He hadn’t been asleep long, and felt light-headed, disoriented. He reached for the receiver and picked it up.

‘Hello?’ he said.

There was a silence on the other end, a crackling of wires, and perhaps, in the background, someone’s fluttering breath.

‘Hello?’ he said again. Still nothing. Then a short laugh.

‘You’ve been a very bad boy, Martin.’

Hepton felt his fingers tighten around the receiver.

‘Hello, Harry,’ he said. The light-headedness left him. He was wide awake now. ‘How was Leeds?’

There was that laugh again, laughter lacking humour but filled instead with cruelty. ‘Leeds was a clever idea, Martin. I couldn’t think why you’d be going there. Then I realised you’d found my little device.’

‘How did you track me down?’ Not that he was really interested, but he needed time to think.

‘I spoke to your employer. He told me how depressed you’d been when your girlfriend moved to London. I thought it was worth a try.’

Hepton’s mind was working now. There was no point mentioning to her that he knew about Villiers. It would be a cheap point to score, like throwing an ace onto a low card. No, he’d keep his ace for the moment. But he needed to knock her off balance. She was sounding a little too confident, and this, married to her thoughts of revenge — he could hear how bitter she was about Leeds — made her doubly dangerous.

‘You should have killed me back at the nursing home,’ he said. ‘Don’t think you’re going to get a second chance.’

‘What are you going to do? Run for it?’

‘No, I’m going to wait right here.’ For Paul, he was thinking. ‘And when I see you, I’m going to kill you.’

The laughter this time had a hysterical edge to it. Good: his words were having their effect.

‘That’s fine, Martin,’ she said at last. ‘I’ll see you soon then. I’m calling from just outside your building.’

And with that the telephone went dead. Hepton paused, put the receiver down and got to work.

19

Three short knocks followed by one long.

‘Come in, Parfit.’

Parfit entered Johnnie Gilchrist’s office. Gilchrist was pouring himself a drink.

‘Want one?’ he asked.

‘Why not?’ said Parfit. ‘I’ll have a small brandy, thanks.’

Gilchrist poured half an inch of Martell into a crystal glass and handed it to Parfit.

‘Cheers,’ he said. They chinked glasses.

Gilchrist took a mouthful of his own whisky, then smiled, shaking his head.

‘I have to hand it to you, Parfit. Getting hold of a private jet like that. I won’t ask what favour the owner owed you.’ He paused, inviting Parfit to tell him anyway, but Parfit merely savoured his drink. ‘How is the patient?’

‘He’s fine,’ said Parfit. ‘I don’t think he was overly pleased about being brought in from the airport in a crate, but he’ll get over it.’

Gilchrist smiled again, then sat down, gesturing for Parfit to do the same.

‘How was the City of Trees?’

Parfit looked quizzical.

‘That’s what they call Sacramento,’ Gilchrist explained, pleased that Parfit hadn’t known. ‘Home of the Pony Express.’

‘More relevant, it’s also the home of McClellan Air Force Base, which is where they landed Dreyfuss once they’d decided he shouldn’t stick around Edwards. To answer your question, the City of Trees was... interesting.’

‘So your gambit paid off?’

‘What gambit, Johnnie?’

Gilchrist rubbed a finger around the rim of his glass. ‘Leaving your man there so damned long on his own. You wanted to see what they’d try to get out of him, didn’t you?’

‘That’s your interpretation. I was hoping for... a reaction.’

‘I take it you got one?’

‘Oh yes. You know a man called Frank Stewart?’

‘The Frank Stewart? National Security Agency?’

‘Yes, that’s the one.’

‘What about him?’

‘He was there.’

‘Good God. I wonder why?’

‘I got the feeling it wasn’t so much to do with Dreyfuss as it was to do with General Ben Esterhazy.’

‘So Esterhazy was there too?’

‘Yes, you were right about that. What’s more, he was looking fairly rattled.’

‘Oh? Any particular reason?’

‘Several, I shouldn’t wonder.’ Parfit finished his drink and took the empty glass back to the drinks cabinet. He left it there and walked to the window, from where he watched the remnants of another demo as they chanted something incoherent, their fingers pointing towards where he was standing. He gave them a wave, which seemed to anger them further. ‘Esterhazy’s up to no good, Johnnie. I can’t say yet quite what, but I’m getting closer.’ He returned to his seat.

‘Don’t tell me about it, Parfit. It would only make me an accessory. Just tell me what you need.’

‘Two things. Two names, to be precise. One is Cameron Devereux. He was a member of the ground control crew on Argos. I’d like to talk to him, face to face if possible.’

‘And the other?’

‘Is someone called Martin Hepton. He works on one of our own tracking stations back in England, somewhere in Lincolnshire.’

Gilchrist considered this. ‘Must be Binbrook then. What of it?’

‘Dreyfuss knows him vaguely, and wants to ask him about something.’

‘Martin Hepton, you say?’

‘Yes, why?’

‘I had a message from George Villiers in London. He phoned while I was asleep.’ Gilchrist picked up some sheets of paper from the tray on the corner of his desk, finding the one he needed. ‘Yes, here it is. It seems Hepton paid Villiers a visit, wanted to know how to reach Major Dreyfuss.’

Parfit sat back in his chair. ‘Now that is interesting.’

‘More than mere coincidence, you think?’

‘So Hepton’s in London?’

‘It would seem so. Right, I’ll get on to this Devereux character. Shouldn’t take long.’

Parfit was already standing, ready to leave. ‘Thanks, Johnnie.’

‘Parfit?’

‘Yes?’

‘How big is this thing? Should I be starting to make noises in the direction of our masters?’

‘I’d leave it for now,’ said Parfit confidently. ‘It might all blow over.’

Not that he believed it would. He just didn’t want more people than absolutely necessary knowing he was on to something. It was all down to trust in the end, and Parfit didn’t trust anyone. Not even Johnnie Gilchrist, not entirely.

20

Dreyfuss had been given a room containing a foldaway bed and not much else.

‘Not so different from the crate,’ he had commented on arrival. Not that he had minded the crate too much. He didn’t want anyone knowing he was in Washington with the climate the way it was right now.

Parfit explained that most of the embassy staff were sleeping on the premises these days, so beds and furnishings were scarce. However, he did return a couple of hours later with a portable television, a radio and some books.

‘If anyone asks where they came from,’ he said, ‘say they were here when you arrived.’

Dreyfuss nodded at this. He didn’t want to know where these items had come from, and he didn’t care where they had come from; he was just glad that he had them now, and not someone else. His room, such as it was, must have been a storeroom. At least he could think of no other use for a space measuring twelve feet by ten and tucked away in the furthest, highest corner of the building. There wasn’t even a window, but there was a small skylight, desperately in need of a clean.

‘I’d have been better off back at Sacramento General,’ he commented.

‘I really do doubt that,’ said Parfit.

There was a knock at the door, and it was pushed open by a feisty individual wearing half-moon glasses. He was breathing hard, obviously unused to climbing the stairs to this attic level.

‘Ah, Parfit,’ he said.

Parfit introduced the two men.

‘Major Michael Dreyfuss, this is Johnnie Gilchrist, a colleague of mine.’

‘How do you do?’ said Gilchrist, shaking Dreyfuss’ hand. Then he noticed the portable TV. ‘Nice-looking model. I’ve one just like it in my own room.’

Dreyfuss tried to avoid Parfit’s eyes.

‘So,’ Parfit said, ‘what brings you so far out of your lair, Johnnie?’

‘I’ll tell you. I’ve been trying to make contact with this man Devereux.’ Dreyfuss and Parfit both looked interested, and there was nothing Gilchrist liked more than an attentive audience. ‘Devil of a job I had, too.’ He turned to Dreyfuss. ‘These days, Major, the international situation being what it is, a diplomat’s life is not easy. Not that it ever was.’ He looked around the room. ‘Don’t believe I’ve been this far north in the building before. But I do recall some story — before my time — of some of the secretaries squeezing out of that skylight to sunbathe nude on the roof. One of them’s supposed to have gotten herself stuck, and—’

‘What about Devereux, Johnnie?’ interrupted Parfit.

Gilchrist hated to have his stories ruined. His eyes blazed away at Parfit for several seconds, then he said simply: ‘He’s gone.’

‘Gone? You mean disappeared?’

‘Not in so many words. Apparently he was a bit shell-shocked when the shuttle crashed. So now he’s on extended leave.’

‘Do we know where?’

‘You won’t believe it, Parfit, but it seems he’s gone to London.’

‘London?’

Now Parfit and Dreyfuss exchanged glances.

‘I’m not sure,’ Parfit said, ‘whether that’s to our advantage or not. What do you think, Johnnie?’

‘Well, we can have him traced and picked up easily enough.’

‘Yes, but can he give us the information we need by telephone? I was rather hoping to speak to him in person. Any explanation he can give might be a bit technical, mightn’t it?’

‘Why don’t we get someone who knows about satellites to talk to him for us?’ Dreyfuss asked.

‘Someone like Martin Hepton,’ said Parfit.

‘Hepton?’ Dreyfuss sounded uncertain.

‘He’d be perfect. For one thing, he knows about satellites, and for another, he’s in London.’ Parfit turned to Gilchrist. ‘Get your man Villiers to find out where Hepton’s staying. We need to speak to him.’

‘I’ve just had a word with Villiers, actually,’ said Gilchrist. ‘He said Hepton had mentioned the name of a friend in London. Jill Watson. Villiers didn’t reckon Hepton was headed there, but there’s always a chance...’

Parfit noticed the numb look on Dreyfuss’ face. ‘What’s wrong, Major?’

‘I don’t want Jilly getting mixed up in this,’ Dreyfuss hissed. ‘Anything but that. Keep her out of it, Parfit.’ He grabbed at Parfit’s wrist and held it tight. ‘Keep her out of it!’

21

Hepton went to the door and studied the tiny surveillance screen. It showed the main door of the block, and, at the touch of a button, the interior hallway as well. There was nobody about. It was five o’clock. People would still be at work. More importantly, there was no sign of Harry.

He went back to his exploration of the flat. He found a chef’s knife in the kitchen drawer and slipped it into his pocket. In another drawer he found a large box of matches. He shook it to convince himself of its contents, then slipped it into his pocket too. From the living room’s waste-paper bin he took a copy of the previous day’s Herald, then, so armed, returned to the front door of the flat and opened it.

