Westwind

25

They left the embassy compound in a van that claimed to belong to DC Hygiene. Dreyfuss, dressed in overalls and uneasy in the passenger seat, asked Parfit — also in overalls and driving — what the company did.

‘They deliver roller towels for the toilets, that sort of thing. Gum?’

He noticed that Parfit was offering him a stick of chewing gum.

‘No thanks,’ he said.

‘Take one,’ Parfit ordered. ‘Delivery men around here all seem to chew gum.’

Dreyfuss took the stick, unwrapped it and folded it into his mouth. Parfit did the same, then popped the tube back into his overall pocket. He was checking in his wing mirrors. There was a car following them, but that was okay — it was from the embassy, and would stay with them for the next few miles until they could be sure no one else was on their tail. Until then, they were due to drive around — not too fast, not too slow, just driving — as though between destinations. When Parfit was satisfied, they would head out to the airport, where another car filled with his men would be waiting, watching to see that they made it to the terminal building without incident. He had arranged for two more men to be posted inside the terminal building itself, but after that, once they had headed into the departure lounge, they were on their own.

‘You seem to have plenty of men at your disposal,’ Dreyfuss had said when told the plan.

‘I’m using just about every member of staff the embassy has,’ Parfit had replied, smiling. ‘When Johnnie finds out, he’ll be livid. The embassy’s going to be deserted apart from himself and a few typists. I reckon our need might be greater than his.’

Dreyfuss tried not to think about it, but found himself thinking of nothing else. His mouth was dry, and the gum wasn’t helping. He wanted to return to Britain, of course he did. But somehow the more plans Parfit concocted to make sure they would do so safely, the more worried Dreyfuss became, for if these precautions were necessary, surely the danger must be necessarily as great? Yet Parfit carried no gun, no weapon of any kind. A weak man needs a weapon, he had once told Dreyfuss. In that case, Dreyfuss thought now, I must be weak as a deathbed grandmother. For the thought of a very large gun was all that seemed to soothe him just at the moment.

‘Relax,’ Parfit said; it sounded like another command. ‘We’re only delivery men, just driving around doing our job. We don’t need to look so tense or grip the seat like that.’

Dreyfuss looked down and saw that his hands were indeed clenching either side of his seat, the knuckles white. He loosened them and folded his arms instead.

‘You still look tense,’ Parfit said.

‘That’s because I am tense, for Christ’s sake. If I try to let my arms hang down, I just know I’ll end up waving them wildly and screaming to be let out of here.’

Parfit laughed. Dreyfuss wasn’t sure he had heard him laugh before, and found the sound strangely reassuring.

They drove in silence for a while, until they were crossing the Potomac River.

‘We may as well take a look at the Pentagon while we’re here,’ said Parfit. ‘After all, you did want to see a bit of the United States, didn’t you? It said so on your application form for the Argos mission.’

Dreyfuss turned to him. ‘You’re enjoying all this,’ he hissed.

‘I enjoy my work, yes,’ Parfit admitted. ‘Sometimes I do, anyway. Haven’t you ever been part of a team who had a rival team? At football, maybe, or cricket?’

‘I was never very interested in sports.’

‘Well,’ said Parfit, unperturbed, ‘try to imagine it. Here’s us, and we’re up against the military — people like Esterhazy.’

‘You seem to forget that I’m military,’ Dreyfuss said.

Parfit glanced towards him. ‘Well, try to set that aside for a moment. So it’s an us-and-them situation, and I want us to win the game.’

‘But it isn’t a game.’

‘Yet in many ways it is exactly that. And if you forget that it’s a game, you start playing the wrong way. So far, the opposition has been in a strong position, because we don’t know what they’re up to. But now they’ve started making mistakes — letting you live was only the first. People are getting suspicious, people like your friend Hepton. And to cover their mistakes, they — whoever they ultimately are — are starting to take bigger and bigger chances, which only force them further and further into the open. So yes, I am enjoying myself, because at last I think we’ve got a chance of beating them. What about you?’

‘I’m delirious,’ said Dreyfuss blandly, causing Parfit to laugh again, louder this time.

After another half-hour or so, Parfit decided that they should stop at a roadside café.

‘I thought we were supposed to keep driving?’ said Dreyfuss.

‘We’re still early,’ replied Parfit. ‘And I’d rather we spent the spare time away from the airport. Nobody’s following us, so why not stop for a coffee?’

‘Okay, if you say so,’ Dreyfuss said.

They pulled into a parking area beside a large café proclaiming ALL DAY ALL NIGHT BREAKFAST/BURGER. It wasn’t until Dreyfuss was studying the large, plastic-coated menu, seated beside Parfit in one of the booths by the window, that he realised this capitalised mouthful was in fact the name of the establishment.

A waitress approached, looking as well used as the dishcloth with which she wiped their table.

‘What can I get you?’ she asked tiredly.

‘Just coffee, please,’ said Parfit. Dreyfuss nodded. ‘Two coffees,’ Parfit corrected.

‘Cream?’

Parfit nodded, and the waitress tore off a sheet from her pad, left it on their table and walked back towards the counter.

‘Americans used to say “cream” and mean it,’ Parfit said conversationally. ‘Nowadays they almost always mean “creamer”, and that’s a polite way of saying “whitener”, which in turn means monosodium glutamate. A long way from cream.’ Dreyfuss didn’t appear to be listening. ‘You can’t believe words any more,’ Parfit continued.

Dreyfuss turned his head to look at him, then narrowed his eyes. ‘What the hell are you talking about, Parfit?’

Parfit considered. ‘Nothing,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders.

‘What exactly are we doing here?’

‘I told you, killing time.’

‘And I don’t believe you.’

The door to the café was opening, bringing in another customer. Parfit leaned close to Dreyfuss’ ear.

‘Don’t say anything about our leaving,’ he whispered.

The man walked over towards Dreyfuss and Parfit’s booth, then slid into the seat opposite them. It was Frank Stewart.

‘Hello,’ he said.

‘Mr Stewart,’ Parfit said by way of greeting.

‘What’s he doing here?’ Dreyfuss’ voice had become strained.

‘Parfit thought we should meet,’ said Stewart. He was admiring their uniforms. ‘Nice disguise.’

‘It’s the only way to travel,’ said Parfit.

‘So what can I do for you?’ said Stewart. The waitress was coming near. ‘Coffee and a half-pound cheeseburger, medium rare,’ he called. She nodded and started back to her counter, yelling the order through to the kitchen. Stewart shrugged. ‘I’m starving,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ said Parfit, ‘I thought a little chat might be of benefit to both of us. Esterhazy’s walking a very thin line.’

‘Oh?’

‘If you’re able to keep a close watch on him, without his knowing, then you might be doing yourself a great service.’

‘Keep talking,’ said Stewart. He picked up a sachet of sugar, tore it open and emptied it into his mouth.

‘There’s not much more I can add,’ said Parfit. ‘I’ll need a telephone number where I can contact you twenty-four hours a day.’

‘You’re doing this unsanctioned,’ Stewart observed. ‘That’s a dangerous game for us both.’ His eyes were interested but full of caution. He hadn’t survived this long without covering every bet on the table.

‘What makes you think—’

‘Because,’ Stewart interrupted, ‘you stipulated this meeting be strictly off the books. That smacks to me of a solo outing, and I’ve never been keen on one-man shows.’

‘This isn’t exactly a one-man show,’ Parfit said. ‘But you’re right. So far, there are more suspects than people I can rely on.’

‘But you’re willing to take a chance on relying on me? Why?’

‘Because you want to nail Ben Esterhazy,’ stated Parfit. The waitress was approaching with their order. The three mugs chinked together as she carried them.

‘I can’t argue with that,’ Stewart said, chuckling. He stared at the burger as it was placed in front of him. ‘No, sir,’ he said, picking it up, ‘I can’t argue with that.’

Dreyfuss lifted his mug to his lips. He wasn’t sure he liked the way Parfit seemed to be breaking the rules. He was certain that this meeting had been set up without the knowledge of anyone in the embassy. Sure, too, as Parfit’s whispering had warned, that Stewart didn’t know they were about to leave the country. Parfit was trying to have it all ways. He seemed confident that such was not only possible but entirely feasible. Yet Dreyfuss still wasn’t sure of his motives or his ultimate goal.

He wasn’t sure about anything any more.

They stayed long enough to finish their coffee, then left before Stewart, shaking his hand.

‘Be careful out there,’ he said, grease from the burger glistening on his lips.

Dreyfuss smiled but said nothing. He said nothing, in fact, the rest of the way to the airport. What was there he could say and be sure of getting a truthful answer to? Absolutely nothing.

The airport car park seemed, to Dreyfuss’ eyes, to be full. An attendant told them as much, but Parfit insisted on driving around.

‘Somebody’s bound to be coming out,’ he said. The attendant shrugged his shoulders and left them to it. Parfit knew exactly where he was going, however. He drove purposefully towards where two cars were parked side by side, their drivers reading newspapers. He blew four times on the van’s horn, three short, one long, and the driver of one of the cars threw his paper onto the passenger seat, started his engine and drove off. With a certain amount of elegance, Parfit eased the van into the now vacant bay. He turned to Dreyfuss again. ‘Easy when you know how,’ he said. ‘Right, you first.’

Dreyfuss had been told what to do. He got out, walking around to the rear of the van, where he opened the doors and pulled himself in, closing them after him. In the back of the van were two parcels, one marked ‘P’ and one ‘D’. He opened the second package, revealing a two-piece suit, shirt, tie, socks and shoes. All in sober colours, and all in his size. He unzipped his overalls and began to change. Once he was dressed, he left the van again and got into the passenger seat of the second car, whose driver acknowledged his presence with a grunt and a ‘You took your time,’ before continuing with his reading.

Now Parfit went to the back of the van, reappearing less than two minutes later dressed in similar garb to Dreyfuss and looking more comfortable now that he had shed his workman’s clothes. The driver saw him, folded his newspaper and got out of the car, moving to the van and climbing into the driver’s side. Parfit meantime slid behind the steering wheel of the car. He watched as the driver moved off in the van, then looked left and right. Appearing satisfied, he touched Dreyfuss on the shoulder. Dreyfuss felt the touch like an electric spark, and flinched.

‘Stay calm,’ Parfit advised, ‘for the next hour or so at least. Right, we’re going in now.’ He checked his watch. ‘We’ll go straight to Departures. Okay?’

Dreyfuss nodded and opened his door again. The car had a central-locking mechanism, and he watched as Parfit locked the driver’s door and all four door locks engaged with a silent movement. Then Parfit opened the boot and brought out two small suitcases and two attaché cases. He handed one of each to Dreyfuss.

‘Just some clothes, a few magazines, the usual stuff a businessman would take on a trip. Remember, we’re only going to London for a couple of days. We’re based in Washington—’

‘At an international law firm. I remember.’

Parfit nodded. He seemed preoccupied now: perhaps he was growing just a little bit nervous himself. ‘Oh,’ he said, remembering something. He dug a hand into his jacket and brought out two passports, one of which he handed to Dreyfuss. ‘There you go, Stephen.’

Dreyfuss opened the passport. It was a brilliant fake; in fact, it was more: it was for real. A real passport, bearing a real name: Stephen Jackson. Occupation: solicitor. Stamped with American visas, and with evidence of holidays spent in Greece, Canada, Tunisia. Next of kin: a father, Bernard Jackson, who lived in Dundee.

‘There aren’t too many Bernards in Dundee,’ Dreyfuss commented. Parfit seemed to take this criticism seriously.

‘Good point,’ he said. ‘I’ll have a word with the chaps who make these up.’

The photograph was of Dreyfuss: of course it was. They’d had it taken only yesterday, at the embassy. But a make-up artist had erased a few lines from his face, and given more hair to his forehead. The result was that the man in the picture looked a few years younger; as young as he would have been when the passport was supposedly validated.