He looked left and right along the corridor. All clear. Then he stared up towards where the smoke detector sat, a neat little unit flush-mounted into the ceiling. He had noticed it upon arriving. He always noticed ceilings.

That, Martin, he said to himself, is what comes of an adolescence spent staring upwards.

The rolled-up newspaper took a little encouragement, the first three matches failing to catch. He tore a few strips down the sides, then tried again. These strips caught and ignited the rest of the paper. The ceiling was high, and he stood on tiptoe beneath the smoke alarm, holding the newspaper as close to it as he could.

It took forever. His arm ached, and he wondered what he would say if someone happened to emerge from one of the other five apartments along the corridor. But no one did. The paper started to smoulder, the smoke rose, and finally the detector began to whine, setting off alarm bells all around the building.

Elated, Hepton darted back into the flat, stubbed out the flaming newspaper in the sink and poured some water on it. He went back to the video screen at the front door and saw that people were already emerging from their apartments, milling in the main hallway downstairs. He went out onto the veranda and waited. There was a stiff breeze and he breathed hard, staying calm. The Thames was smelling like a sick old pet, but he didn’t mind that. He leaned out over the balcony and peered down onto the veranda of the flat beneath, then pulled himself back. There was no need to be rash. He could take the stairs to ground level, the same as the other inhabitants. He already had the evidence of his own eyes and his continuing life to the fact that Harry did not like a crowd. She enjoyed doing her slaying in private.

Suddenly he heard what he had been waiting for: approaching sirens. He rushed back inside and out into the corridor. A couple of people, looking as though they had been disturbed in the act of coitus, were standing by the lift, their clothes disarranged. The man was frantically pressing at the button beside the doors.

‘I shouldn’t think you’ll get much joy,’ Hepton informed him. ‘These things shut off when there’s an alarm. It’s much safer to use the stairs.’

‘Is there a fire?’ the man asked.

‘Yes, upstairs,’ said Hepton. ‘We’d better hurry.’

The three of them set off downstairs together. At the third landing, they joined a slightly larger group.

‘Is there a fire?’ someone asked.

‘Yes,’ the man with Hepton said, mimicking him. ‘It’s upstairs.’

Between the third and second landings, Hepton, to the rear of the small party, saw that someone was pushing their way back up through the descending group. There was always someone, someone who’d forgotten a treasured memento or the pet cat. He was about to remonstrate when he realised it was Harry. She was pushing hard now, her anger showing. And in her eyes he saw a kind of madness. There could be no doubting: she was out to kill him, witnesses or no.

Then she glanced upwards and, separated from him by only a handful of bodies now, saw Hepton. Her eyebrows rose in victory, and she dug a hand into the pocket of the checked jacket she was wearing. But the hand stuck there as somebody tried to squeeze past her downstairs.

‘You should go back, love,’ someone warned her. ‘Save yourself. Never mind what’s up there.’

Hepton turned on his heel and started up the carpeted steps two at a time, pushing hard as though his knees were mechanical pistons. The banisters were new. Dark polished wood with brass supports. His arms pulled hard on them, heaving his body upwards. He didn’t pause at the third floor — he needed territory he could recognise. Instead he left the stairs at the fourth floor and ran back to Jilly’s flat. Once inside, he closed the door quietly, then locked it. He realised that his right hand was gripping the kitchen knife. The video screen showed him the main lobby on the ground floor. People were beginning to move outside, some of them explaining to a fireman where the blaze was situated. Hepton could no longer hear the sirens and supposed they had been turned off. Well, he couldn’t give them a fire... but fire was useful in other ways.

He walked quickly to the kitchen and filled the largest pot he could find with water from the hot tap. Then he manoeuvred it onto a ring of the gas cooker and turned the flame on full blast. It was Dark Ages stuff, but potentially effective. He pondered the contents of the food cupboard. The only pepper, though, seemed to be in the form of peppercorns. Useless. He cursed Jilly’s yuppie lifestyle. Where were the tools? The saws, electric drills? The screwdrivers and spanners? What use was the broken edge of an empty champagne bottle against a killer toting a gun?

Then it struck him: Harry knew that Hepton had come to Jilly’s flat. Therefore she would know Jilly’s name...

And Jilly’s name was engraved on the front door’s silver nameplate!

Cautiously, Hepton took a few paces towards the door. He could hear no sounds. Maybe Harry had taken a wrong turn. He pressed his ear to the door. Still no sound. Then the world exploded.

The solid wood of the door splintered just a few inches to his right, beside where the battery of indoor locks was placed. There was a roaring in his ears, the result of the explosion. Another gunshot splintered more wood and severed the first lock’s mechanism.

Hepton walked backwards into the kitchen. The pot was bubbling on the hob, and he lifted it with both hands grasped around the handle, walking back into the hallway just as a third shot severed the final locks and Harry’s foot kicked the door open. She saw Hepton directly in front of her and raised the pistol, but then saw what he was holding...

Some of the water sloshed out onto Hepton’s hands and wrists, scalding him, but he felt no pain as he held the pot out to one side like a tennis player preparing a double-handed return. He swung it forward, then jerked it back again. Harry was already half turning away from the water, and it caught her sideways on, spraying her clothes and her hair, splashing across one cheek, one ear, one tightly shut eye. She gasped, and Hepton threw the pot down, starting towards her. But her survival instinct was as strong as his, and blindly she brought the gun up and started firing. Firing wildly, but even a wild bullet was lethal.

Hepton dodged back into the flat, slammed the door shut again and ran. His eyes were focused on the open French doors. Then he was out on the veranda, and there was only one route possible. He swung one leg over the edge of the balcony, then the other. Crouched, gripping the steel rail, he let his feet slide off into space. He gained momentum, swinging his legs, the edge of the veranda hard against his stomach, then took one last swing outwards, started in again and released his hands. Like a high jumper, he felt his backbone graze the rail of the balcony below. Then his feet touched its solid floor and he pulled himself upright. Only to stare at the French doors, identical to Jilly’s in every way except one.

They were firmly locked. He cursed. Somewhere above him, Harry had stopped shooting and was screaming instead.

‘I’m going to kill you, Hepton! Going to shoot you to hell, you bastard!’

He looked left and right and saw with relief that the next apartment along had its windows open to the elements. There was no time to waste. He climbed nimbly onto the rail and leapt across the four-foot gap, landing safely and darting inside just as Harry arrived at the veranda diagonally above and, her sight restored, but still hurting, fired two shots into the balcony floor behind him.

He ran through the living room and pulled open the door into the hallway, taking the stairs down three at a time until he arrived in the lobby.

‘Look, there he is now,’ the man who had been standing at the lift said to a fire officer. He was pointing at Hepton.

‘Excuse me, sir, I believe you know—’ the fireman started, but Hepton simply pushed him aside and walked quickly from the building.

There were two fire engines parked outside, their blue lights flashing but the firemen themselves looking relaxed: just another false alarm. A bright red MG turned the far corner and began speeding towards the block. It was Jilly. He waited until she had almost pulled up next to the fire engines, then leapt forward from the crowd. She saw him and stopped the car, rising from her seat.

‘Martin! What’s happened?’

‘I’ll tell you later.’ He heaved himself into the passenger seat. ‘Just get us out of here.’

She hesitated, wanting to know what was going on.

‘Let’s go!’ he shouted, and his voice frightened her. She started the car off, did a three-point turn and, watched by the huddle of neighbours, drove back the way she had come. Hepton tried scanning the rear of the car, both sides and the front all at the same time.

‘Martin?’

‘What?’

‘What the hell are you up to?’

‘Just keep driving. I’m looking for a black Sierra.’

‘You mean that woman Harry?’

‘Yes. She came to the flat. She’s just tried to kill me.’

‘Christ.’ Jilly’s face lost a little of its colour. ‘Did she start the fire?’

‘What?’ He looked at her, then grinned. ‘Oh, no, I did that. Don’t worry, all I did was set the smoke alarm off.’

‘So you could make a getaway?’ Jilly seemed impressed. ‘That’s brilliant, Martin.’

‘It might not have been if you hadn’t shown up.’ He noticed that his hands were stinging, and examined them. White blisters were appearing where the water had scalded him. Jilly grimaced.

‘Those look sore.’

‘They’re nothing,’ said Hepton, meaning it. He hoped Harry was in agony.

‘So where to now?’ asked Jilly.

‘A hotel, I suppose.’ He was still checking for a tail. ‘I can’t believe there isn’t someone on to us. Drive into town, Jilly. That way maybe we can throw them off.’ Looking out of the side window, he saw a red Vauxhall Cavalier driving very fast in the direction from which they were coming. Detectives, he guessed. On their way to a fire that never was. With any luck, they’d pick up Harry. But he doubted it.

‘Well I must say, Martin,’ said Jilly, attempting levity, ‘this isn’t the way I usually end my working day. Normally it’s a gin and tonic at the wine bar.’

Hepton turned to her again. His look was contrite. ‘I’m sorry you had to get mixed up in this, Jilly.’

‘I’m not.’ She was smiling. ‘Besides, I haven’t told you yet what I found out about your civil servant.’

‘You mean Villiers?’

‘Who else? Martin, you’re not going to believe it.’

‘Try me.’

‘Well, your description of him was spot on. You know you said you thought he had some kind of military background? He was in the Royal Marines until not too long ago. A major, to boot. Pretty high up. There was a fight on Brown Mountain — at least I think that’s what it was called. Anyway, somewhere on South Georgia. Villiers led his men into what turned out to be a trap. A lot of them were killed. It was hushed up here, of course. Bad for morale.’ Jilly was warming to her story, and as she continued, she pushed a little harder on the accelerator. ‘Villiers seems to have snapped. He’d seen plenty of action. Oman in the fifties, Belfast in the sixties and seventies. But something happened to him in the Falklands. After he saw his men die, he just couldn’t stop killing the enemy, and when the enemy were dead, he turned on his own men. Kill crazy, they call it. Apparently it happens sometimes.’

‘Christ,’ said Hepton quietly.

‘He was a good soldier, too.’ Jilly slammed her foot on the brake as a red light loomed. She idled the car and turned towards Hepton. ‘They had psychiatrists on him from the minute he landed back home. He seemed normal enough by then, but nobody was taking any chances. Bad for public relations, having a killer in your midst.’

‘So they pensioned him off?’

‘One of the disabled. They even gave him a medal, I forget which. It’s in my notes.’

The car started off again, turning left at the lights.

‘And the government hired him?’

‘Well, yes, in a way. The Foreign Office gave him a job. His actual title is pretty vague, but he knows his stuff: countries, political climate, that sort of thing. God only knows why it had to be him you saw when you visited the FO.’

‘Because,’ said Hepton, ‘he’d been expecting me.’ His voice was level. ‘He’d figured out, you see, that I was curious and that my curiosity would probably lead to Mike Dreyfuss.’

‘But how could he know?’

‘He’s a cunning little bastard. Cunning enough to string us along, because he doesn’t know we know about him. That’s our big card. Meantime, he’ll probably want to know just how much I know.’

‘What about this Harry, though? She just wants you dead, period. Isn’t she working for Villiers then?’

‘I’m not sure.’ Hepton thought it over. ‘No, I’m sure she is working for him. Or, at least, they are both working for the same ultimate employer.’ Harry’s words were coming back to him: my employers, who are, ultimately, your employers. But what did it mean? ‘In any case,’ he said, ‘I think Harry’s become... what was that phrase you used? Kill crazy? Yes, that’s what she is. Kill crazy.’ He examined the cars moving past them. Then he turned to Jilly again. ‘How did you find all this out anyway?’ He was both impressed and curious to know.

‘A guy I met at a party,’ Jilly explained. ‘One of the old guard of Fleet Street hacks. He’s been around a bit, reported from Afghanistan, Belfast, Beirut, that sort of thing. It’s a passion with him, the military. He’s written a couple of books. He was able to tell me some of it off the top of his head. The rest he got by making a few phone calls. That’s what you call a network. Every good journalist needs one.’

Hepton’s mind was still trained on Villiers. ‘Yes,’ he said vacantly. A network... ‘Anything else?’

‘Isn’t it enough?’ Jilly sounded slighted. She was checking in her rear-view mirror.

‘Yes, yes, I suppose so. Thanks for...’ She was still staring in the mirror. ‘What is it?’ He turned and caught a glance, three cars back, of a dark-coloured Sierra. ‘Shit,’ he hissed, gripping the seat with his hands.

‘Is that her car?’ Jilly asked, her voice level.

‘I think so.’ Hepton looked back again. The dark car was in the process of overtaking one of the vehicles between them. He let out a sigh of relief. ‘No, it’s okay. It’s not a Sierra. It’s a bloody Cavalier.’

Jilly’s shoulders relaxed too. She was nearing another set of lights. ‘I think there’s a shortcut here, unless they’ve blocked it off.’ She signalled left and squeezed the MG into an alleyway. The high buildings either side seemed purpose-built to hem them in. There was a screech of tyres behind them. The Cavalier was following, speeding up. Hepton remembered the night Harry had tried to run him down in an alley almost as narrow as this, and every bit as deserted. Then he recalled that he had seen the red Cavalier before: hurrying towards Jilly’s flat as they were making their getaway.

‘They’re chasing us!’ he called.

Jilly responded to the Cavalier, pushing the MG down a gear and hitting the accelerator. They were running now, careering past parked cars, braking hard to take an almost impossibly tight turning into a two-way street. Hepton held on, teeth clamped together. Jilly was a good driver, but not good enough. They weren’t going to shake the Cavalier. It was mere yards behind them now, and he peered through its black-tinted windscreen. Two men. Definitely men, though he couldn’t have said more than that. Not Harry, then.

The extended blaring of a car horn brought his head round to the view to the front of the MG. It took him a moment to realise that the horn was their own, and that the heel of Jilly’s left hand was hard against it. She had turned the headlights on full-beam, too. The traffic was becoming clogged. She scraped past a bus, paintwork peeling like confetti, but ahead the lights were at red, and the traffic was at a standstill in both directions.

‘Hang on!’ Jilly yelled, throwing the MG to the right, braking hard as she did so and spinning a full one hundred and eighty degrees. On the other side of the road now, the Cavalier roared past them, braking hard itself. There was a squeal as the driver threw his wheel round, bumping onto some central bollards. These stopped him, and he reversed, the traffic cursing angrily all around him. Jilly glanced back to see that the Cavalier had lost a lot of ground, and let out a whoop.

‘Where did you learn a stunt like that?’ Hepton gasped. His heart felt like a bird in a cage too small for it, fluttering against the bars. The breath came from him in short bursts.

‘I didn’t,’ Jilly answered, clearly enjoying every moment of this. ‘Put it down to instinct.’

‘Fine. But every traffic cop in the area’s going to have our description and registration in about five seconds flat.’

‘Five seconds? Don’t talk daft.’

‘Haven’t you heard of car phones?’ Hepton yelled. ‘Half those BMWs you just nearly totalled will be on them right now.’

‘What are you saying, Martin? That we ditch the car and walk?’

‘Just get us away from here,’ he said, looking back again. ‘And fast.’

Jilly looked in her mirror and saw that the Cavalier was not about to give up the chase. In fact, it was gaining at a steady rate.

‘Bastards!’ she yelled. The lights ahead were turning red. She held the horn down again and pulled the car into the middle of the road, passing the waiting line of traffic. There was a no-right-turn sign, so she threw the car to the right just as the other traffic was responding to the green light. Hepton looked out of his side window and saw a motorbike messenger heading straight for him. On Jilly’s side, a white van was already braking, but too late. The front of the van hit Jilly’s door, sending the sports car scudding sideways, where it collided with the bike. The driver was thrown clear, rolling like a pro. Another day in the city. Jilly tried to keep the MG moving, but her front driver-side wheel had buckled. The car protested, growling meanly.

‘Last stop,’ she said, face pale. The Cavalier was manoeuvring slowly, gingerly past the stalled traffic. Drivers were opening their doors to take a look at the mad bastards who had caused the accident.

‘You ought to be fucking well locked up!’ the van driver screeched. The bike courier, however, was casually examining some scuffs to his leathers, uninjured himself. Jilly got out of the car. So did Hepton. The Cavalier stopped beside them. Hepton’s hand went into his pocket and found the knife he had taken from the kitchen.

‘We could run for it,’ Jilly said, but her legs were shaking wildly.

The doors of the Cavalier opened and the two men got out. Hepton recognised one of them. It was Sanders, the man from the Foreign Office. Sanders turned to his partner.

‘You better stay here, Clive.’ He surveyed the chaos. ‘Try to clear this up with the police when they arrive.’ Then he nodded in Hepton’s direction. ‘I’ll take these two back with me in the car.’

The other man nodded slowly, not looking at all happy with his allotted task, but unable or unwilling to protest.

‘Where are we going?’ Hepton asked as he and Jilly walked to the car. His grip on the knife relaxed.

‘I’m getting you out of this,’ Sanders said, indicating the scene around them. He was shaking too, obviously not used to car chases and crashes. ‘I would have thought that was reason enough for you to be grateful.’

‘It is,’ said Jilly. Even her lips had gone white with shock.

‘How did you find us?’ Hepton asked.

Sanders shrugged. ‘I used a bit of initiative. Besides, what other leads did I have? All I knew about you, Mr Hepton, was that you had a friend in London called Jilly Watson who worked on the Herald. It wasn’t too difficult to find out where Miss Watson lived. Then when I saw you racing away from the scene like that...’

‘Someone tried to kill me back there,’ commented Hepton, seeking a reaction. Sanders raised an eyebrow, nothing more. Hepton decided to try another tack. ‘I lost your first tail, though, didn’t I?’

‘First tail?’ Sanders seemed genuinely puzzled. Hepton beamed. He’d been right: Villiers was using the department for his own ends, without everyone knowing about it. Sanders, for one, didn’t seem to be aware of the tail. He would bear that in mind.

‘I’d still like to know where we’re going,’ he persisted.

‘There’s an old friend who wants to speak to you,’ Sanders answered, his irritation showing.

‘Who? Villiers?’

‘Mr Villiers, yes. Indirectly. But someone else.’

‘Who?’ Jilly asked, wondering herself now; the mention of Villiers bringing with it a renewed sense of menace.

‘A Major Michael Dreyfuss,’ said Sanders, sliding into the driver’s seat. ‘Now come on...’

22

George Villiers was frowning when they arrived at his office. One hand rested on the telephone in a manner suggesting his frown had something to do with a recent call. He looked up as Hepton and Jilly entered. Sanders stayed outside, closing the door on them. The evening light was a deepening orange, casting long shadows in the room and creating a nimbus around Villiers’ head.

‘You really have caused us a great deal of trouble,’ he stated. ‘God knows whether we can keep it out of tomorrow’s papers.’

‘Blame your henchmen,’ said Jilly, sitting down without being asked. She had regained her composure during the drive to Whitehall. Indeed, having realised that she was about to get away with breaking every traffic regulation in the book, she was on something of a high. She crossed her legs and folded her arms. ‘They were like maniacs,’ she explained, studying Villiers. ‘Martin’s life is in danger, and then they came racing after us. What were we supposed to do?’

Villiers’ face showed no emotion. He turned to Hepton, who was about to sit down.

‘Is your life in danger, Mr Hepton?’

‘Oh yes,’ Hepton said quietly.

Villiers appeared to ponder this, then picked up his telephone and waited.

‘A pot of tea,’ he ordered when the line was picked up. Then he replaced the receiver.

‘What’s this about Mickey?’ Jilly asked.

‘Mickey?’

‘Major Dreyfuss,’ Hepton explained.

‘Ah.’ Villiers paused. ‘Sanders told you then.’

‘He wouldn’t say anything other than that.’ Jilly was up on her feet again. She was nervy still; that much was more than obvious. Hepton hoped she could keep in control. It was a kind of madness to have come here, and yet it felt like the right course of action. The questions still needed answering, and who better than Villiers to do it?

‘Right.’ Villiers leaned forward, resting his arms on the desk. ‘Well, it’s true enough. After Mr Hepton called here, I was able to contact our embassy in Washington. Major Dreyfuss is there at the moment, though that must remain strictly between us. Ah...’

Sanders pushed open the door and brought in a tray, the cups chinking together as he moved.

‘I hope you’re a better tea-maker than you are a driver,’ Jilly commented, the hint of a sneer on her face.