‘I’ll hang on to our tickets,’ said Parfit. ‘Okay?’

‘Fine,’ said Dreyfuss, slipping the passport into his jacket pocket. There was something else in there. He brought out a wallet. Opening it, he found money in dollars and sterling, a UK driving licence and three credit cards. ‘Christ,’ he whispered, amazed.

Parfit tapped the cards.

‘Don’t run up too much of a bill. We always ask for the money back sometime.’ Then, having locked the boot, he was off. Dreyfuss picked up the attaché case and suitcase and hurried after him.

26

Dreyfuss was impressed by the performance. Parfit had assumed the brisk but awkward walk of the busy businessman, and even his face seemed to have grown new worry lines, his eyes proclaiming a head filled with spreadsheets and data analysis. There was no doubt about it: at the law firm, Parfit was the one who looked after the accounts. More, he made sure everybody paid.

Dreyfuss was no actor, however. He watched the other travellers intently, seeking out the potential assassin or arresting officer. There were video cameras trained on every angle of the building’s interior. Somewhere in the security room, someone would be watching him. He prayed they wouldn’t recognise him. His photograph had been in all the newspapers, hadn’t it? They were sure to spot him.

They had joined the queue at their chosen airline’s London check-in desk. The people in front of them looked innocent enough: businessmen mostly, one elderly couple, two young men travelling together. The young men had short hair and wore checked shirts and denims. They didn’t have much luggage, either. But it was the haircuts that worried Dreyfuss. They looked like regulation down-to-the-wood cuts, the kind only an armed forces barber could perfect. Dreyfuss knew; he’d been there.

When the crew cuts got to the front of the queue, he tried to listen in on their conversation with the smiling clerk. It all seemed normal. Small talk. They wanted smoking seats, and there seemed to be a problem about this. At last, their seat numbers having been allocated, they headed off in the direction of the departures lounge, watched by Dreyfuss.

‘Stephen?’

It took a moment for him to realise that Parfit was speaking — speaking to him. He was Stephen Jackson. But who was Parfit again? James Pardoe? Farlow? Yes, Farlow: James Farlow.

‘What is it, James?’ he said. He was perspiring now, and could hear his heart thumping through his inner ear. Parfit smiled at him, his eyes warning him not to panic.

‘You need to put your suitcase in here.’ He pointed to a gap in the desk where a set of rollers waited to send their suitcases hurtling down towards the baggage loading area. Dreyfuss nodded embarrassedly and handed over his case. ‘There aren’t any window seats left,’ Parfit said. ‘Is that okay?’

‘I don’t mind where I sit,’ Dreyfuss blurted. The clerk was staring at him now. Dreyfuss attempted a grin, which seemed to frighten her further.

‘Fear of flying,’ Parfit explained to her, accepting the two boarding cards. ‘He’ll be fine once we’re up.’

They walked towards the departures lounge, Dreyfuss on legs made of drinking straws filled with putty, Parfit looking a little less confident than before.

‘Hang on in there,’ he hissed.

‘I’m trying,’ Dreyfuss said. He was breathing deeply, trying to calm himself. Not much longer, he was thinking. Then I’ll be home. Home and dry. ‘What about the agents you said would be here to cover us? I haven’t seen them.’

‘They wouldn’t be doing their job if you could recognise them. Don’t worry, they were back there near the desk.’

‘But we’re on our own now, aren’t we?’ Dreyfuss whispered noisily.

‘We can manage.’

Their tickets and boarding cards were checked again, and their briefcases put onto a conveyer belt that transported them through an X-ray machine. A man in a suit, a large plastic ID badge clipped to his breast pocket, gestured for them to walk through the metal-detecting gateway, after which he ran a hand-held, more sensitive detector over them. Then his assistant — an only-too-willing assistant, Dreyfuss thought — slid his hands down each man’s suit, under the jacket collar and lapels, down the back, smoothly over the trousers and up along the inside legs.

‘Thank you, sir,’ he said to Dreyfuss with the hint of a smile. Dreyfuss did not smile back.

‘I don’t know about you,’ Parfit said as they picked up their cases and walked on, ‘but I need a drink.’

‘Count me in,’ said Dreyfuss. He was feeling calmer now. The worst was over, wasn’t it? Then it struck him: the last time he had flown had been on a private jet, and the time before that... on Argos. His legs lost their rigidity again.

‘Do you want anything in duty-free?’ asked Parfit, pointing towards the glossy spending mall. Dreyfuss shook his head. ‘I can never resist the malt,’ Parfit said. ‘Coming?’

‘I think I’ll just give my face a splash of water first,’ Dreyfuss said, nodding towards where a door proclaimed itself the gents’ toilets.

‘Fine, I’ll come with you.’

‘People will begin to talk,’ said Dreyfuss.

Parfit looked surprised. ‘You just made a joke!’ he said. ‘That’s more like it. Now come on, and stop looking so damned worried all the time.’

Only one cubicle was in use when they entered the toilets. Parfit gestured towards it and winked, reminding Dreyfuss not to break their cover. Dreyfuss nodded and, while Parfit went to the urinals, stood in front of the gleaming row of washbasins, examining his features in the splashed mirror. He looked fairly dreadful, like some old cancer patient: face pasty grey, eyes dark, cheeks hollow, and sweat cloying his hair. Another man came in and hurried into a cubicle, slamming the door shut after him. Dreyfuss heard him unbuckling his belt.

He ran some cold water and rested his hands in it for a few moments before starting to wash his face. He felt better almost immediately. Parfit was standing behind him, zipping himself.

‘Ready?’

‘Just give me a minute,’ Dreyfuss said. ‘I’ll catch you up in duty-free.’

‘Well...’ Parfit looked dubious, but a glance at his watch told him they didn’t have very long before they would be boarding. He could visualise that bottle of Glenlivet sitting waiting for him...

The door of the first cubicle, the one that had been occupied when they came in, snapped open. A teenager came out, his face flushed, and made for the exit, his eyes to the floor.

‘Wonder what he’s been up to,’ said Parfit with a wink. He checked his watch again. ‘Don’t be long,’ he pleaded.

‘Two minutes,’ Dreyfuss said, watching in the mirror as Parfit left. Alone, he relaxed a little more. He let the water out. As it gurgled down the plughole, a man in his forties pushed open the door and entered the toilets, nodding towards Dreyfuss as he made for the urinals.

‘Helluva day,’ he commented, but Dreyfuss wasn’t sure whether the man was talking to him or to himself. He ran more water. The man came to the basin next to him, gave his hands a quick rinse and rubbed them vigorously beneath the fan dryer. Then he left, the dryer still whirring away noisily. Dreyfuss splashed his face again, rubbing at his eyes this time, pressing fingers to sockets. He spat some water back into the basin and re-examined himself in the mirror. A toilet was flushing, and the cubicle door behind him opened. A squat man wearing spectacles and a shirt too small at the neck came waddling out. Dreyfuss smiled into the mirror, and the man seemed to smile back, but kept on coming...

Dreyfuss saw the cheese wire. It was twisted around the man’s pudgy little hands, wads of cloth stopping it cutting into the pulpy skin. It took no more than a second for the man to hoist it over Dreyfuss’ bowed head and pull tight. But in that second, Dreyfuss managed to prise his fingers between the wire and his unprotected throat, so that when the wire tightened, it cut into finger joints rather than neck. But it hurt like hell, and kept on digging, rending the tissue, sending blood trickling down Dreyfuss’ right hand. He watched in horror in the mirror as his eyes began to bulge, his tongue to twitch. The man was pulling him backwards, putting him off balance. With his free hand, Dreyfuss lashed out, finding first the man’s glasses, then his eyes, gouging at them. The man cried out, but the noise was all but masked by the greater noise of the cubicle finishing its flush and the dryer finishing its cycle.

When both stopped, there was an eerie silence, punctuated only by the choking sounds from Dreyfuss, the squeaking noise his shoes made as he sought purchase on the floor, and the shrill breath of the small man who was slowly but steadily murdering him. Dreyfuss’ whole head felt aflame, his eyes watering, ear canals singing like the sea. His chest felt tight as a drum skin. The thought of dying in this antiseptic place was appalling.

A picture flashed in his mind: Hes Adams’ fingers around his throat. The picture gave him strength, and he lashed out again, but with his left foot this time, sending it backwards with a donkey kick into the small man’s knee. The man gasped in pain but did not release his grip on the wire. Dreyfuss tried again, his eyes blurrily fixed to the mirror, hypnotised by the blood that was now dripping from his hand onto his shirt. His lips were drawn back from his teeth, the grin of a monkey. Monkeys grinned when they were terrified. This time the kick landed high on the man’s soft thigh, causing no reaction. Dreyfuss tried to cry out but couldn’t. He was losing strength, his whole body tingling with electricity. Movement was becoming difficult. Inside his head, someone opened the door of the furnace. He was on fire, and hell-bound. But he’d take the little bastard with him. He threw himself backwards, slamming the killer against the hard partition edge between two cubicles. Then he reached a hand around again. The hand was becoming numb, and it scrabbled over the man’s clothes like a tiny blind animal, finding the crotch. He used the last of his strength to squeeze. The killer howled.

Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw the door swing open and Parfit enter. From then it was as if everything was happening in slow motion. Parfit approached the man from the side and gripped him by his furthest shoulder, pinning him against his own body sideways on. Then he brought his arm back in a straight line and sent it thudding towards the man, heel of palm connecting with ear. The man’s head whipped to one side and there was a horrifying snap, as though a dog had bitten into a bone. The hold on Dreyfuss tightened further still, then relaxed.

He realised that Parfit was holding the small man — now a dead man — upright while he attempted to ease the cord away from Dreyfuss’ throat. He did his best to help, then, suddenly released, staggered to the basin, gripping its edge with his left hand while he stared at his crippled and bloodied right hand. He ran more water and held the fingers beneath the cold spray. As he stared in the mirror at his purple face, the colour of a newborn baby, he felt his stomach wrench, sending a spume of vomit into the basin.

Parfit had eased the corpse to the floor. He was staring at it as though it were something unbelievable, something out of his ken. But the way he had dealt with the man proved to Dreyfuss that it very much was not out of his ken. It was what he did, when necessary, as part of his job description.

‘Are you okay?’ Parfit came to the basin and examined Dreyfuss’ neck, then his bleeding hand. ‘Run more cold water. Keep it under the tap.’ He went over to the corpse again. ‘We need to get rid of this bastard before somebody wants to use the facilities.’

There was only one sensible hiding place. He heaved the body upright in one swift movement and walked with it into the furthest cubicle, where he dumped it unceremoniously onto the pan. Closing the cubicle door, he examined the lock. It was a simple thing, made simple so that no one could stay locked in. He brought a coin from his pocket and inserted it into the screw thread next to the ‘engaged’ indicator. Holding the door closed, and turning the coin in the thread, he moved the indicator from green to red: the cubicle was locked.

He allowed himself a moment’s pause, then turned back to examine the rest of the interior. There were drops of blood on the floor, but they couldn’t be helped. What worried him more was Dreyfuss’ injured hand, and the fresh bloodstains on his shirt. He checked his watch, wondering if they could last out the time until boarding. If the body was found before then... or if Dreyfuss’ wound was too deep...

‘I’ll be all right,’ Dreyfuss said, then gagged. His throat was like fire. Hadn’t he been through this before and survived?

‘You’ve got more bloody lives than a cat,’ Parfit acknowledged, smiling. Then, seriously: ‘But this was my fault, and I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be,’ whispered Dreyfuss — the least painful way of talking. ‘I’m beginning to enjoy strangulation.’

‘How’s the hand?’

He lifted it from beneath the water. The cuts on each joint were clean and deep. He tried flexing the fingers. Blood began to pour again.

‘Fine,’ he whispered. ‘What do we do now?’

‘What do you want to do?’

Dreyfuss thought it over. What choice was there? ‘Get on the plane,’ he said.