Sanders paused, but chose to ignore her. He left the tray on the desk in front of Villiers, then exited again. There was something else on the tray beside tea. It was a sheet of paper. Villiers slid it towards himself, glanced at it, then turned it so that the writing was facing away from him. His right hand went to his inside pocket and came out with a fountain pen, the top of which he removed to reveal a gold nib.

‘Miss Watson?’

‘Yes?’ Jilly stopped pacing and came to the desk. ‘What’s this?’

‘Routine, I’m afraid. I know Mr Hepton has already signed, as was required of him when he started work. If you would just...’

Jilly picked up the form and studied it. It was simple and to the point. It was the catch-all.

‘The Official Secrets Act?’ she said, smiling. ‘Well, why not?’ She snatched the pen from him and scratched her name on the paper, then handed back both paper and pen. Villiers looked satisfied, and slid the sheet into the top drawer of his desk. ‘I don’t mind signing something I’m quite willing to break,’ Jilly said with finality. Villiers’ satisfaction took the slightest of jolts. Jilly had picked up the teapot. ‘Shall I be mother?’

Villiers accepted his cup with what grace he could muster. He was still playing the senior civil servant.

‘So what’s this about Dreyfuss?’ asked Hepton, growing impatient.

‘Ah yes, Major Dreyfuss. Well, he’d like a word with you.’

‘With me?’ Jilly said, hopefully.

‘Alas, no, with Mr Hepton.’

‘Me?’ Hepton could not hide his surprise. ‘Whatever for? He hardly knows me.’

‘Yes, but he knows you by reputation, apparently. The embassy will be calling in another five minutes or so.’

‘But what does he want?’

‘I really can’t say.’ Villiers sat back, lips tightly closed, as though prepared to sit out the time before the phone call in silence.

‘Tell us about the Falklands,’ Jilly said nonchalantly.

Villiers twitched and leaned back in his chair, as though he had just been given a mild but unpleasant electric shock.

No, thought Hepton. This wasn’t the time to give away secrets. He saw why Jilly had done it. She was a journalist, a journalist who knew something about the man before her. Her professional instinct was to go for the jugular, startle him into some kind of revelation, get him worried... but this wasn’t a newspaper story. This was entirely more serious.

‘Jilly,’ he warned, ‘not now.’

‘Why not?’ she snarled. ‘Why not now?’

‘Because I say so.’ His voice was cold and hard, but his eyes were ablaze. She read his thoughts and seemed to understand them. Villiers had a bemused smile on his face.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said to Jilly, ‘what was it you were about to say?’

Her cheeks were red. ‘Nothing,’ she said.

Villiers turned to Hepton. ‘You know I served in the Royal Marines then?’ Hepton stayed silent. ‘You both seem to know a lot about me, Mr Hepton. Now why should that be? Why should a lowly civil servant interest you so much? Hmm?’

But now it was Hepton’s lips that stayed tight shut. Villiers rose from his chair and turned to stare out of his window. Hepton glanced at Jilly, whose face looked pained. She mouthed, ‘I’m sorry,’ at him. He merely winked in reassurance. Villiers turned back to face them.

‘I’m not sure speaking with Major Dreyfuss would be such a wise move,’ he stated. ‘I’d like you both to leave now.’

Hepton hadn’t been expecting this. But he saw that it made sense. He had been brought here to speak to Dreyfuss so that Villiers could ascertain how much he knew about Zephyr. But now Villiers had discovered that Hepton knew about him, making the telephone call hazardous. Indeed, Hepton now saw, it was imperative to Villiers that Hepton and Jilly leave, since their call to Dreyfuss would doubtless include their suspicions of Villiers himself...

‘We’re staying,’ he said. Jilly looked at him, uncomprehending.

‘Not if I want you to leave,’ Villiers said quietly.

‘Nevertheless, we’re staying.’

Villiers stared at him, then smiled, coming back towards the desk. ‘You’re a clever man, Mr Hepton. But you’re also incredibly stupid.’

He reached out a hand to pick up the receiver of the internal telephone, but just at that moment the other telephone started ringing. Hepton leapt from his seat, grabbing Villiers by the shoulders and propelling him away from the desk, pinning him against the wall. Villiers was strong, and he struggled.

‘Jilly,’ Hepton hissed between gritted teeth. ‘Answer the bloody phone!’

She did so. ‘Hello?’

Villiers had stopped struggling. Hepton relaxed a little, then remembered the man’s Marine training. A heel crushed down onto the toes of his left foot, and he gasped. Then two hands chopped into his ribs. Villiers crooked his index fingers and pressed hard against them with his thumbs. He jabbed the second knuckle of each rigid forefinger into Hepton’s neck. Hepton’s grip on him fell away. But when Villiers made to push him aside, Hepton clutched at him again, and the two men fell sprawling to the floor.

Jilly was shouting into the receiver. ‘It’s Villiers! He’s trying to kill Martin! It’s George Villiers!’ She wasn’t calling for help; she was just letting the facts be known.

Villiers, hearing her words, let out a growl. His hands went to Hepton’s throat again. Hepton drew back a fist and punched him deep in his stomach. Villiers had been Royal Marines, yes, but not for some years, years spent behind a desk. His gut was soft, and the blow winded him, giving Hepton time to climb back to his feet. He swung a foot at Villiers’ head, but Villiers’ reactions were still fast. He dodged the swing and grabbed Hepton’s leg, tugging him off balance and down onto the floor again, clambering atop him.

The older, heavier man’s weight was enough to pin Hepton down. A hand scrabbled at the desktop and came away again clutching a paperknife. Too late, Hepton remembered the kitchen knife in his own pocket. He caught Villiers’ wrist, but Villiers had found new strength. The knife pushed downwards against Hepton’s resistance. Villiers was smiling now, a look of tranquillity on his face. Close combat was his true calling; killing was his destiny...

The office door opened and Sanders looked in. His mouth fell open at the sight of his superior kneeling on top of Hepton with a knife poised above his throat.

‘Christ almighty!’ he gasped.

He loped towards the two men, and as Hepton watched, he seemed to turn his body sideways, raising one leg. The leg flexed, shot out, and a well-shod foot slapped into Villiers’ jaw, cracking his head to one side and throwing him off Hepton. Hepton scrambled to his knees, but Villiers was already on his feet. He seemed to take in the whole situation — Hepton, Sanders, Jilly still talking on the telephone — at a single glance, and started for the door.

‘Sir...’ Sanders laid a restraining hand on his shoulder, but Villiers pushed him aside and ran out.

‘Get after him,’ Hepton ordered.

‘What?’

‘You saw him. He was going to cut my fucking head off. Get after him!’

Sanders hesitated, then crossed to the other telephone, dialled two digits and spoke.

‘Security,’ he said. ‘Sanders here. I want George Villiers apprehended. Yes, that’s right. No, it’s not a joke. He’s trying to leave the building. I want him stopped.’ He slammed the receiver down again and looked to Hepton, who nodded at him in thanks.

‘Martin?’ Jilly was saying. She was holding the receiver out towards him. ‘Martin, they want to speak with you...’

The problem with the secure line, a line unlikely to be tapped into by prying ears, was that it made voices sound as though they were trapped somewhere between an anechoic chamber and a sardine tin. There was a flat, dull lifelessness to the sound, with occasional bursts of jangling metallic tone.

Was it any wonder then that Dreyfuss did not sound like the man Hepton had met one day for lunch with Jilly? But Hepton was intrigued by the secure line, too. Did it use a satellite link? And if so, how secure could it ever be? He took several deep breaths as he took the receiver from Jilly. She was shaking, and he placed a hand on her shoulder to let her know he was all right.

‘Is that you, Martin?’

‘Yes.’

‘Mike Dreyfuss here. What the hell’s going on?’

‘A man just tried to kill me. Lots of people seem to be trying to kill me of late. This one was a civil servant.’

‘Is Jilly okay?’

‘She’s fine.’ Hepton glanced across towards where Jilly, her arms folded in front of her, leaned against the wall. She nodded and smiled, confirming his opinion.

‘What?’ Dreyfuss seemed to be conferring with someone at his end of the line. ‘Hold on, Martin,’ he said. Then his voice was replaced by another.

‘Mr Hepton?’

‘Yes.’

‘My name’s Parfit. We haven’t spoken before.’

‘Parfit?’ Hepton repeated, his eyes on Sanders.

The young man, who had been pacing the room as though still unable to believe the scene he had just witnessed, drew himself upright at the sound of the name. His eyes turned to Hepton.

‘I work at the embassy here in Washington,’ Parfit was saying. ‘What’s all this about George Villiers?’

‘He wants me dead.’

‘But why, in God’s name?’

‘That’s a good question, Mr Parfit. It has something to do with the reason I’ve been trying to get in touch with Major Dreyfuss.’ There was a knock at the door. A uniformed guard opened it and had a short whispered conversation with Sanders.

‘Oh?’ Parfit sounded intrigued. ‘And what reason is that, Mr Hepton?’

The guard had gone. Sanders looked towards Hepton and shook his head: there was no sign of Villiers. Hepton couldn’t help wondering how hard the guards had tried. He also wasn’t entirely sure that he could trust Sanders himself. Yet here he was, having the conversation he wanted with the people he needed to speak with. He took another breath, his heartbeat slowing a little, the roaring in his ears more of a gentle breeze now.

‘The day the shuttle crashed—’ he began. But Parfit interrupted.

‘Wait one moment, would you, Mr Hepton? I’m going to put you on our conference facility, so that Major Dreyfuss can participate.’

Hepton waited impatiently.

‘Okay, go ahead now.’

He began again. ‘The day the shuttle crashed, about the time Argos was launching a satellite or whatever it was doing up there, our satellite went haywire. A friend of mine had an idea what had happened, but he ended up dead. Before he died, he gave me one word. That word was Argos.’

There was silence at the other end. Hepton glanced towards Sanders, who was listening intently.

‘Martin?’ It was Dreyfuss’ voice. ‘What do you think happened?’

‘I’m not sure. But people are getting killed because of it.’

‘All right then,’ said Dreyfuss. ‘Listen, I’ve got part of a sequence. I wonder if you know what it means. The whole sequence was much longer, but all I have are the first few letters and numbers.’ He paused. ‘Ze/446.’

Hepton smiled. He could have completed the sequence for them if they wanted.

‘That’s an easy one,’ he said. ‘It’s Zephyr, of course. It’s part of Zephyr’s identification code.’ His smile vanished. ‘How did you get hold of it?’

‘One of the crew on the shuttle had it on his screen. It kept flashing up.’

Hepton’s blood went a few degrees colder. ‘Then you were trying to lock onto Zephyr.’ It was a statement.

‘That’s just what I was thinking.’

Parfit’s voice came on the line. ‘Tell me about Zephyr, Mr Hepton.’

‘What do you want to know?’

‘What exactly does it do?’

‘It’s an all-purpose satellite, as versatile as we want it to be.’

‘What was it doing the day it went haywire?’

‘Not a lot. We’d been running some regular checks on it.’

‘Well, what might it be doing now? Any specific jobs it was supposed to carry out?’

‘A few. The big one, I suppose, is monitoring the troop pull-outs.’

‘The pull-outs?’

‘Nobody’s supposed to know. But we’ve been keeping an eye on the US bases in Britain.’

‘But why?’

‘To make sure it all runs smoothly. There are some protest groups, including one pretty big one called USA Stay. They said they intended to stage some kind of resistance. You know, linking hands around a camp, or putting a padlock and chain on the gate. Symbolic stuff mainly. But the brass wanted to know what they were up to.’

‘The brass?’

‘Yes, the military. They’ve been keeping an eye open. A couple of high-rankers were on site when Zephyr malfunctioned.’

Hepton was trying not to be melodramatic. He wanted to state facts rather than his own suppositions, just to see what Dreyfuss and Parfit might make of it. This was the first time he had told anyone the story — Jilly excepted — and it felt good. Almost like the confessional.

‘Then,’ he continued, ‘a friend of mine who works beside me thought he had something on his computer, some data showing interference with Zephyr. Next thing I know he’s been rushed to hospital, and soon after that he’s supposedly hanged himself in a closet. Then a woman called Harry tried to shoot me, run me over, and shoot me again.’

‘Harry?’ Parfit sounded almost excited.

‘Yes. Do you know her?’

‘I think so. We had a run-in with her four or five years ago. I thought she’d retired.’

‘She tried to kill me.’

‘Surprised you’re still alive then. Killing is her job. But how in hell is she mixed up in this?’

Hepton stared fixedly at Sanders. ‘My friend, the one who died. He told me to watch for someone called Villiers. I think Villiers and Harry are working together.’

‘But working on what?’ asked Parfit. ‘That’s the question. What does this satellite...’

‘Zephyr,’ said Hepton.

‘Yes, Zephyr. What does it do exactly when it’s hovering over its target?’

‘It takes photographs and sends them back to control.’

‘Control being where?’

‘Binbrook.’

‘Are these still photographs or videos?’

‘Stills, mostly. The data is beamed down to us, and the pictures develop on a machine almost instantaneously.’

‘Ingenious,’ Parfit said, as though he meant it. ‘A little like a fax then?’

Hepton smiled again. ‘A little, yes.’

‘But clear?’

‘Clear enough. In focus, if that’s what you mean.’

‘Ingenious,’ Parfit said again. Then: ‘Sorry, hold on a second, will you?’ There were muffled sounds at the Washington end, the sounds of a conversation. Hepton thought he heard the name ‘Johnnie’ mentioned at one point. Then Parfit’s voice came back, loud and more or less clear. ‘Sorry about that. Right, so are we any further forward, do you think?’

‘Well, we know that Argos locked onto Zephyr,’ said Hepton. ‘Probably using the satellite it was launching. What we don’t know is why. I had the idea it was all some kind of secret test, trying out some capability of the satellite that the powers-that-be wanted to keep hidden from even the ground controllers.’

Parfit seemed to consider this. ‘Hmm,’ he said at last. Hepton wasn’t sure whether it was an interested ‘hmm’ or a sceptical ‘hmm’; the scrambler was still robbing the voices of any emotion. Then Parfit cleared his throat, and Hepton thought he could hear Dreyfuss whispering something, a name...

‘As Major Dreyfuss has just reminded me,’ Parfit said, ‘there is a man who might help us. His name is Cameron Devereux. He’s the other reason we called. Devereux was Major Dreyfuss’ contact at mission control. What you need to realise is that Argos was meant to crash, and with no survivors.’

‘A suicide mission?’

‘I doubt whether the crew knew that, though they must have known why they were up there in the first place. One of them tried to strangle Major Dreyfuss.’

‘Strangle Dreyfuss?’ Hepton saw the effect of his words on the room. Sanders, who was starting to sit, now stood up again, and Jilly looked aghast.

‘This man said something about needing to bury a coffin. Does that mean anything to you?’

‘No, nothing. So what about this Devereux?’

‘He might well know something about the sabotage. And if so, he may also know what the mission was.’

‘So talk to him.’

‘Yes, but he’s gone on vacation to London.’

Hepton rested against the edge of the table. ‘Has he now? And you’d like me to talk to him?’

‘Well, you might understand him better than we amateurs could.’

‘Okay, Mr Parfit. Where is he staying?’

‘A hotel on Park Lane, I believe. The Achilles. Our intelligence sources have just come up with it. He booked in yesterday.’

‘I’ll go there this evening.’

‘Good man. Take care, won’t you? If Harry’s supposed to have—’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘Who’s there in the room with you? I mean, besides Miss Watson. I’ve already spoken with her. Or rather, I’ve already had her screaming at me that you were being murdered before her eyes.’

Hepton’s smile returned. Yes, ten minutes ago, Villiers had held a knife to his throat. Yet now he could smile about it, could brush it aside and get on with whatever action was necessary. He felt changed inside, in some profound way. He felt stronger.

‘Sanders is here.’

‘Sanders?’ Parfit recognised the name. ‘He’s a good man. Take him with you when you go to see Devereux. Any sign of Villiers?’

‘I think he’s escaped.’

‘Hmm. Well, he can’t get far. Put Sanders on, would you?’

‘Sure.’ Hepton held the receiver out. ‘Parfit wants a word,’ he said.

Sanders looked at the telephone as though it might be about to bite him. Hepton didn’t know who or what Parfit was, but he knew he was important enough for the mere mention of his name to scare Sanders half to death. He jabbed the receiver towards the young man, who licked his lips and stepped forward to take it from him. Gingerly, the way someone might handle a snake for the very first time.

‘Hello?’ Sanders said.

Hepton went over to Jilly and quietly filled her in on the details of his conversation with both Dreyfuss and Parfit. She listened sporadically, still shocked from the earlier struggle.

‘I should have clouted him,’ she said, replaying the moment over and over again in her head. ‘I should have helped you, Martin. But instead I just stood there, yelling into the bloody telephone. Asking someone in America to help. Isn’t that crazy?’ And she gave a tiny, nervous laugh.

He hugged her, and felt her arms pull him inwards, and the feel of her brought back such memories...

‘Er...?’ The voice was Sanders’. ‘Miss Watson?’ She relaxed her hold on Hepton. ‘Major Dreyfuss would like a word.’

Hepton couldn’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy at Jilly’s reaction. She let go of him, a schoolgirl grin appearing on her face, and almost skipped to the telephone.

‘Mickey? Hello there. How are you? Did you get my flowers? You did! I tried telephoning the hospital but I could never get through.’

Sanders seemed embarrassed as he approached Hepton, his eyes everywhere but on Hepton’s own. His voice when he spoke was muted.

‘Look, about Mr Villiers...’

‘Villiers is a maniac,’ hissed Hepton. ‘You people have known that all along, but he was useful to you so you conveniently ignored the fact. What’s more, he’s working with another bloody maniac called Harry.’

‘But I don’t understand. What has he done?’

Hepton considered this. There was no way of knowing, not without apprehending Villiers himself, or perhaps talking to the American, Devereux. He shrugged.

‘What was Parfit saying?’

‘You’re to be given twenty-four-hour protection. Meantime, we’ll put out a full-scale search for Mr Villiers. Well, not exactly we, since it’ll have to be handled by the other lot.’

‘The other lot?’

‘You’d probably call them MI5.’

‘What about Parfit?’

‘He’s MI6.’ Sanders was perking up now. ‘That’s who I work for.’

‘And presumably who Villiers works for too?’

Sanders stared at him. ‘Yes, well...’

Hepton heard Jilly laugh, and glanced across to where she was sitting, perched on the edge of the desk, looking relaxed and with the telephone cord playfully twisted around one finger. Funny how people could change from moment to moment... She was ending her conversation. She dropped the receiver back into its cradle and hugged herself, looking radiant.

‘He sounds fine,’ she said.

‘Yes,’ Hepton agreed.

‘I just wish...’ But she didn’t finish the sentence. Hepton was looking sad, and right now she felt like cheering up the whole world. She came to him and hugged him to her. Then pulled away to examine his face. ‘We’re going to be all right too, aren’t we, Martin?’

‘Of course we are,’ he said, sounding more confident than he felt. He reached into his pocket and brought out the kitchen knife. ‘As long as we’ve got this,’ he said. Jilly recognised it.

‘That’s from my kitchen!’ she cried. Then she laughed and hugged him again. ‘What were you going to do with it? It’s as blunt as my editor’s sense of humour.’

‘I don’t know,’ Hepton said. He was still studying the knife, trying to answer her question. ‘I think I was going to kill Villiers with it.’

‘Ugh!’ said Jilly, giving a little shiver. ‘What happened to him anyway?’

‘He can’t be found in the building,’ Sanders explained, his voice taking on a tone of apology. ‘We’re still looking.’

‘But how hard?’ asked Hepton. ‘How hard are you looking? Who else is in on this thing besides Villiers and Harry? It seems to stretch halfway around the world as it is!’

Sanders’ voice became a monotone. ‘You can trust me,’ he said. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be back in a few minutes. Would you like anything? More tea? Something stronger?’

‘I could murder a gin,’ said Jilly.

Hepton realised that his own throat was dry. He nodded.

‘Two G and Ts then,’ said Sanders, opening the door. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

True to his word, two dusty glasses were delivered by a bemused security man a few minutes later. Hepton sank his in two gulps, then sucked on the tiny slice of lemon. Jilly savoured hers, reclining in Villiers’ chair, her feet on the desk.

‘Cheers,’ she said.