‘Then that’s what we’ll do. But first I have to make a phone call, and this time you’re coming with me.’

‘What made you come back?’ asked Dreyfuss.

‘They’d run out of Glenlivet,’ said Parfit, attempting levity. ‘Now let’s see that hand.’ He inspected the damage. ‘It’s bad,’ he said, ‘but I don’t suppose I need to tell you that, since it’s so bloody obvious.’

‘And bloodily obvious.’

‘Another joke,’ Parfit said appreciatively. ‘You’re tougher than I thought, Major.’

‘The name’s Stephen,’ said Dreyfuss, ‘and don’t you forget it.’

They wrapped wads of toilet paper around each finger, then Parfit’s handkerchief around the whole hand.

‘We’ll get some sticking plasters at the sky shop,’ he said. ‘The hand will keep bleeding, but you probably won’t die before we land. If we get ice with our drinks, we’ll make up a pack with the cubes and you can press that against it. Okay?’

‘Never better,’ said Dreyfuss, his voice laryngitic. ‘Who are we going to telephone?’

‘There’s only one person I can think of right now. Frank Stewart.’

The telephone was one of a row of four. Parfit brought a paper napkin from his pocket. The napkin was from the café, and on it Stewart had scrawled a telephone number.

‘He’s going to be a bit surprised to get a call so quickly,’ said Dreyfuss.

‘He’s going to be absolutely furious,’ Parfit said, having pressed home the digits, awaiting a response at the other end.

Dreyfuss was intrigued. But he was also full of pain, and couldn’t separate the two. They’d used a packet of cotton wool and a whole box of plasters on his hand, but he could feel the blood soaking through already. They’d also bought aspirin, and he’d swallowed half a dozen. He needed a drink.

‘Stewart? It’s Parfit. Listen, I need some help. No questions, just help. I’ll explain later. What?’ Parfit listened. ‘No, we’re at the airport. Yes, flying out.’ He held the receiver away from his ear as Stewart’s stream of invective flew out. Then, as briskly as it had started, it ended. Parfit returned the receiver to his ear. ‘I couldn’t tell you, Stewart. It would have meant too many other people knowing about it. Anyway, the point is, we’ve encountered a slight problem. That problem has been dealt with in the short term, but some cleaning-up needs to be done.’ He listened again. ‘In the gents’ toilets,’ he said at last. ‘International departures. Last cubicle along.’ There was another pause. ‘How long will it take?’ He nodded and smiled. ‘That’s great, Stewart. What? No, he’s fine. I will. Goodbye.’

He slipped the receiver back into its cradle. ‘Stewart sends his love,’ he said to Dreyfuss.

‘But can we really trust him?’ Dreyfuss asked, his throat raw like sunburn.

‘From the way he was questioning you in that hospital in Sacramento, it was quite obvious he hadn’t a clue what was going on.’ Parfit had started walking, and Dreyfuss walked with him, his whole arm throbbing. They were nearing the long, gleaming bar of the departures lounge. Parfit kept talking as they walked. ‘We’re up against generals, not spooks,’ he said. The barman was ready to serve them. ‘Scotch on its own,’ Parfit ordered. ‘But bring over the ice bucket, will you?’ He turned to Dreyfuss. ‘What’ll you have?’

‘Whisky,’ croaked Dreyfuss. ‘A double.’

The barman nodded and moved off to fix their drinks.

‘Keep talking,’ said Dreyfuss. ‘It might take my mind off the bleeding.’

Parfit needed no further prompting. ‘There’s not much more to tell. Stewart will watch Esterhazy like the proverbial hawk.’ He smiled again. ‘It’s a bit like the old days, special relationship and all that.’ The smile faded. ‘Of course, we can’t trust the NSA too far, maybe not very far at all, but Stewart... well, I’ve got a feeling about Frank Stewart.’

The drinks had arrived, and with them the ice bucket. Dreyfuss reached his left hand into the chill centre of the white plastic basin and pulled out a cluster of cubes, which he dropped into his right-hand jacket pocket, packing them around his fingers and his palm. The barman was watching him but had seen worse behaviour in Departures.

‘Cheers,’ said Parfit, glancing towards the toilets. ‘Here’s to absent friends.’

‘Cheers,’ said Dreyfuss, before downing his drink in two hungry gulps.

Three musical notes preceded an address over the tannoy, announcing that their flight was boarding. Parfit patted Dreyfuss’ back.

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘In-flight drinks are gratis, I believe. The first one’s on me.’

Dreyfuss grimaced. ‘Plenty of ice with mine,’ he said, feeling the damp in his pocket and not knowing whether it was evidence of melting ice or of his warm blood soaking through the compress.

‘Plenty of ice it is,’ said Parfit.

27

Hepton had the idea that everyone knew more than they were telling. Fair enough, he thought: probably he knew more than he was telling, too. And it was with this in mind that he asked Jilly if she knew of any restaurants where the public telephone was out of sight of the dining area, and preferably close to the toilets. They were sitting in the Curzon Street building, drinking tea and waiting for Sanders to come and pick them up. The spy chiefs had thanked them for attending the meeting, and had hoped there would be no need to meet again.

‘I’ll second that,’ Jilly had said.

‘I suppose I can think of a few,’ she said now. ‘Why do you want to know?’

‘I want to make a telephone call, but I don’t want Sanders knowing about it. For one thing, I don’t trust him. For another, I don’t want him to know who I’m telephoning. Everyone who gets involved in this thing seems to be in danger.’

‘Who are you going to telephone?’

‘Nick Christopher.’

‘Your friend at the base?’

‘Yes. Don’t ask why, not yet. Are any of these restaurants close to here?’

‘One’s fairly close.’ She was rising to the challenge. ‘It’s Italian. There’s a wall phone downstairs, just next to the kitchen and the toilets. All the tables are upstairs. Would that do?’

‘Perfect. All I’d need you to do is keep Sanders occupied while I’m downstairs.’

She smiled archly. ‘If I know Sanders, that shouldn’t be difficult.’

There was a knock on the door of the room, and Sanders’ head appeared. ‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said. ‘Another job.’

‘Well, you should be sorry,’ Jilly said, sounding peeved. She rose from her chair. ‘Just for that, Sanders, lunch is on you.’

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Anything to oblige.’

‘Good,’ said Jilly, taking his arm. ‘There’s this little Italian place off Regent Street...’

Hepton, marvelling, followed.

Jilly had judged things perfectly. Sanders was keen to get on in his career, and slightly in awe of his superiors. He also felt a little aggrieved at having been left out of the top-level meeting, and his attention was total as, seated at a corner table in the restaurant, Jilly began to tell him all about it. He wanted to know every detail, and she was only too willing to tell. Soon, with a few tantalising lies thrown in to make the mixture even more intriguing, she had him hooked, a child to her fairy tale. They had just finished the first course. Hepton had ordered a veal dish to follow, though he hated veal on principle.

‘That dish is very special, sir,’ the waiter had informed him, pointing it out on the menu. ‘You see, it says there it takes thirty minutes to cook.’

It did indeed warn of this, which was why Hepton had chosen it. He didn’t want to be on the telephone downstairs and have his food waiting for him upstairs, causing Sanders to realise that he was away from the table. He had to be sure of a gap between the first course and the main. So he had nodded, and Jilly had caught his reasoning.

‘That sounds good,’ she had said. ‘I think I’ll change my mind and have the veal instead of the chicken.’ The waiter had nodded, scribbling on his pad. Then Sanders had joined in.

‘Make that three veals,’ he’d said, and they had all smiled.

‘Excuse me a minute,’ Hepton said now, lifting his napkin from his lap and dropping it onto the table. Sanders nodded, but hardly paid any attention. Jilly had started another story about the meeting. Hepton rose to his feet and walked towards the back of the restaurant. An arrowed sign told him that the toilets were downstairs, and he descended the staircase slowly, his heart thumping furiously.

The wall phone was not in use. It was a modern chrome effort, with a blue receiver. It accepted most coins, and Hepton searched in his pocket. He came out with one pound and seventy pence. He checked his watch. It had just crept past one o’clock. Good: the rate wouldn’t be at its most expensive. He probably had enough. He picked up the receiver, dropped in the money and saw it register on the liquid crystal display, and dialled.

‘Hello?’ said a voice on the other end.

‘Yes,’ said Hepton, ‘I’d like to speak to Nicholas Christopher, please. He works in control.’

‘I’ll see if I can find him. Who’s calling?’

‘It’s his brother, Victor.’

‘Hold on.’ The phone went quiet.

Hepton bit his bottom lip, then changed his mind and bit his top lip instead. Someone was coming down the stairs. A fat man in shirt and tie: one of the diners from upstairs. He pushed open the door to the gents’ and, once inside, started whistling the background music from the restaurant’s hi-fi. Hepton turned his attention back to the amount of money he had left. The LCD was ticking down, but there was still plenty of time.

He hoped Nick Christopher would recognise the code. One night, they had gone off base to a local pub, where the landlord had informed them that there was a disco in the village hall. After a few beers, they had visited the disco, and Christopher had dragged them onto the dance floor to introduce themselves to two young women.

‘I’m Nick,’ he’d shouted over the music, ‘and this is Vic. Nick and Vic.’

In private, that nickname — Vic — had stuck to Hepton for a few weeks, producing a smile every time as it reminded them of that night and that disco.

The receiver suddenly came to life.

‘Brother Victor,’ said Nick Christopher knowingly. ‘I thought you were on holiday?’

‘I am. Can you talk?’

‘Yes.’

‘I mean, is there anyone with you?’

‘Well, I’m at my console.’

‘So there are people around you?’

‘Not many, but yes. Look, give me your number and I’ll call you back.’

‘Okay, but hurry.’ Hepton recited the telephone number and put down the receiver. A good portion of his money, unused, came clanking out, and he scooped it back into his pocket. The phone started to ring. ‘Yes?’ he said.

‘Okay, I can talk now.’ Christopher’s voice was not as hale and hearty as it had been in the control room.

‘What’s happening, Nick?’

‘I don’t know, Vic. It’s been pretty weird here since I last saw you. Fagin asked me if I had any idea where you were. He said he needed to contact you about something. And now... we’re moving out.’

‘What?’ Hepton’s face creased in puzzlement.

‘Moving out. The place is being closed down temporarily. Something to do with fitting a new system. I don’t know, something like that anyway. So everybody’s getting two weeks’ R and R.’

‘But what about Zephyr?’

‘She’ll be stationary. There’s going to be a skeleton staff to keep an eye on things. Fagin and a few others.’

‘What others?’ It was beginning to fall into place now.

‘I don’t know. But none of us. So, anyway, why did you call?’

Hepton had almost forgotten himself. ‘Oh,’ he said, reminded. ‘I’ve got a big favour to ask.’

‘Name it.’

‘I want you to send me a video tape of Buchan airbase. As recent as you can manage, so long as it’s after the Zephyr malfunction.’

‘You’ve got to be joking!’

‘I’m deadly serious.’

‘What the hell for? I could end up in jail for a stunt like that.’

‘Look, Nick, remember what I told you about Fagin and Paul and everything?’

‘Yes, I remember. But Paul’s dead now, isn’t he? They said you were the one who found him.’

‘I was. It wasn’t suicide, Nick. It just looked that way. If we’re going to find his killers, I need that tape. And if you could also send one of Buchan before Zephyr went haywire, that would help too. This is an emergency, Nick. I mean, life and death.’

‘Well, maybe, but... Christ, I can’t just—’

‘You’re shutting down, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘So it should be easy.’ Hepton thought fast. ‘Stuff’s being moved about, boxed up, what have you. Say a couple of video tapes go missing, it’s bound to happen.’

‘Okay, so I put them in my pocket — then what? Down to the local post office?’

Hepton hadn’t thought about that. He didn’t want to involve Sanders — or anyone else he didn’t feel able to trust. But if he wanted the tapes tonight... And he did want the tapes tonight.

‘Nick, do you still go to the Bull?’ The Bull was the public house closest to the base. It was a brisk evening walk, and a pleasant one in the summer months.

‘Not for a while.’

‘Could you drop in tonight? Just for a pint?’

‘And take the tapes with me?’

‘That’s the idea.’

‘I’m not sure I can get them that soon.’ Christopher paused. ‘Will you be at the Bull?’

‘I’ll try.’

‘The thing is, there’s a lot of logging to be done before we shut down. I’m not sure Fagin will spare me enough time. We were working till ten last night. I was so tired afterwards, I just collapsed into bed.’

‘Look, Nick, try your best, will you?’

He seemed to give this serious thought. Hepton was under no illusions: Nick was a nice enough guy, but he was no hero. Look after number one, that had always been his creed. There was an all-too-audible sigh on the line. Then he spoke.

‘Okay, Martin,’ he said. ‘If you want cloak and dagger, you can have it. I’ll be in the Bull at seven.’

‘Thanks, Nick.’

‘You owe me one.’

‘I won’t forget. See you tonight.’

Hepton put down the receiver and turned towards the stairs. Sanders was standing there, three steps up, arms folded. He had obviously heard some of the conversation.

‘Where are we going?’ he asked.

There was no point lying. ‘Binbrook, Lincolnshire. To the Zephyr base. I have to meet someone there.’

‘Can I ask why?’

Hepton moved past him and started upstairs, Sanders following.

‘No,’ he said. ‘But it could mean a whole lot of brownie points for you.’

‘I still need to know why we’re going to Lincolnshire.’

Hepton stopped and turned to him. ‘Is there a video recorder in the safe house?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good, because we’re going to be watching some videos later on, after we come back.’

Sanders nodded. ‘Why didn’t you just tell me?’

Hepton fixed his eyes on those of the younger man. ‘Because you worked for Villiers,’ he said. ‘And because for all I know, you still do.’

Sanders shrugged. ‘You’re entitled to your opinion,’ he said. ‘But like it or not, I’m coming with you tonight. What about Jilly?’

‘I’d rather she didn’t go with us. No real reason.’

‘You think it could be dangerous?’

Hepton managed a wry smile. ‘These days,’ he said, ‘who can tell?’

Of course, Jilly was furious. She didn’t want to be left out, and the fact that Hepton wasn’t telling her much about the trip only served to kindle her curiosity further.

‘Damn you, Martin Hepton! You were always too secretive, that was what I hated about you!’

Her words bounced around inside his head all during the drive. In the end, she had calmed a little, thrown herself into a chair and picked up a newspaper, using it as a shield against him. No matter how pleasant the house in Marlborough Place was — and it was pleasant — it was still a prison, a place of detention. There were two guards to look after Jilly, but they didn’t only stop people entering the house; they stopped them leaving as well. And if Jilly was nothing else, she was a free spirit. Hepton could vouch for that.

Always too secretive. Damn you.

Yes, he’d been secretive. He had told her about his work, but not all about it. There always had to be something held back, something left unsaid. And he had never talked much about himself anyway, preferring to hear Jilly talk about her own life. It was so much more lively and vibrant, so much more interesting. So much more... open.

‘I’d still like to know,’ Sanders yelled. He was driving fast, with the car radio tuned in to the closing overs of a cricket match and the windows open to let some early-evening breeze into the stifling interior. The sun was coming lower in the sky. Soon, Hepton was thinking, soon it’ll start getting dark earlier... Except that in some places it already was getting dark earlier.

‘What?’ he said.

‘I’d still like to know,’ Sanders called, ‘what’s on these videos.’

‘Me too,’ Hepton murmured. ‘Me too.’

They were later arriving at the Bull than Hepton had intended: traffic jams all the way out of London, and major roadworks on the road north. Even Sanders’ most manic driving had been unable to make up all the time they’d lost. So it was nearly eight when they pulled into the pub’s gravel car park. There were a dozen or so other cars there. Hepton gave each one a searching inspection as Sanders passed them and stopped at the furthest point into the car park, then executed a three-point turn and drove slowly past the double line of vehicles once again. Hepton looked at him and saw that Sanders was inspecting the cars as meticulously as he himself had done. Satisfied that they were all empty, he pulled up close to the car park’s entrance, ready for a quick getaway.

‘Here goes,’ he said. ‘I’m dying for a pint.’

They walked into the bar by its car park entrance. There were couples at three tables, and a group of possibly underage teenagers huddled around another. A game of darts was taking place, and three men propped up the bar, as though the activity gave their life all meaning. The barman smiled at Hepton and Sanders as they approached.

‘Evening, gentlemen. What’s your poison?’

‘Two pints of Courage bitter,’ Sanders said. He turned to Hepton. ‘That okay with you?’

Hepton nodded dispiritedly. There was no sign of Nick Christopher in the spacious bar, and it was well past his designated time. Either he’d been and gone, or he wasn’t coming. Had Fagin got to him? And if so, what would happen next? Everyone in this bar could be implicated, could be working for Villiers and Harry. He tried not to stare, but it wasn’t easy.

Sanders was managing to look casual about the whole business. Just two men out for a drink. He raised the straight glass to his lips, gulping at the first couple of mouthfuls.

‘Not a bad pint,’ he said.

One of the three men nearby seemed to hear him, and turned his head.

‘You from London?’

Sanders smiled pleasantly. ‘Not originally. But I live there now.’

‘Thought you did,’ said the man, turning back to his friends. ‘Beer’s like piss down there,’ he informed them. ‘And the water, you can’t drink the water. Been through seven pairs of kidneys before it gets to you, been pissed out seven times before you drink it.’

His friends wrinkled their faces and chuckled. Sanders reddened. He was trying to keep up the facade, but Hepton could see he was having trouble. His eyes had acquired a fiery tinge to them, and his free hand rubbed at his armpit, just where the holstered gun nestled.

‘Cheers,’ Hepton said, trying to distract him, lifting his own glass to his lips.

Sanders twitched his head towards a table and carried his glass over to it. Hepton followed closely, placing his beer on one of the mats on the highly polished tabletop. The men at the bar were sharing a joke. He couldn’t help thinking they were discussing him, and he too reddened slightly at the cheeks.

‘Where’s your friend, then?’ Sanders asked, his voice sharp, kept low only through the greatest restraint.

‘I don’t know,’ Hepton said. ‘Maybe he couldn’t make it.’

Sanders shook his head. ‘So what do we do now?’

‘Go back to London?’ Hepton offered.

Sanders stared hard at him. ‘Where are these video tapes?’ he asked. ‘We’ll just have to go fetch them.’

It was Hepton’s turn to shake his head. ‘That isn’t possible.’

‘Why not?’

‘It would mean going into the lion’s den.’

‘Better that than sitting in this particular den.’ Sanders threw a baleful glance towards the bar.

‘I could try phoning him again, let him know we’re here.’

Sanders considered this. ‘Might be an idea,’ he said.

Hepton stood up. ‘Back in a second.’ He took a look around but could see no sign of a telephone. He went to the bar. The barman had the same fixed smile on his face.

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Do you have a telephone?’

The barman shook his head theatrically. ‘Not as such, no. We don’t have a public telephone, but there’s one behind the bar.’ He reached down and lifted an aged Bakelite handset onto the counter. ‘Provided it’s a local call, that is.’

‘Oh yes,’ Hepton assured him. ‘It’s local. We were supposed to be meeting a friend here, but we got held up. He’s probably been and gone.’

‘Would that be Mr Christopher?’

Hepton stared in surprise at the man, who was fussing beneath the bar again. ‘Yes,’ he said.

‘Ah,’ said the barman, as if this explained everything. ‘Mr Christopher said there’d just be the one of you. Victor, he said it would be.’

‘Yes, that’s me.’

‘Only,’ the barman continued, ‘he said he couldn’t stop, since things are so busy back at that spy place of his where he works. So he asked me to give you this.’

Hepton stared at the plain white plastic carrier bag. The two black video cases were visible inside.

‘Dirty films,’ said one of the locals. ‘That’s what we thought, isn’t it, Gerry?’

The barman’s smile broadened, and the three locals gave throaty laughs. Hepton joined them, elated.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Not dirty films. Just tapes of a friend’s wedding.’

‘Including the honeymoon?’ rasped the first man, causing more laughter.

Hepton had brought a ten-pound note from his pocket.

‘I think this calls for a round,’ he said. ‘Whatever these gentlemen are having, and one for yourself.’

The barman nodded, lifting the telephone back off the bar-top, and the three locals made appreciative noises, none of which sounded like ‘thank you’.

‘Nothing for yourself, sir?’ one of them asked Hepton as the pint glasses were being refilled.

Hepton shook his head. ‘We really should be going,’ he said.

They watched as he went back to his table and spoke a few words to the Londoner. Then both men left the bar without so much as a wave of the hand or a nod of the head, carrying the bag with them.

‘Forgot all about his change,’ the barman noted drily.

‘In that case,’ said the oldest of the locals, ‘keep the beer coming, Gerry.’

At one of the tables by the window, where a middle-aged couple were sitting, the wife suddenly produced a portable telephone from her handbag. The man took the phone and pressed a lot of digits, then waited. Eventually he said a few words, not much more than a sentence, and in a quiet voice. Then he gave the contraption back to his wife, who replaced it in her handbag. They finished their drinks and left the pub, the woman bowing her head slightly towards the bar as she left.

‘Cheerio then,’ the barman called in response.

‘There’s a lot of queer folk about,’ said one local. The others nodded agreement and went back to their drinks. The rest of the night was to come as something of an anticlimax.

28

Hepton considered that he had seen Sanders’ driving at its absolute worst. The journey back to London, however, served to impress upon him that this was an age without absolutes. Sanders seemed seized by demons, and determined to get back to the relative safety of the city as soon as he could. The men at the Bull had angered him, that was for sure. He was used to being undermined by his superiors, but not by people he would consider his inferiors by a fairly large margin. The needle on the dashboard flickered wildly around the seventy mark on the narrower roads, and Hepton felt sick in his stomach, the beer inside him sloshing wildly. On wider roads, they hit one hundred and ten miles per hour. It was, thank God, the only thing they hit.

Hepton, however, said nothing. He too was keen to get back to the safe house. Keen to watch the video tapes and see what he might discover. It was dark when they arrived, the sky spotted with yet darker clouds. The air was growing chill, so that they had to close the car windows and put on the heater for a little while. The night became greenish-yellow as the London street lights began to shine.

‘Here we are,’ Sanders said as they entered St John’s Wood and turned into Marlborough Place. There had been little conversation on the drive back. It struck Hepton that the two of them had nothing in common, and that if they had not been thrown together like this, they would never have chosen one another as companions.

‘Hold on,’ Sanders said in warning as the car approached the house. His eyes had narrowed to slits, his face close to the windscreen.

‘What is it?’ Hepton was looking, too, but could see nothing out of place. Sanders drove past the house without stopping. ‘What is it?’ Hepton repeated in a low hiss.

‘Too many lights on.’

‘What?’

‘All the lights inside the house are on. So is the light outside the front door, and the one to the side of the garage. It even looks as though there might be lights on in the garden.’

‘So?’ Hepton didn’t want to think about what Sanders might be implying.

‘So, something’s wrong.’ He pulled the car in to the kerb and stopped, shutting off the engine and killing the lights.

‘What are we going to do? Just wait here? Jilly’s in there! We can’t—’

But Sanders was staring at the number plate of the car parked in front of them. The car itself was a Vauxhall Cavalier like his. He seemed not to have heard Hepton’s outburst.

‘Funny,’ he said. ‘That’s Thommo’s car.’

‘Thommo? Who’s Thommo?’

‘The other lot. MI5. He’s one of their... well, men.’ He stared at Hepton, his face draining of colour. ‘We better go in, but slowly. Keep with me.’