‘And don’t we deserve it,’ observed Hepton.

The door opened again and Sanders re-entered, looking pleased with himself.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘It’s about that knife of yours.’

‘The Sabatier?’ Jilly’s face was quizzical.

‘That’s right,’ said Sanders. He was unbuttoning his jacket. ‘Anyway, you won’t be needing it now.’ He tugged the left side of his jacket open. Strapped beneath his shoulder was a brown leather holster, from the top of which peeped the butt of a small, fat handgun. ‘This,’ he said, ‘is what we need. Especially when dealing with Harry. Now, shall we go?’

23

On the way to the Park Lane Achilles Hotel, Sanders told them about Harry.

‘It was four or five years ago. I’d just joined the department...’

What department? Hepton was tempted to ask.

‘I remember meeting Mr Parfit for the first time. He struck the fear of God into me.’

Sanders seemed excited. Hepton decided that the secret agent hadn’t seen much action in his musty set of offices. He didn’t appear to be over-experienced either, driving a little too fast, potentially attracting attention. And now that he had been assigned to protect Hepton and Jilly, he was much less reticent, much more talkative, much more like a human being.

Hepton wondered why it was, then, that he liked him less this way.

‘Mr Parfit had spent months on the case. There was going to be an assassination attempt.’ He turned to them. ‘I won’t say on whom. But the identity of the assassin was what we couldn’t uncover. We were looking for a regular, you see, a Carlos the Jackal or whatever. But it turned out to be a woman, a young and good-looking one at that.’

Hepton could feel Jilly bristling at this.

‘The beautiful Harriet, in other words,’ Sanders continued, unaware of Jilly’s glowering face. ‘She was the assassin.’

‘So what happened?’

‘Oh, Parfit tracked her down, or at least his team did. She did a runner and was never heard from again. Until now.’

‘What about Villiers?’ Hepton asked, his voice as neutral as an idling engine. Not that the Cavalier’s engine was idling. Sanders pulled past some evening traffic and cut into the stream again just ahead of a purring Jaguar.

‘I’ve worked with Mr Villiers for two years. When I started with him, I was told he was a bit... well, that he might be prone to... outbursts.’

‘What did his job entail?’

‘Nothing very much. He just waited. When advice was needed on one of his specialities, he’d be called for.’

‘That must have been tedious.’

Sanders nodded. ‘He hated it. Desk-bound after years of combat training. God knows, I’d hate it too in his position. They say he was a great soldier.’

‘You mean good at killing people?’ Jilly asked. Sanders reddened, but didn’t answer.

‘Did you ever suspect he might be involved in something?’ Hepton asked him. ‘Something you weren’t allowed to know about?’

Sanders shook his head. ‘Mr Parfit asked me a similar question on the telephone back there. I’ll tell you what I told him: I didn’t suspect anything. I’m still not sure that I do... I mean, it could all be some ghastly mistake, couldn’t it?’

‘No,’ said Hepton flatly. ‘No mistake.’

The car had reached the top of the Mall. Buckingham Palace lay directly in front of them. Hepton watched intently as a slow-moving line of army trucks approached from the other direction and drove past, heading in the direction of Trafalgar Square.

‘There’s a lot of troop movement at the moment,’ said Sanders, attempting a change of subject. ‘To do with the pull-out, I suppose. I’m against it myself. The pull-out, I mean. I think most people are.’

‘Not me,’ said Jilly. ‘I’m glad they’re going.’

Sanders stared at her in his rear-view mirror but kept his thoughts on her politics to himself.

‘What about Harry?’ asked Jilly. ‘What else do you know about her?’

‘We don’t know much,’ Sanders admitted. ‘But there was plenty of speculation at the time. Fifteen years ago, a brigadier general’s unruly daughter went missing in Germany. She left a note saying she was running away. She was fifteen, rebellious. A lot of anarchist literature was found in her bedroom.’

‘And her name was Harriet?’ Jilly suggested.

‘No,’ said Sanders. ‘Her name wasn’t Harriet. But her mother’s name had been. Her mother was dead. The story went that the general used to get roaring drunk and hit his wife, made her life hell. She committed suicide when the daughter was eight or nine.’

‘Well, well,’ said Hepton, very quietly, filing this information away.

Hyde Park Corner came next, and then they were sweeping into Park Lane itself. Sanders entered the right-hand-turning lane and cut across the oncoming traffic, bringing the car to a stop outside a flat-fronted hotel of marble and smoked glass, which seemed very similar to the other hotels clustered around it. Three steps led to a line of six glass doors, behind which lay tantalising glances of a marble reception hall lit by sparkling chandeliers. In front of the steps stood a liveried doorman, and above him was a large canopy proclaiming the single word Achilles.

Sanders got out of the car and locked his door. When Hepton closed his own door, he watched the button on the inside of the window slide neatly into place of its own accord.

‘A wonderful thing, central locking,’ he mused.

Jilly was staring at the hotel’s frontage. ‘The things I’d do for a long, hot bath,’ she said.

The doorman was coming towards them. ‘You can’t leave it there, sir,’ he called, gesturing towards the Cavalier.

Sanders reached into his inside pocket and brought out a wallet, which he flipped open.

‘A security matter,’ he said. ‘We shouldn’t be too long.’

The doorman studied the ID carefully. ‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘I suppose that’ll be all right then. Want the manager, do you?’

‘That’s quite all right.’ Sanders beamed back at him. ‘We’ll manage.’ He moved past the doorman and up the steps.

‘I thought he was supposed to be our bodyguard?’ Jilly whispered as they followed, leaving the bemused doorman staring at their backs.

‘He is.’

‘Well he’s not doing a very good job then, is he?’

‘He’s a bit too keen on playing the spy,’ Hepton agreed. ‘We can’t afford to relax, Jilly. I think we’re going to have to cover our own backs, rather than depending on Mr Sanders to do it for us.’

‘Well, as long as we’ve got the kitchen knife, we should be safe,’ said Jilly.

They entered the hotel lobby. The doorman was looking at the car now, checking colour, make and registration. Then he walked briskly up the steps and pushed open the doors. The car’s occupants were at the reception desk, their backs turned to him. He went to a bank of public telephones along the wall nearest the door, picked up a receiver, inserted a ten-pence piece and dialled seven digits. He had to wait seconds only for a response.

‘Achilles,’ he said, identifying himself. ‘I need to speak to Mr Vitalis.’

‘Mr Devereux, please,’ Sanders said to the woman behind the reception desk. She was wearing an identity badge and a well-worn smile.

‘Room two-two-seven,’ she said. ‘Can I call him for you?’

‘No thanks. That’s floor two, room twenty-seven?’ Sanders checked. The woman nodded, not about to waste a spoken answer. ‘Thank you,’ he said, turning from her. He stood for a moment, seeming to be deciding between the lift and the stairs. ‘Stairs,’ he said finally.

‘You take the stairs,’ Jilly objected. ‘I’ll take the lift. It’s been a long day.’

Sanders stared at her. ‘A lift is a trap, remember that. Once you’re inside, there’s no way out.’ He started walking towards the pink-carpeted staircase. ‘I’ll see you up there,’ he called.

Jilly looked to Hepton for a decision. Hepton shrugged his shoulders. Wearily they began to follow Sanders. He was right, though, that was the annoying part. He had obviously had some training in this sort of thing, while they were amateurs.

They climbed, counting the seventy-two steps to the second floor. The corridor was vacant, little noise coming from the rooms themselves. This was a hotel for the wealthy — businessmen as well as holidaymakers. And the wealthy had gone out to play in the London evening. Two things struck Hepton at the same time. The first was that Devereux might not be in; the second was that someone of his standing shouldn’t be able to afford the Achilles. Hepton had seen the three-figure room charges displayed beside the desk.

They passed an ice machine, a drinks dispenser and an electrically operated shoeshine, then stopped outside a door.

Room 227. Sanders paused, listened, then knocked. There was silence. He knocked again. Nothing. He rested his hand on the door handle and checked that the corridor was still empty. As he was about to turn the handle, the door was opened from within. A man in shirt and trousers stood there, hair unkempt, the shirt rumpled, socks but no shoes on his feet. He had obviously been awakened from a nap, and was trying to stifle a yawn. When he saw that the three figures outside his door were not members of the hotel staff, he widened his eyes a little, trying to rouse himself.

‘Yeah?’ he said.

‘Mr Devereux?’ Sanders had fixed a sympathetic smile to his face.

‘That’s right.’ His voice was American. There was an innocence to it that Hepton had noted before with American accents.

‘Mr Devereux, my name’s Sanders, I’m from the Foreign Office. We’ve come to talk to you about Major Michael Dreyfuss.’

‘About Mike?’ Devereux was wide awake now. A note of anxiety crept into his voice. ‘What’s wrong? Jesus, don’t tell me he’s up and died?’

‘Oh no, he’s quite fine. But he did telephone from America. He wanted us to talk with you.’

Devereux took in all three faces individually, wary still. Then he threw out an arm and pulled the door open to its fullest extent. ‘You’d better come in,’ he said. But looking into his room, at the sprawl and untidiness there, he seemed to change his mind. ‘No, wait, on second thoughts, let me meet you in the bar in five minutes.’

Sanders seemed disapproving, but managed to keep the smile more or less intact. ‘Right you are,’ he said.

The door closed, leaving the three of them out in the corridor, much as they had been before.

‘Sounds good to me,’ Jilly said. ‘One of you men can buy me a very large drink.’ She was already heading back towards the stairs. Hepton began to follow, but saw that Sanders was staring at Devereux’s door, his bottom lip clasped between upper and lower teeth.

‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.

‘How do we know he’ll come to the bar?’ Sanders whispered. ‘I mean, he could do a runner.’

‘He didn’t look the running type,’ Hepton offered, turning to follow Jilly.

Sanders watched him go, in an agony of sorts: should he stay and wait for Devereux, or follow his charges? A low growl left him, and he stalked back down the corridor after them.

It took Jilly less than a minute to finish her first gin. She examined the tall glass, still half full of unmelted ice.