They opened the car doors and closed them — as Sanders instructed — quietly. Sanders was already pulling his gun from its holster as they approached the house. Hepton was frantic now. What had happened? There was no one to meet them at the front door, no guard. Sanders pushed open the door. There were voices coming from within, though muted. Everyone was being very quiet indeed. Then someone came into the hall, saw them, and turned his head back into the living room.

‘Sir,’ he called. ‘Visitors.’

Another man, balding but not yet middle-aged, his moustache thickly black, popped his head into the hall, stared at Hepton and Sanders, then lifted his eyes towards the ceiling and gave a great groan of relief.

‘Sanders, you bastard. Thank God. I thought they’d got you.’

Sanders was slipping his pistol back beneath his arm. He had become very businesslike, his voice like something lifted from cold storage.

‘Fill me in,’ he said.

The man looked from Sanders to Hepton, then back to Sanders. Sanders turned towards Hepton, who knew what he was going to say and cut in first.

‘I’m not leaving. I’ve got a right to hear it too.’ He looked at the man. ‘Is Jilly all right?’

‘She’s not here,’ the man said levelly. ‘They’ve taken her with them, I suppose.’

‘What about Bentley and Castle?’ asked Sanders.

‘Dead,’ said the man. ‘A neat job, clean. One knifed in the back, the other done with a garrotte.’

Neat, clean. Hepton was thinking of only one person: Harry. Sanders seemed to have read his mind, and nodded towards him before turning again to the man.

‘All right, Thommo. I need details.’

‘When you weren’t here, I had to contact your department.’

‘I appreciate that. Has anyone arrived?’

‘Not yet. We only got here ourselves quarter of an hour ago.’

‘Did you get anything on tape?’

‘That’s how we knew. No voices, though, apart from the woman’s.’

‘Jilly,’ Hepton said. His voice was close to cracking.

‘So if your surveillance team heard it all,’ Sanders said, his tone accusatory, ‘how come everyone had gone before you got here?’

‘Surveillance is just that, Sanders. They called us, we came. All told, it took us about five minutes. But by then...’ He shrugged his shoulders.

‘This is a mess,’ Sanders said, rubbing his temples.

‘Jilly,’ Hepton repeated. Sanders put an arm around him.

‘Go sit down,’ he ordered, ‘I’ll fix something to drink.’

Hepton began to move towards the living room.

‘Not in there,’ the man said. ‘That’s where we took the bodies.’

Sanders nodded. ‘Go upstairs, Martin. I’ll bring a drink up to you.’

Hepton felt beaten, utterly beaten, for the first time in what seemed an age. Harry had won, Villiers had won, they’d all won. And he had lost. He nodded his head and began to climb the stairs. Sanders and the other man — Thommo — were speaking together in hushed tones before he had reached the first-floor landing. He caught a few phrases.

‘Clean-up party... how did they know?... tapes... phone call...’

Tapes! Hepton looked down and saw that he was clutching the carrier bag to his body. He ran his fingers over it. He still had the tapes. He walked across the landing, but instead of going into his own room, he entered what had been Jilly’s. She had been reading: there was a paperback lying open, face down, on the bed. It was one of the titles from the living room shelves, a modern romance. On her bedside cabinet sat a cup half full of tea. Hepton touched it; there was still a hint of warmth to it.

He had no doubts at all about who had taken Jilly. He even thought he knew why: as a warning to him, a personal warning not to go any further. They had to be desperate. They must know that it was not only Hepton’s battle now; that others were involved. Yes, they had to know that. And yet they still wanted to scare him off. Why? Because of what he thought he knew, that portion of the secret he had not yet revealed to anyone? Whatever the answer, it was clear that they still saw him as a threat.

That thought gave him heart.

What was more, the sooner he solved the final riddles, the sooner he might be reunited with Jilly. But he had to be careful. Her life was in their hands now, in Harry’s hands. He had to be very careful indeed. And sitting here wasn’t going to do anybody any good. He needed a TV monitor and a video recorder. Ideally, he needed two monitors and two recorders — good recorders at that, with a freeze-frame facility that actually froze the frame, and didn’t make it twitch or smear. A hard image, that was what he needed.

He realised that he wasn’t going to go to pieces; that the worst was over. He felt calm and controlled. God knows why, but he did.

There was a knock at the door, and it opened. ‘Oh, there you are.’ Sanders entered, carrying a bottle of whisky under his arm and a crystal glass in each hand. Hepton shook his head.

‘That’s not what I need,’ he said. ‘What I really need is a TV lab. Your surveillance personnel probably have one. Get me there, then I’ll show you what’s on these.’ He slapped the tapes.

Sanders studied him, to ascertain whether he might be suffering from shock or something similar. All he saw was determination and a mind ready for work.

‘I’ll call in,’ he said. ‘I think I know just the place.’

‘One question,’ said Hepton. ‘How did they know about this place?’

Sanders shook his head. ‘I wish to God I knew.’

29

It was after midnight, but the man they had summoned back from his bed and his wife to this cold building in the middle of a bleak industrial estate near Notting Hill seemed not to mind.

‘No, really,’ he said. ‘This is what makes it all worthwhile.’

‘I hope you’re right,’ said Hepton. The man had introduced himself as Graeme Izzard. Thommo had assured them that he was the best ‘pictures’ man in the business.

‘I work mainly for Special Branch,’ Izzard told Hepton. ‘Serious Crime, that sort of thing. You know, someone walks into a building society and shoots dead a teller. They capture the whole thing on camera, but the image is too blurred to be recognisable. I clean it up until it’s sharp from arsehole to breakfast time. Which reminds me...’ He looked at his watch, then turned to Sanders. ‘There’s an all-night caff, just up the road and turn right. You can’t miss it. There’ll be about a dozen cabs outside. It’s where the drivers go for their break. Get us, let’s think, something hot, a sausage sandwich, something like that. Plus some cold sandwiches for later, corned beef or salami. And tell Alfie, the man behind the counter, that Izzard says he’s to give you a flask of tea. Got that?’

Sanders looked devastated. He had been demoted to tea boy by a man if anything a year or two younger than himself, with straggly shoulder-length hair and a T-shirt advertising a heavy-metal band. This was the third blow of the evening.

Hepton’s first impression of Izzard had been similarly coloured by his youth — he looked no more than twenty-six or twenty-seven — and his clothing. He had a London accent, too, harshly grained, the sort of voice heard at market stalls and football matches. But there was no doubt that he had a certain swagger that told you not to muck him about or underestimate him.

He offered Sanders a five-pound note from a wad pulled from his jeans pocket, but Sanders shook his head and stumbled away, still shell-shocked. Izzard watched the door close behind him.

‘Stuck-up sod,’ he said. ‘I hate bloody SIS. Mind you, the other lot are no better. Give me Scotland Yard every time. Their heads aren’t in the clouds. A bit more down-to-earth, you know?’

Hepton nodded, unable to think of any reply. Izzard had brought them into a large warehouse of modern corrugated construction. There were crates neatly stacked against one of the high walls, but this was no ordinary warehouse. Much of the floor space was taken up by another, smaller building of more solid, prefabricated construction. Izzard went to the door of this smaller building and unlocked it. An alarm sounded, and he switched on the lights before finding another key on his heavy chain and turning it in the alarm box, cancelling the ringing. He looked satisfied. They were in a small antechamber. On another door was a numerical keypad and a tiny keyhole. Izzard pushed five digits and turned a slender key in the lock, and the door clicked open.

Inside this room, there was an air-conditioned chill. Izzard swung an arm around proudly. ‘The lab,’ he said.

Hepton, used to technical labs, nodded, impressed. There was hardware aplenty: computers, monitors, video cameras, recorders, a huge studio-style machine for editing and splicing film, projectors, and workbenches covered in all manner of electrical instruments, bits of chopped film, broken-open cassette cases. The place was a mess, evidence that a lot of work was done here.

‘All this Russian-doll stuff, a box within a box within a box, it’s really to cut down vibration from outside more than anything,’ Izzard explained. He bounced on the floor in his Dr Martens shoes. ‘Decoupled from the rest of the building,’ he said proudly. ‘That was my design, actually.’

‘This is incredible,’ said Hepton. He had been attracted to the computers, and stood over one now. He frowned. ‘I don’t recognise—’

‘That’s my design, too,’ said Izzard, running a finger over the keyboard. ‘We do our own software and, in this case, hardware. It’s just a number-cruncher, really. Do you know about computers?’

‘I work in a tracking station,’ said Hepton.

Izzard looked impressed and pleased. His face became more boyish than ever. ‘You track satellites?’ Hepton nodded. ‘I love all that stuff. Signals intelligence, comms intelligence.’

‘That’s what’s on these tapes,’ said Hepton, brandishing the bag. Izzard looked like a child offered sweets.

‘Yes?’ he said, reaching out a hand. ‘Well then, let’s put them on the machine and take a look.’ His tone became more serious. ‘What is it that you want exactly?’

‘I want to examine the pictures,’ Hepton said, following Izzard to one of the benches. ‘Side by side if possible.’

‘Very possible.’

‘And then maybe concentrate on a few shots.’

‘I can put them side by side on the same screen.’ Izzard turned to him. ‘If you like.’ Hepton smiled and nodded.

Izzard brought the tapes out of the bag. There was a note inside one of the boxes. You owe me a beer, Vic! He handed it to Hepton, then turned his attention to the tapes themselves.

‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘High-resolution tape, and plenty of it.’ Even Hepton could see that there was a good deal of tape on each spool: perhaps as much as a couple of hours’ worth. Yes, he owed Nick Christopher a beer.

He noticed that he had rested his hand on a small modem. He tapped it.

‘Ever done any hacking?’ he asked.

Izzard’s face lit up again. ‘Yes, years ago. I used to love it. What about you?’

‘I’ve done a little.’

‘I got into a couple of big companies’ systems,’ Izzard said, warming to his tale. ‘Left messages there for the staff. Stuff like: “Do you know what your wife’s up to right this second?” Childish, but still a lot of fun.’

Hepton smiled. ‘Wasn’t it difficult working out the code words?’

‘Hellish difficult, yes.’ Izzard had put down the tapes. ‘Typing in everything from aardvark to zygote.’

He went to a large steel cupboard and opened it. There were bits and pieces of equipment arranged along the shelves inside. He found what he was looking for and brought it out, closing the door again. It was a small black box, the size of one of Nick Christopher’s crossword dictionaries. Built into its top surface was what looked like an old-fashioned LED pocket calculator.

‘It was difficult,’ Izzard said proudly, ‘until I made this.’ He handed Hepton the box. Hepton examined it, but without success. The several home-made switches and push-buttons were unmarked.

‘I give up,’ he said. ‘What is it?’

‘It’s another number-cruncher of sorts,’ Izzard explained, pleased that Hepton hadn’t known. ‘Some of the companies use long numerical codes, and those were the worst to crack. All I needed to do was plug this box into my modem and it did all the work for me.’

‘Ingenious,’ said Hepton, examining the box more carefully.

‘No,’ said Izzard, ‘what’s really ingenious is that I cooked up a chip that put the other computer on hold while my computer was pumping the code numbers into it.’

Hepton saw the implications at once. ‘So you didn’t need to sign off and try again every time you got the code wrong?’

Izzard nodded his head vigorously, then gave a childish, high-pitched laugh.

‘Brilliant,’ said Hepton. ‘I hope you took out a patent on it.’

‘No,’ said Izzard, calming a little. ‘But I sold the idea to the military for fifteen thousand pounds.’ He lifted the black box out of Hepton’s hand and returned it to its cupboard. ‘God knows what they wanted it for,’ he said with finality.

As he closed the cupboard, a buzzer sounded. ‘That’ll be our spy,’ said Izzard, ‘wishing to come into the cold.’ He pressed a button on the wall, and the door clicked open again, admitting Sanders.

‘Cheery lot, those cab drivers,’ Sanders said grumpily. He was carrying a cardboard box. Hepton could smell the waft of fried sausage coming from within it, and realised he was hungry.