‘Better make it a double next time,’ she said. She caught the waiter’s attention and he walked smilingly towards her, knowing a potentially good customer when he saw one. Jilly ordered her double, but Hepton and Sanders shook their heads. Hepton was nursing a half-pint of lager, Sanders a tomato juice. They were seated at a corner table — at Sanders’ insistence — from which they could watch the door to the hotel lobby and still have a view of the other occupants of the cocktail lounge. Not that there were many occupants to watch. The resident pianist was playing to a table of four well-dressed women, their clothes younger than their years. They applauded every tune, but quietly, politely, and he bowed his head each time, accepting gracefully, as he hoped to accept their drinks and their tips.

Two businessmen stood at the bar, slowly smoking cigars, sipping whiskies. They glanced around the room occasionally, looking first at the table of women and then over towards Jilly. They weren’t hopeful; just looking.

‘This is nice,’ Jilly said without much attempt at sincerity.

Then Sanders, who had been the most subdued of the three, almost leapt from his seat, waving frantically towards the door, where Cam Devereux was standing. Devereux saw him and approached the table. Sanders sat down again, looking relieved and more animated again. Devereux squeezed into the booth beside Hepton. He had washed, changed his clothes and combed his hair. He had also had time to think, and was more wary than ever, as his first question showed.

‘Who did you say you were?’

But the waiter was walking briskly in their direction, awaiting Devereux’s order.

‘Glenlivet, plenty of ice,’ Devereux said, just as briskly. When the waiter had gone, he repeated his question. Sanders was about to respond, but Hepton beat him to it.

‘I’m Martin Hepton. This is Jill Watson.’

‘And you both work for the Foreign Office, too?’

‘No,’ said Jilly. ‘We’re friends of Mickey.’

‘Mickey? You mean Mike Dreyfuss? How long have you known him?’

‘Since school,’ Jilly answered.

Devereux nodded slowly. ‘I haven’t known him more than six months,’ he said. ‘But he seemed like a great guy.’

‘No need for the past tense,’ Sanders said. ‘He’s still alive, remember.’

‘Yeah.’ Devereux’s voice was like melting ice. His drink arrived and he gulped at it.

‘This is a nice hotel,’ Sanders noted aloud. ‘It must be costing you a fortune.’

Devereux smiled and looked straight at Sanders as if to say: I know what your game is. ‘I’m not paying for it,’ he admitted. ‘My employers are picking up the tab. Necessary R and R.’

Sanders was relentless. ‘Is it necessary?’

‘Hell, yes,’ Devereux said loudly. ‘You ever see guys you’d gotten to know torched in the blink of an eye? Guys you respected suddenly dead, and all the time they’re dying you think maybe you can do something to help, but you can’t? Jesus!’ His face was red now, and his voice had grown deeper. There was a silence at the table while they waited for him to calm down.

‘Another drink?’ asked Hepton, whose own glass was empty.

‘Look,’ Devereux said, ‘let’s just cut the shit, okay? What do you want?’

Hepton didn’t know quite where to start, but both Jilly and Sanders had turned to him, expecting him to speak. ‘Major Dreyfuss telephoned us,’ he began. ‘He was wondering what you know about the crash.’

‘What’s it to you anyway?’

‘Our lives are in danger,’ Jilly said quickly, ‘and we want to know why. We’re scared.’

Devereux seemed confused. ‘Your lives?’

‘And that of Mike Dreyfuss,’ Hepton continued. ‘You see, I work at the control base for the Zephyr satellite, and somehow that satellite is tied up with the Argos shuttle. It looks as though the shuttle was trying to tap into Zephyr. We don’t know why. Maybe Zephyr was doing something — something secret and something somebody wanted to know about.’

‘Send a satellite to trap a satellite, huh?’

Hepton smiled. ‘Maybe. But then the shuttle crashed, making the whole thing look like a suicide mission.’

‘Not suicide,’ Devereux said sharply, examining his empty glass. ‘Murder. Sabotage, if you like.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Hell, I don’t know why I’m telling you this... or maybe I do.’

He paused again, as if thinking things through. Then he began to speak.

‘The day of the launch,’ he said, ‘some new guy turned up in the control room. He had a console tucked away in a far corner. A console they’d brought in the previous week. Well, he told me his name, but not much else. I can’t even remember now what he said his name was. He knew what he was doing, though; I mean, he knew how to operate the computer, but he wasn’t like one of us. I took a look at his screen that day, and he was in touch with the onboard computer. It was as if he knew something we didn’t.’

‘Such as?’ asked Hepton.

‘Such as that the whole onboard computer program had been fixed before the shuttle went up, and all it needed was the touch of the right buttons in the right order to bring a doomsday code into operation.’

‘A doomsday code?’ The question was Jilly’s.

‘Self-destruct,’ Hepton explained. ‘Zephyr has one too, in case it falls into the wrong hands.’

Sanders was enthralled. ‘So this man caused the shuttle to malfunction?’

Devereux was staring into his glass still. He’d played these scenes out a hundred times before in his head. ‘You should have seen his monitor. It was like a Christmas tree, all these lights...’

There was a pause. Hepton broke it. ‘Did you tell anyone about this?’ He was thinking how closely Devereux’s story followed his own, or even Paul Vincent’s.

‘Yes,’ Devereux said. ‘That was when they strongly suggested that I take a holiday.’

Hepton nodded. ‘So what’s it all about, Cam?’

‘Hell, I don’t know. I don’t want to know.’ Devereux looked up from his glass at last. ‘No, that’s a lie. I do want to know. I can tell you this: that wasn’t a comms satellite Argos was launching. It was something else, something secret. Something for the military. There were a couple of the chiefs on site to watch the launch...’

Hepton remembered the brass who had watched over his own side of things. It couldn’t be a coincidence.

‘... and I figured the satellite must be some kind of intelligence-gatherer. Maybe a communications intercept.’

‘Did the rest of the crew know?’

‘The ground staff knew, or at least we guessed.’

‘But what about the shuttle crew?’

‘Well, Mike Dreyfuss didn’t know. But as for the rest of them...’ Devereux shrugged his shoulders. ‘What does it matter, they’re dead now.’ He turned suddenly and held his glass aloft, yelling towards the waiter, ‘Another one of these!’ Then he looked back at Hepton. ‘Have I told you anything you didn’t know?’

‘Oh yes,’ Hepton answered thoughtfully. ‘Quite a lot.’ There was one thing, one innocuous thing Devereux had said, that kept echoing in his head. A communications intercept. Something didn’t ring true, but he couldn’t think just what.

24

As Sanders drove them to the safe house in St John’s Wood, Jilly dozed drunkenly in the back seat, her head resting in Hepton’s lap. Hepton himself felt wide awake and stone-cold sober. He saw Devereux’s face again as they took their leave of him at the Achilles Hotel. The American’s eyes had looked dull and unfocused, a man tired of living; or at least of living with lies. A man haunted by his own fears.

From time to time, Hepton glanced back to see if any cars were following them, and each time he did so, Sanders would offer a confident ‘I’d have spotted them by now.’ Which didn’t make Hepton feel any easier. The late-evening traffic was dense, and as they stopped at lights alongside a black cab, Hepton studied the foreign-looking male passenger, who, catching his eye, bowed his head slightly as though in acknowledgement before the lights turned green and both vehicles moved off.

‘Why St John’s Wood?’ he asked Sanders.

‘Because that’s where the nearest Security Service safe house is.’

‘But you’re not MI5, are you?’ Hepton didn’t know much about spies, but he did know that MI5 — the Security Service — handled intelligence work at home, while MI6 — the Secret Intelligence Service — covered foreign operations.

‘Yes,’ Sanders agreed, ‘but unfortunately the Security Service has to be in on this too. After all, we’re in Britain. This is their territory. But since the United States is involved also...’

‘It’s a joint operation, then?’

‘I believe there have been a couple of meetings today to clarify the situation. Not that we enjoy working together, you understand. It’s a matter of trust.’ Sanders glanced round at Hepton. ‘You’re lucky, actually. Their safe houses are a bit nicer than ours.’ He smiled.

They passed Lord’s Cricket Ground and continued up Wellington Road. Hepton had vague memories of a student party he had attended twenty years ago at a flat somewhere near Grove End Road. The hostess’ parents had bought the place for her. The night of the party, her friends had done their level best to wreck it. So much for peace and love.

Sanders turned left off Wellington Road and drove slowly down a narrower street of detached and semi-detached houses, some of them compact, others rising to three and four storeys. He stopped beside one of the smaller detached houses and flashed his lights once. A man appeared from nowhere and opened the garage attached to the side of the house. Sanders negotiated the car into the space and switched off the engine. Behind them, the garage doors were being pulled shut again, though the man operating them remained outside.

‘Home sweet home,’ Sanders said. ‘You lucky swine can get some rest now. I’ve still to write my report and meet with my bosses.’

The garage lights came on, and Hepton eased Jilly out of the back of the car. Sanders had opened another door, connecting with the house itself. Together they helped Jilly through it, along a carpeted hall and into a small, well-furnished living room, where she collapsed onto the sofa. Sanders pushed his hair back into place and straightened his tie.

‘Journalists,’ he said, staring at Jilly. ‘Right, I’d better be off. There are two bedrooms upstairs. Kitchen on the other side of the hall. Toilet next to the door to the garage, and bathroom upstairs. I think one of the bedrooms even has an en suite.’

‘All mod cons,’ said Hepton. ‘Is there a telephone?’

‘Yes, but I shouldn’t try using it. It just routes you straight through to a watcher team.’

‘Watcher?’

‘Surveillance.’

Hepton glanced around the room. ‘Bugged?’ he asked.

Sanders shrugged his shoulders. ‘Oh,’ he said, remembering something. ‘And if you need anything, either pick up the phone or tap on the kitchen window. There are a couple of security men front and back. Otherwise, sleep tight.’ He made to leave.

‘See you in the morning,’ said Hepton.

A few minutes later, he heard the car start up and reverse out of the garage. He went to the living room window to peer out. A tiny front garden separated the house from the pavement and the street beyond. Sanders’ Cavalier backed noisily into the road and started off, gathering speed. Hepton could see no sign of the security man, who presumably was closing the garage doors again. In the lamplight on the other side of the road, an overdressed woman stopped to let the tiny dog she was walking do its business in the gutter. She looked middle-aged, her face heavily made up. Hepton stared hard through the window at her, trying to find Harry’s features beneath the make-up. But he couldn’t. And the woman didn’t even glance across the street. She just watched her dog, cooing at it, and then walked on again, her heels noisy in the silence of the night.