Izzard seemed to know what he was thinking. ‘Never work on an empty tum,’ he said, making for the box.

As the work continued, becoming ever more painstaking, Sanders fell asleep perched on a stool, his head and arms resting on a bench top. Izzard, however, seemed to grow more awake as the night progressed, while Hepton, though not feeling tired, began to feel disoriented, even hallucinatory for a few strange minutes.

Having examined the two tapes, they ran them side by side, and then started freeze-framing particular shots, shots of similar buildings taken from similar angles. On the top left corner of each was an hour-and-minute counter, and they used this to align the two tapes temporally, checking differences in light and in the quality of the shadows cast by the evening sun. Izzard never seemed satisfied, and would run a section again, sharpening the focus, enlarging a shot onscreen: this enlarging process was again of his own design and the unit he operated his own construction.

‘I haven’t perfected it yet,’ he admitted, though the results were, to Hepton’s eyes, impressive enough.

At four o’clock, Izzard suggested they pause for breakfast. Sanders was snoring, so they left him to his sleep and went outside. Birds were chirping hesitantly in the distance, and a few early cars and lorries were on the road. After the cool of the lab, the morning seemed already oppressively warm. Izzard walked with hands in pockets.

‘I think I can see it,’ he said.

‘What?’ Hepton asked, still coming out of his brief hallucinatory stage.

‘What it is you’ve been looking for. I can see it now.’ Izzard turned to him. ‘They’re not the same place, are they?’

Hepton smiled. ‘No,’ he said. ‘They’re not.’ He was pleased that Izzard could see it, too. If he could see it, then everybody could see it. It wasn’t just in Hepton’s mind. ‘I should have realised right back at the beginning,’ he explained. ‘One day I was watching Buchan and it got dark at a certain time. Then Zephyr was got at, and suddenly it was starting to get dark earlier at Buchan.’

‘Except that it wasn’t Buchan,’ Izzard noted.

‘That’s right,’ said Hepton. ‘That’s what this is all about. Someone doesn’t want us to see what’s really going on at Buchan. So instead they’ve rigged a lookalike.’

‘A mock-up.’

‘Yes. But a very good mock-up. A bit too good.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘I think it must be a real airbase, but not one of the other ones the USAF has been using. We’ve been watching all of those at one time or other. It must be RAF.’

‘Excuse my ignorance, but if all you do all day is watch these pictures, wouldn’t someone notice that it wasn’t Buchan?’

‘Not really,’ said Hepton. ‘For one thing, our remit wasn’t to watch the bases so much as watch their perimeters for protesters.’

‘Weird,’ said Izzard. ‘Not so long ago, they were protesting about the Americans being here. Now they’re protesting about them going.’

‘Besides,’ Hepton continued, ‘we mostly examine still photos, and still aerial photos look much the same. We would be checking for things that were different, not things that looked the same. We’re only technicians, remember. We’re not spies.’

Izzard nodded, deep in thought but enjoying himself.

‘This base, the one they’re using, it’s south of Buchan?’

‘Yes, someplace where it gets dark earlier than it does in Scotland at this time of year; somewhere down here.’

‘There are plenty to choose from.’

‘Not very many would fit the bill. It should be easy to find which one it is.’

‘This begs two rather large questions: why, and how?’

They had reached the café. There were no taxis outside now. Shifts had either ended or not yet begun. The glare of strip lighting made Hepton squint as they pushed through the door. A small, sweating man was standing behind the counter, wiping it down with a rag. He looked up as they entered.

‘This is a late one for you, Graeme,’ he said to Izzard.

‘I wouldn’t mind, Alfie, but the overtime rate is diabolical. Give us two of your special breakfasts, will you?’

‘Coming up. Where’s my flask?’

Izzard opened his arms in apology. ‘Sorry, Alfie. I forgot. It’s back at the lab.’

‘Well, never mind. Do you want any tea?’

‘Coffee for me, black and sweet. What about you, Martin?’

‘Black, no sugar, please,’ said Hepton.

The man nodded and started to work.

‘How and why,’ said Hepton. ‘Yes, you’re right. But we’re very close to answering both. I can feel it. I can almost answer the “how” right now, though it’s only guesswork.’

‘Go ahead.’ They had seated themselves on padded benches either side of a Formica-topped table. Hepton rested his elbows on the table, hands supporting his head as he thought things through.

‘Well,’ he said. ‘A shuttle, the Argos—’

‘The one that crashed?’

‘Yes, the one that crashed. It was up there launching a communications satellite. Except the satellite wasn’t just your normal COMINT satellite, it was an intercept.’

‘An intercept?’

‘Yes. Its purpose was to lock on to Zephyr. While it was locking on, Zephyr’s transmissions went haywire. But nobody minded that, because as long as the transmissions returned eventually, everyone would put it down to a glitch, nothing more. Some top brass from the military were on site when it all happened, just to check that the operation went smoothly. It did, more or less. Except I noticed how pleased they were looking, and one other person, a friend of mine, caught a hint of the interference. They murdered him and wiped his disk.’

Izzard whistled softly. Hepton paused, then continued.

‘So what do we have? We have Zephyr apparently back to normal, except that it isn’t, not quite. Because whenever we lock on to one particular spot — Buchan — the other satellite breaks in and transmits its own pictures to Zephyr before they’re transmitted to the ground station.’

Izzard was shaking his head. ‘This is too big for me,’ he said. ‘I’m used to bank robbers and spies, not conspiracies in space.’

‘Conspiracy is right. The Americans and the British are in on it for a start. But the governments don’t seem to know, only the generals.’

The door opened and a well-dressed man came into the café. Hepton glanced up at him, but was too intent on his story to pay him much attention. The man slid into the booth next to theirs, so that his back was to Izzard’s back. Alfie was still in the kitchen, his frying pan sizzling.

‘Only the generals,’ Izzard repeated. ‘So whatever’s happening, what can we do about it?’

‘I really don’t know. We could persuade Whitehall that something’s going on, but the suits in Curzon Street didn’t seem to think it would produce much joy. What we need is proof, absolute proof.’

‘Well, you’ve got that, haven’t you? I mean, the tapes?’

‘But what do they prove? Not what’s happening, only that something is.’

‘So go to Buchan. Take a look for yourself.’

‘Yes,’ said Hepton. ‘Yes, maybe you’re right.’

The newcomer swivelled on his bench so that he was facing their booth. Hepton glared at him, realising that he had heard every word. The man looked pale, tired. Not a killer, not just at the moment.

‘Mr Izzard generally is right,’ he said.

Izzard’s head cracked round at the sound of the voice. Then his face broke into a grin.

‘Why don’t you join us?’ he said. The man got up and did so. Izzard was still grinning. ‘Once,’ he said to Hepton, ‘I went to lunch and came back to the lab, and I’d been in there ten minutes before I realised this sneaky sod was in there too. Just sitting, out of my line of vision, and absolutely still. A professional voyeur, that’s what you are.’

The man took the remark as a compliment. He was holding out a hand to Hepton, who was wondering now where he had heard his voice before.

‘Parfit,’ the man said by way of introduction. ‘We’ve spoken on the telephone. You must be Martin Hepton. They told me you’d come to see Izzard. And since Graeme spends more time in this establishment than in his lab, I thought I’d try here first.’

Hepton shook the proffered hand, a look of disbelief on his face.

‘Parfit?’ he said. ‘Christ, when did you get back?’

‘A couple of hours ago.’

‘Is Dreyfuss with you?’

‘Well, the safe house didn’t appear to be safe any longer, so I’ve booked us into a hotel. He’s resting there.’

‘Does he know...?’

‘About Miss Watson?’ Parfit’s face darkened. ‘No. We were in a bit of a skirmish at the American end. Major Dreyfuss was injured. He lost some blood.’ He saw the shocked look on Hepton’s face. ‘He’s fine, really. I had a doctor patch him up. Believe it or not, there was one on the plane. There we were halfway over the Atlantic, and this poor chap was stitching a couple of the major’s fingers. Quite exciting really. I didn’t judge him fit enough, however, to take the news of Miss Watson’s abduction. In fact, I was wondering...?’

‘If I’d tell him?’

‘Something like that. No real hurry. I’d like to be filled in first on what’s so exciting about these mysterious tapes.’

Hepton looked to Izzard, who spoke. ‘No problem there,’ he said. ‘We’ll show you.’ Alfie was approaching with two large plates. Izzard smacked his lips. ‘Just as soon as we’ve had breakfast, eh?’

When he had seen what they had, Parfit was in no doubt about what had to be done.

‘I’ll send some men to Buchan, see what they can come up with. Not a lot, I shouldn’t think. Security’s bound to be tight. We’ll also check on the other airbases south of there, see if we can find out which one they’re using as a mock-up.’

He made the phone calls from the lab. Izzard sat on a high stool, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers and yawning: the night had finally caught up with him. Sanders was wide awake, however, and looking ready to impress Parfit, if such were possible. He’d still been sleeping when they’d arrived back at the lab, but had been shocked into wakefulness by the sound of his superior’s voice, only then to feel acute embarrassment at having allowed Hepton and Izzard out of doors without his knowing about it.

Hepton had passed his own nadir and felt numb but not sleepy. He listened to the efficient phone calls with an appraising ear. Parfit didn’t waste a single word, and his instructions were as foolproof as seemed possible. When he had finished, he replaced the receiver and turned to the room.

‘Well, that’s as much as we can do from here. Thanks, Graeme. Can we offer you a lift?’

But Izzard shook his head, in the middle of a protracted yawn, and gestured with an arm. ‘I’m only five minutes’ walk away,’ he said.

Parfit nodded and turned his attention to Hepton. ‘I think you’d better come back to the hotel with me,’ he said. ‘I can’t think of anywhere safer to keep you, and you can see Major Dreyfuss.’

‘That’ll be fun,’ Hepton said in an unemotional voice. Then: ‘Where’s the hotel anyway?’

‘Only the best,’ said Parfit. ‘What better cover is there than an expensive West End hotel?’

‘But not on Park Lane?’ Hepton asked, growing uneasy.

Parfit caught his tone. ‘Just off it,’ he said. ‘Why?’

‘Because Cam Devereux’s in the Achilles.’

‘Ah.’ Parfit nodded his understanding. ‘Don’t worry, we’re in the Bellevue. Two streets back from the Achilles. Not so expensive either.’ He turned to Sanders, who all but stood to attention. ‘You can go home, too, Sanders. Get some rest. But I’ll want your report on my desk by ten o’clock.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Hepton knew Sanders would get precious little sleep: he’d work through the morning to perfect his report and buff it to a conspicuous sheen. He was a company man all right. Hepton shook hands with Izzard.

‘Thanks for your help,’ he said.

‘Any time,’ said Izzard, easing himself off the stool. ‘But try to make it daylight hours, okay?’

‘Okay,’ said Hepton, with the glimmer of a smile. Then, to Parfit: ‘Let’s go see Mike Dreyfuss.’

‘Wait a second,’ said Hepton, checking from the car window. ‘This isn’t the way to Park Lane.’

‘A slight detour,’ Parfit said. ‘It won’t take long.’

They were in a maze of elegant town houses, somewhere in the midst of unimaginable wealth, otherwise known as Belgravia. The car pulled in to the kerb. The streets were silent; there was little to remind Hepton that he was living in the dangerous tail-end of the twentieth century. But there were subtle hints: alarm boxes above most of the tightly shut doors, a latticework of metal bars across a basement window. Little Fort Knoxes all in a row...

‘Here we are,’ said Parfit.

‘Where?’

They were standing at the bottom of a short flight of stairs leading to a doorway. To the side of the door were a dozen nameplates, evidence that the house had been divided up into apartments. Hepton turned at the sound of a car door opening. The vehicle had been there when they’d arrived, but he’d spotted no signs of life. Now two men emerged. One stayed by the car while the other came to the steps, climbed them, and turned keys in the door, opening it. Coming back down the steps, he handed the keys to Parfit.