Hepton turned towards Jilly. Her eyes were open and she looked around in bemused fashion, studying this new environment.

‘Where are we?’ she asked, her voice slurred.

‘Come on,’ he said, feeling himself relax for what seemed the first time in days, ‘I’ll show you to your room.’

Hepton’s sleep was dreamless, and he awoke early, refreshed. He ran a bath and lay in it until the water turned from hot to tepid. There was a portable radio on the windowsill, and he switched it on, letting the morning’s news programme wash over him like so much water. There were traffic reports, relaying stories of five-and six-mile tailbacks on some of the roads into London. The world, it seemed, kept on going as though it were just another day, and in London that meant millions of people setting off to work.

The thought was too much. He sank beneath the water, then surfaced again. Drying himself, he switched off the radio so he could concentrate. There was an idea in his head, an idea about what was going on. But what could he do with it? That was the problem: apart from Jilly, there was no one he could trust, not completely. So he mulled over his idea and tried to fit together the remaining pieces of the puzzle.

In the kitchen, he found all he needed to make breakfast. There was bacon in the fridge, and eggs, butter and milk. A fresh loaf of bread sat on the breakfast bar, along with a new carton of orange juice, a jar of coffee and a pack of tea bags. There were pots of honey and marmalade in the cupboard, and a bowl of sugar, too. Everything had the look of having been put there only the day before.

He set to work, and even found a tray to put everything on before climbing the stairs. Outside Jilly’s room he paused, wondering whether it was necessary to knock. It wasn’t. The door opened suddenly from inside, and there stood Jilly, already dressed and looking fit and well. There were no signs of the night before, other than dark patches beneath her eyes.

‘Good morning,’ she said, opening the door wide to let him in. ‘Is that for me?’

She sat on the edge of the bed and accepted the tray, draining the glass of orange juice before starting on the food.

‘Aren’t you having any?’ she asked, chewing on a triangle of toast.

‘Not hungry,’ Hepton said. He sat on the padded stool beside the dressing table. Then he noticed that her hair, though drying, was wet. ‘How long have you been awake?’ he asked.

‘Not long,’ she answered. ‘I heard you in the bathroom, so I got up and took a shower.’

Yes, he had forgotten she was in the room with the en suite. ‘So how are you feeling?’

‘My head’s a bit groggy. I suppose I drank too much. But then we didn’t have anything to eat last night, did we?’

‘No, we didn’t,’ said Hepton, recalling that this was true. Neither of them had professed much of an appetite after the events of the afternoon.

Suddenly he heard a noise on the staircase, feet moving upstairs. He turned his head towards the open doorway just as Sanders appeared there. If anything, the young man was more smartly dressed than ever. He wore a stiff-looking pinstripe suit, with polished black shoes, white shirt and plum-coloured silk tie. Hepton wondered if perhaps he had been promoted overnight.

‘Ah, good,’ Sanders said. ‘You’ve eaten.’ This was plainly not true: Jilly had not yet touched the plate of bacon and egg. ‘Sorry to rush you,’ he continued, ‘but there’s a meeting in forty minutes at HQ. They’d like you to be there.’

‘Who would?’ Jilly asked through a mouthful of toast.

‘Wait and see,’ said Sanders, obviously flustered. ‘Now come on, will you, please. The traffic’s diabolical out there.’

They headed back towards the West End, Sanders driving with even less grace than usual. Hepton asked about George Villiers.

‘We’ve scoured the FO building. No trace of him. There are guards outside his flat, but he hasn’t been back there either. He does own a house somewhere in Scotland, but I think it unlikely he’d go there, although we’re keeping an eye on it. No, he’s vanished. But don’t worry. If he pops his head up from the trenches, we’ll have him.’ He grinned at them.

Jilly gripped the back of the passenger seat and pulled herself forward. Sanders flinched instinctively.

‘This is serious, you imbecile,’ she said.

Then she sat back again, bathing in Sanders’ silence. Hepton patted her knee affectionately and she winked at him. It had been a performance, but that wasn’t to say she hadn’t meant it.

As they neared Park Lane, Hepton decided that their destination must be the Achilles Hotel again, but they continued past it, then snaked left into Curzon Street. The Cavalier pulled abruptly into the side of the road and stopped. Someone opened the rear door from outside.

‘Go with him,’ Sanders ordered, sounding not a little petulant. Hepton and Jilly got out of the car, and the man who had been holding open the door now closed it. He was much the same age as Sanders, and dressed only a little less well.

‘If you’ll follow me,’ he said as Sanders drove off. Then he took them up to and through the imposing doors of the Security Service’s main headquarters.

There were six of them seated around an oval table of antique design but modern construction. When they had made themselves comfortable, the man at the head of the table called out, ‘Thank you,’ and the door was closed from the outside by one of two security men. Jilly and Hepton sat together, their section of the table blank and highly polished. In front of the others — three men and one woman (who had smiled conspiratorially towards Jilly, but not at Hepton) — were brown files and differing quantities of paper: typed reports, minutes, even a photograph or two. The man at the head of the table ran a hand over his face, as though checking the closeness of his morning shave.

‘It’s good of you to come,’ he began. ‘My name is Sir Laurence Strong.’ He was in his seventies, but his physique still matched his name, and he had a head of thick silvered hair. Nor did he appear to require spectacles, though in these days of contact lenses it was impossible to tell for sure. He introduced himself as ‘Sir’ not out of any wish to impress, but because it was a fact. ‘This,’ he continued, gesturing towards the woman, ‘is my personal assistant, Louisa Marchant.’ She smiled again, including Hepton in her compass this time. She was younger than Sir Laurence, in her early sixties perhaps. Smaller and plumper, too, with steel-rimmed glasses behind which her sharp blue eyes glistened. Sir Laurence now nodded in the direction of a man of similar age to himself. ‘Allow me to introduce—’ It was as far as he got.

‘Blast you, Laurence, I can make my own introductions.’ The man turned to Hepton and Jilly. His face was stern, as though he were late for something else of more importance. What Sanders had said was true: the two intelligence services did not get on, even at their upper echelons. ‘Blake Farquharson,’ the man said. Then, with a glance towards Sir Laurence, ‘Not yet knighted. This is my assistant, Tony Poulson.’ His finger was stabbing towards the man next to him, who nodded agreement. Farquharson and Poulson were like young-and-old versions of the same person: same thinning hair, same thick black-rimmed glasses, same grimly set faces and worry lines.

‘Fine,’ said Jilly. ‘We know who you are now, but not what you are.’

‘Of course.’ This from Sir Laurence again, seeming more urbane with every moment. ‘I’m director general of what you probably know as MI5.’

‘Ditto MI6,’ snapped Farquharson.

Jilly nodded satisfaction, trying to look less impressed than she actually felt. She knew journalists who would give their non-writing arm for the chance to sit in the same room as the heads of both intelligence services.

‘So,’ said Hepton, ‘what can we do for you?’

‘Well, for a start,’ said Sir Laurence, ‘bearing in mind that Miss Watson is a journalist, though with no disrespect to that estimable profession’ — there were smirks at this — ‘we would remind you both that you have signed the Official Secrets Act. Now, that being understood, really what we’d like is your version of events thus far.’

Jilly nodded towards the file in front of him. ‘Isn’t it all in there?’

He laid a proprietorial hand on the cover of the file. ‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘But these are... facts. What we’d like now are opinions, thoughts.’

‘Thoughts?’ She leaned forward in her chair. ‘I’ve been doing plenty of thinking this past day, and I’ll tell you what I think.’ Hepton had to admire her. Coming to London had made her more assertive, not afraid to voice her opinions or to ask for other people’s. She held up one finger. ‘I think you don’t want the American troops to pull out of Britain.’ Another finger. ‘I think the military is planning a coup, and I think you’re going to let them do it.’ A third. ‘I think they’re being aided by the Americans, and I think both countries are going to turn themselves into fortresses.’ She paused, but no one seemed ready to refute her allegations, so she continued. ‘What I’d like to know is how much the government knows.’ The three fingers became one, pointed straight at Sir Laurence. ‘How much do you know? The prime minister is still head of the Security Service, isn’t that right?’

Sir Laurence took this outburst quite calmly — they all took it calmly. He cleared his throat. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘that much is true, Miss Watson. The PM is titular head of the Security Service. However, as for your other... thoughts, I’m afraid they are rather off-beam. I’ll admit, though, that we had been thinking along similar lines ourselves. We’ve had inklings, for example, that something is simmering, and that the chefs are the chiefs of staff of our own armed forces. That much is true. A coup seemed a feasible explanation. However, it was difficult to go to the PM with what were merely inklings—’

‘Especially now,’ interrupted Farquharson, his voice more reasonable than before, and obviously not wishing Strong to be allowed to tell too much of the story by himself. ‘What with NATO bickering, and this blasted pull-out and all. You see, the military bigwigs have been whingeing, and they’ve also been currying favour within Parliament, seeking out supporters, that sort of thing. In the current climate, the government wants to remain on friendly terms with the military, so anything we might say would in all likelihood be taken as paranoia or even jealousy. Though,’ he added as an afterthought, ‘both those notions are preposterous.’

Having had his say, he sat back and folded his arms. Sir Laurence continued. ‘What Blake is saying is that we couldn’t find many friendly ears to listen to us. Yet we knew something was going to happen.’

‘So,’ asked Hepton, ‘just what is happening?’ Jilly’s notion of a coup had crossed his mind too, but he had rejected it for something a little more frightening.

There was silence in the room as eyes sought out other eyes, looking for answers. Sir Laurence spoke first.

‘We aren’t sure. We planted agents in some of the more important military offices — new clerical help, that sort of thing. Risky, and so far we’ve been able to shed no new light.’

‘And meanwhile,’ interrupted Farquharson, ‘I’ve got agents abroad trying to find out what they can.’

‘Including Parfit,’ stated Hepton. Farquharson glowered at him.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘including Parfit. He’s one of our best men. I hope you’ll be able to meet him.’

‘What does that mean?’ asked Jilly, frowning incomprehension.

‘It means,’ said Farquharson, ‘that he’s on his way here. And bringing Major Dreyfuss with him. Things are getting too uncertain in the States, and we want the major out of there. Now, tell us about your meeting with Cameron Devereux...’