‘Thank you,’ said Parfit. The man returned to the car. Both men got in. Hepton realised that they were keeping guard.

‘What is this place?’ he asked.

‘This is George Villiers’ home,’ Parfit explained. ‘Come on, let’s take a look.’

The reception hall was huge and elegant. There was some mail on a marble table. Parfit browsed through it, finding nothing of interest. They took the near-silent elevator to the third floor, where Parfit opened one of two doors on the landing. The nameplate had been removed.

‘Why are we here?’ asked Hepton. He breathed in the stagnant air of the long hallway. Parfit walked noiselessly towards the far door and pushed it open. A lounge, leading on to further rooms: dining room, a small study, and past this the bedroom. The apartment seemed to be a series of conjoined rooms, shaped in a ‘U’ around the hallway. Hepton repeated his question, but Parfit appeared intent on his surroundings, as though planning to make an offer on the vacant property.

‘He didn’t own this, you know,’ he mused. ‘I thought he did, but he didn’t. It was supposed to be an inheritance. That was the story.’

‘Who does own it then?’

Parfit smiled at Hepton, his eyes hooded and intelligent as a crow’s. But instead of answering, he walked on from one room to another. Hepton caught him up as he was beginning to speak again.

‘I never liked him. I was against his recruitment from the start.’

‘Why didn’t you stop him then?’

Parfit’s smile this time was bitter. ‘It wasn’t up to me,’ he said. ‘I really had no say in things.’ His eyes sought Hepton’s. ‘All I do is clear up the mess. Treatment rather than prevention, you see.’ Hepton could feel the man’s irritation. It filled the room and threatened to burst from it. ‘My superiors recruited him, not me. Blake Farquharson recruited him. Well, he had his reasons, I suppose.’ The emotion was melting away again, or rather was being shovelled back into some hidden cellar. But still there.

Why, Hepton wondered, was he being shown this side of Parfit, a man he barely knew?

Parfit walked on, through the study and into the bedroom. The bed was narrow, the room small and airless. There were no ornaments, nothing to brighten it or make it more than just a place for resting.

Resting and waiting. Hepton could imagine Villiers lying here at night, nothing distracting him from his thoughts, and his thoughts filled with death, glory, deceit.

There was a piece of card on the bed’s one pillow. Hepton lifted it and turned it over: SORRY YOU COULDN’T MAKE IT TO THE BURIAL. The message was printed. Parfit read it, then took the card from Hepton and slipped it into his pocket.

Hepton started opening drawers, flicking through books in the study. He didn’t doubt that some team specialised in such things had been through the apartment before him. But perhaps he knew what he was looking for better than they did. There were few clues, however. He switched on Villiers’ word processor, only to find that what disks there were had been wiped clean, or had been empty to begin with.

Coffin... burial. The words rang in his head, growing loud, dissonant. He was wasting his time here. Why had they come?

They were leaving the apartment when it dawned on him. He remembered the book well. It had been one of the first he had ever read... well, the first without pictures in it. A bear was terrorising an isolated village. The backwoodsman hunted it. He tracked it to its lair, but found the lair empty. The man was fascinated by the cave, examined every inch of it. Then found the bear and killed it. Yes, Hepton remembered. He remembered, too, the way Harry had come to his flat in Louth and waited for him there.

The hunter gains strength and insight from the lair of his victim. Parfit was a hunter. And he had brought Hepton here because he wanted him to be a hunter too.

Satisfied, both men headed to Park Lane.

30

If Dreyfuss took the news of Jilly’s abduction better than they had expected, it could probably be put down to a mixture of painkilling drugs and jet lag. His right hand was heavily bandaged up to and past the wrist, and he lay on the hotel bed with his good arm falling across his face, shielding his eyes from the light.

He mumbled something.

‘What’s that, Mike?’ Parfit asked. Dreyfuss took his arm away from his eyes and angled his head up so as to look right into Parfit’s face.

‘I said,’ he spat, ‘we’ve got to kill them. It’s the only way. They’re killing us; we’ve got to kill them.’ Then he flung his arm across his eyes again and let his head fall back onto the bed.

Parfit stared at Hepton worriedly. Dreyfuss was exhausted, doped and shocked. It was a lethal cocktail. Hepton understood and gave a reassuring nod.

But in his heart, he agreed with Dreyfuss. The scent of Villiers was still in his nose.

Dreyfuss turned onto his side, letting his damaged hand fall onto the bedcovers, where it lay. He was drifting back to sleep again, looking much older than Hepton remembered him: older, sad and angry at the same time. Well, if half of what Parfit had related on the drive over here was true, Dreyfuss had been to hell and back. Hepton had the feeling that he too might have to visit hell before this was all over. A little part of him was looking forward to it.

‘Get some sleep, Mike,’ Parfit said. ‘We’ll see you later.’

Hepton was to share with Parfit.

‘My room’s got twin beds anyway,’ Parfit explained, ‘and it saves paying for another single. God knows, my expenses on this are big enough already. The accounting department is going to want my head on a block.’

‘How do you explain away a four-star hotel?’ Hepton asked.

Parfit shrugged. ‘Well, there don’t seem to be any safe houses any more, and the first place they’d think of looking after that is seedy anonymous hotels. This place isn’t exactly seedy.’

‘But anonymous?’

‘Well, let’s just say it’s discreet.’

‘One thing worries me,’ Hepton said, watching Parfit opening the door to their room. ‘How is it they keep being able to find us?’

‘Search me,’ said Parfit, pushing the door wide. The room was large, and Hepton didn’t mind sharing. It was seven o’clock, and outside, the morning’s traffic jams were building up nicely. Work was beginning for the day, and Parfit suggested they rest till noon.

‘Suits me,’ said Hepton. ‘But listen, did I tell you about the clever little transmitter Harry planted on me?’

‘No,’ said Parfit, sounding uninterested.

‘Maybe they’re using something similar to keep tabs on us.’ Hepton was becoming excited.

‘Maybe,’ Parfit said, his voice dull with drowsiness.

Hepton saw that he was making no impression on the man, absolutely none. He went to the door and peered out into the empty hallway.

‘No guards?’ he asked.

‘No,’ said Parfit, slipping off his shoes. ‘No guards. Now that they’ve got Miss Watson, I shouldn’t think you’re in much danger. They’ll try using her as a lever first. Sleep tight.’ In trousers, bare feet and shirt open at the neck, he fell onto the furthest bed and turned his face away.

Hepton sat on the edge of his own bed. He lay back, resting his hands behind his head. His mind still surged with energy. The heavy curtains were only half closed, giving enough light to see by. He examined the ceiling, its ornate mouldings. He tried to empty his mind of thoughts, but they swam around like fish in a tank, this way and that, passing each other, almost touching, then darting away. He closed his eyes, but that just made his whole head swim. What was he doing? They had Jilly: how was he supposed to sleep?

He thought of Cam Devereux, only two streets away. Those scared, haunted eyes, the hollow voice. The man had been hiding something. But what? Hepton replayed the scene: the hotel bar, the pianist playing to a table of women, Devereux’s hard American inflections as he told his story. Of how the stranger had come to the Argos control room, set himself up at a console and...

Why do that? Why put him at a console in the main control room, with the full knowledge of the controllers? Drawing attention to the very man who was to be Argos’s executioner. It didn’t make sense. Surely if he’d needed to be on base at all, they would have placed him somewhere away from curious eyes, in a room of his own, with his own terminal.

Yes!

Hepton swivelled his legs off the bed and stood up. Parfit was breathing heavily, already deep in slumber. Hepton went to the door and eased it open, slipping out into the corridor. He closed the door again, making sure not to dislodge the Do Not Disturb sign swinging from the brass knob. Then he walked silently, purposefully along the corridor and down the stairs into the main lobby. The Bellevue was no smaller than the Achilles, but made a show of being inherently more intimate. The reception clerk recognised him and made an obsequious bow from behind his desk. Hepton gave a casual wave and went to the revolving door, entering it and pushing softly. The door tumbled round until it discharged him onto the pavement and into the smells of the city: exhaust fumes and damp trees.

The same doorman as before was standing in front of the Achilles, and opened the door for Hepton as he climbed the steps. ‘Good morning, sir,’ he said.

‘Good morning,’ Hepton returned, entering the hotel.

He walked purposefully to the stairs before remembering that Devereux was on the second floor. So he crossed to the lifts instead. One was already waiting, and he stepped in. What was Devereux’s room number again? He had forgotten, but remembered the room itself, along towards the end of the corridor, past the ice dispenser and the shoeshine machine. The lift cranked its way upwards, jolted to a stop and opened. Hepton stepped into the dimly lit corridor and turned right. Past the ice machine... the drinks dispenser... the polisher...

Yes, this was it: 227. A couple came out of the room opposite, talking about the breakfast they were about to eat. They glanced back at Hepton, who stood hesitating outside Devereux’s door, then went on their way.

Hepton was about to knock on the door when he saw that it wasn’t properly closed. There was the slightest of gaps, but he couldn’t see into the room. Suddenly a sickening sensation hit him in the pit of his stomach. He leaned back into the corridor, brought up his foot and kicked open the door with the heel of his shoe. The room was dark, a crack of daylight coming through the closed drapes. And there was a funny sweet smell, like the gas he’d been given once as a child in the dentist’s chair. He found the light switch and flipped it. Devereux was in bed, naked. Another figure, fully dressed, was crouched over him, holding a hypodermic syringe into his upper arm. The face had jerked upwards to look at Hepton.

One side of it was scarred by long white water blisters, edged with redness.

It was Harry.

‘Oh Christ...’ Hepton whispered, the hair prickling on his neck.

Harry’s lips twisted into a delinquent smirk as she looked down at the prone body and saw that the syringe was empty. She retracted it, then seemed to examine Devereux’s blank face before turning her attention to Hepton. But by then it was too late. Hepton had grabbed the door handle and pulled the door tightly shut. He locked both hands around the handle. He had her now. He had trapped Harry! He looked up and down the corridor, but it was empty. Still, soon someone would appear from a room, ready for breakfast, and he would order them to telephone Parfit. The main thing was—

‘Hello, Martin.’ The voice was faint, lacking any trace of emotion or feeling. Hepton resisted the temptation to place his ear against the door, the better to hear her words. He remembered Jilly’s flat, the bullets splintering past him through the wood panelling. ‘Long time no see,’ Harry continued. ‘I’ve just been tidying up a little.’

His voice was firm. ‘Where’s Jilly?’

‘You should be dead by now. You know that, don’t you? You’ve turned into a real challenge, Martin. I enjoy a challenge. I’ll enjoy killing you.’

‘I asked where Jilly was.’

‘Does it matter? We’ve got her. If you want her alive, quit now.’

‘Quit what?’

Her laughter was as cruel a sound as Hepton had heard. ‘Just quit,’ she said. ‘You know what I mean.’

He looked around him again. There was still no one in the hallway. His arms were aching from holding the door closed, yet Harry had not yet attempted to open it.

‘You didn’t have to do that,’ he said.

‘Do what?’

‘Murder Devereux.’

‘Orders,’ she said. ‘That’s all.’

‘Orders from Villiers?’

‘Ah, you know about Villiers. Yes, I’d forgotten that. Stupid man. He should have been more careful. But no, not Villiers. These orders came from overseas. Someone’s been keeping tabs on Mr Devereux, someone besides your friends and you.’

‘Oh? Who?’

‘It doesn’t matter. But the Americans have been getting nervous, so they asked—’

‘All that matters is that the coffin gets buried,’ said Hepton.

His words had their effect. There was silence from behind the door.

‘Too many people know now, Harry,’ he went on. ‘Too many for even you to be able to shut them all up. You can’t bury it.’

She laughed again. ‘I don’t see anyone stopping us. I see a lot of mice chasing their own tails and squeaking, only no one’s paying attention to them because no one wants to pay attention to them. Because what we’re doing is for the best.’

‘Who’s we, though? You and Villiers? The chiefs of staff? Who?’

‘Bigger than that, Martin. Much, much bigger. Coffin.’

‘But what does that mean?’

‘It’s an acronym, of course. You know how the armed forces and the bureaucrats love acronyms.’

An acronym: the letters standing for other words. ‘What’s it an acronym for? I never was much use at crosswords.’ He realised that she’d hooked him. He was interested, despite himself. But her voice had become faint, as though she were moving away from the door, forcing him to bring his head closer.

‘I’m going to kill you, Martin,’ she said, ‘the way I should have done right at the start in your flat. Don’t think I didn’t consider it. I could have put it down to a burglary. But it seemed messy at the time. It still isn’t a necessity, not now we have your friend Miss Watson. But I’m going to do it anyway.’ Her voice was very faint now. Hepton kept his head and body clear of the door, expecting a shot. None came. Then he heard the sound of exhausted breathing from along the corridor.

A thickset man had just reached the landing from the stairs. He was pausing at the top, trying to regain his breath. He stared along the corridor and saw Hepton.

‘What do you think you are doing there?’ he called. Then he started moving forward, quickly for his size. ‘This is Mr Devereux’s room.’

‘I know,’ Hepton said. The man moved towards the doorway, but Hepton gripped his arm with one hand and pulled him back, keeping the other tight on the door handle. ‘There’s a murderer in there,’ he said.

The man’s eyes widened; not in shock, Hepton realised, but in mild surprise only.

‘A murderer?’ The accent was difficult to place. Mediterranean? Eastern European?

‘That’s why I’m holding the door shut. She’s still in there.’

‘A she? And her victim?’

‘He’s in there too. Will you go for help, please?’ Hepton was becoming exasperated. Who bothered to ask questions when a killer was around? But the man made no sign of moving. He seemed deep in thought. Then, his eyes on Hepton, he reached into his trouser pocket and produced a tiny gun, so dainty that it might have been a trick cigarette lighter. It might have been, but Hepton thought otherwise.

‘Help has arrived,’ the man said. He took two paces back from the door and pointed his gun at it. Hepton knew instinctively what was expected of him now. He released his grip on the handle, stepped back and gave the wood a mighty kick. The door flew open and the man crouched lower, still levelling the gun... But apart from Devereux’s corpse, the room appeared empty. More than that, it felt empty. Hepton studied the scene. He couldn’t imagine Harry hiding under the bed or in the wardrobe. The windows were double-glazed, impossible to open, so there was no escape route there. Which left only the bathroom. He looked at his new-found accomplice, who nodded in understanding. Together they walked to the bathroom door, the man pausing only quickly, expertly to check for any sign of a pulse in Devereux’s wrist. There was none.

The bathroom door was slightly ajar, and Hepton glanced into the white-tiled room. A thick splash-proof curtain had been drawn across the shower. He pushed open the door and pointed to the curtain. The man aimed his pistol again, and Hepton yanked the curtain aside. The cubicle was empty. Hepton exhaled noisily and raised his eyes to the ceiling, where they stayed.

‘Look,’ he said. The man looked up too, and saw that the ceiling was a false one, with one small section pushed aside to reveal a dark gap.

‘You think she has escaped?’ the man asked in a whisper.

Hepton considered. No, the ceiling would not support a body’s weight, and besides, where could it lead? Nowhere. He dashed back into the room and looked around. The wardrobe door was open now. Inside, the suits and shirts had been pushed along on their railing to allow a body to squeeze into the space. He placed his head in the wardrobe. He could smell soap: Harry’s soap. He ran to the door and looked down the corridor, but there was no sign of her.

‘Give me your gun,’ he ordered. The man seemed startled. ‘Give it to me.’ He snatched the weapon from the man’s hand and ran out of the room. He headed down the corridor towards the main staircase, and took the steps two at a time. There were guests in the reception area, buying newspapers, talking to the desk clerk, about to walk off breakfast. They stared at Hepton as he made for the glass doors, pushed through them and stood on the top step. The traffic below was snarled, becoming angry. The day was hazy. Still no Harry.

A moment or two later, he heard some foreign words behind him and turned to see the man barking something at the hotel’s doorman. Then he walked towards Hepton, smiling, his hand held out palm upwards.

‘My gun, please.’ Hepton handed the pistol back, and the man slipped it into his pocket.

‘That was Russian you were speaking,’ Hepton said. The man ignored him.

‘We had better be going,’ he said.

‘But a man’s dead,’ Hepton protested.

‘Good reason for us not to be here, my friend.’

‘Who are you?’ Hepton asked.

‘Come on.’ The man gripped his arm. ‘We’ll take a ride.’ He propelled Hepton towards a waiting black cab. Hepton hesitated, but climbed into the back of the taxi, followed by the man, who told the driver to head towards Holborn. Then he turned to Hepton. ‘I’m sorry for Mr Devereux,’ he said. ‘But there’s nothing more to be done. My name is Vitalis, and yours is...?’

‘Martin Hepton.’

Vitalis nodded, giving no indication that he recognised the name. ‘Were you a friend of Mr Devereux?’

‘In a way. And you?’

‘Yes. I suppose you could call me a friend.’

‘A friend who carries a gun.’

Vitalis smiled, but said nothing.

‘A friend who carries a gun because he fears danger,’ Hepton continued. ‘Because he knows Devereux’s life is threatened.’

Vitalis shrugged.

‘Who are you?’ Hepton persisted.

Vitalis didn’t respond. ‘The time for questions is past,’ he said. ‘Now is a time for action.’

Hepton found himself agreeing with this.

‘The assassin,’ Vitalis said, ‘you said it was a she.’

‘A woman,’ Hepton said. Vitalis nodded. ‘You were his...’ Hepton sought the correct word and found it. ‘His controller. You were Devereux’s controller, weren’t you?’

‘What makes you say that?’ Vitalis’ tone was amused.

Hepton nodded to himself. ‘Cam told me,’ he said, ‘about some mysterious man at the Argos base. But the only way he could have known about such a person was if he had gone investigating, opening closed doors, that sort of thing. Because the mystery man would have been in a room of his own, with his own computer and everything. But why would Cam be spying? The answer’s simple, isn’t it?’ He fixed Vitalis with his gaze. ‘He was a spy, he was spying for you.’

‘Bravo, Mr Hepton,’ said Vitalis. ‘Yes, well done.’

‘And he had come to London to defect?’ It was an educated guess.

‘He thought his useful time was over. It happens.’

Another question was on Hepton’s lips, but he swallowed it back. If Devereux were about to defect, why would the Russians keep him on so long a leash, and leave him unprotected to boot? His useful time was over. His useful time was over, and so he was expendable... Hepton stared at the driver’s back. Was he too a spy? When would the killing stop?

‘Where are we going?’ he asked.

‘Don’t be alarmed. We’re dropping me off near my place of work, and then the driver will take you back to your hotel.’ Vitalis’ eyes twinkled. ‘I presume you are staying in a hotel?’

Hepton made no answer. Vitalis just nodded and smiled. He seemed amused by everything.

‘I think I know you now,’ he said. ‘I think I know Martin Hepton. And I want to help you.’

‘Why?’

Vitalis held out his hands. ‘Because I am a generous man. So Devereux told you about the man he saw at the Argos base, the man in the storeroom that had been fitted with a computer console and a telephone?’

‘Didn’t I just say as much?’ Hepton said, hoping to tease a little more out of this man. The traffic had cleared, and they were nearing Holborn. There wasn’t much time. There were storerooms at Binbrook, too...

‘And he told you about the telephone?’

‘What about it?’

Vitalis paused to consider whether to tell or not. Hepton could feel his fists tightening. He wanted to hit this man very hard, to force something from him other than this casual chatter. To wipe the smile off his face. He looked at the driver again. The driver was looking back at him in the rear-view mirror. His eyes were hard like marbles.

‘The telephone,’ Vitalis began. ‘Devereux was intrigued by the telephone.’

‘A modem?’

‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘It had no dial as such. You couldn’t call out, you see; all anyone could do was pick up the receiver. Devereux picked up the receiver and waited.’

‘And?’

‘And he was connected to somewhere here in England, Mr Hepton. To some kind of listening base. To a man who called himself Fagin.’

Fagin. The line led straight to Binbrook. Hepton tried to look composed but shifted in his seat. Vitalis seemed to know the exact effect his words were having. He glanced out of the window.

‘This will do,’ he called to the driver, who pulled the cab in to the kerb. ‘Now, my friend Mr Hepton, can I offer you breakfast?’

Hepton shook his head. ‘I don’t eat with strangers.’

Vitalis shook his head. ‘I am not a stranger. Well, perhaps I am. But we have a common enemy, it would seem. We have our ideas as to what is going on here. But that is not so important. All my people want to do is to observe, for the sake of our own safety.’ His eyes were arch. ‘Do you know what happened, Mr Hepton?’

‘No,’ Hepton said, shaking his head again.

‘That is a lie,’ Vitalis noted objectively. ‘But I will let it pass. You will have your own reasons for saying nothing. As I say, we wish only to observe and to protect our interests. Now that Mr Devereux has been terminated, I profess I am more worried than I was. It proves... well, something at least.’ He shrugged. ‘It is your affair, Mr Hepton. By which I mean it is the West’s affair. Do you know a Mr Parfit?’

Hepton considered another lie, but paused so long that a lie would have been obvious.

‘Yes,’ he said at last.

Vitalis seemed satisfied. ‘Please give him a message from me. Tell him to remember Warszawa in ’87. Goodbye, Mr Hepton.’

He stepped nimbly from the cab, gave some money to the driver and was gone, walking up High Holborn with the brisk step of a man on his way to work. Hepton thought about following, but the driver was awaiting his orders. Still, he was damned if he’d let him know where he was staying.

‘Green Park,’ he said. He would walk from there.

31

It took Parfit a couple of minutes to come fully awake, and while he washed in the bathroom, he made Hepton relate his story twice more. He seemed unmoved by Devereux’s murder and the near-assassination of Hepton himself, but was interested in Vitalis. He was also interested in the acronym.

‘I wonder if our code-crackers can come up with anything for COFFIN?’ he mused, then shook his head. ‘Tell me about Vitalis again.’

‘Do you know him?’ Hepton asked, admitting to himself that he wasn’t going to get any sympathy for his own traumas.

‘I should say so. We’re old adversaries. He’s not so active these days, of course. His cover is a bookshop somewhere near Holborn.’

‘He’s a Russian spy, though,’ Hepton protested.

‘Yes?’ Parfit didn’t seem to see his point.

‘And you know where he is. Why hasn’t he been arrested? Deported?’

Parfit laughed. ‘Because then they’d just send home some of ours. Besides, it’s nice having him here. It means we can slip him the odd piece. Let him decide whether or not it’s true.’

Hepton shook his head. ‘The more I know, the less sense it makes. What did he mean about Warsaw in ’87?’

‘Oh, we were having a bit of trouble out there. The Polish secret police were cracking down a bit too heavily on our diplomats, being a bit obvious in their operations, that sort of stuff. We could have done something about it ourselves, but we passed on a message to Moscow and let the Kremlin deal with it. They slapped a few wrists, and things calmed down again.’

‘So what does it mean?’

‘It means we’re being allowed to deal with this mess ourselves, without outside interference.’

‘You think he knows what this is all about?’

‘Oh, he’ll have more than an inkling.’ Parfit had dried his face and was now combing his hair. He looked at himself in the mirror and swept a stray strand back behind his ear. ‘More than an inkling,’ he repeated. ‘After all, as you said yourself, Devereux was his man.’ He turned to Hepton. ‘Let’s get Major Dreyfuss and head for my office. If they wanted rid of Devereux, you can bet a shilling they want rid of Dreyfuss too.’

‘But why did they want rid of him?’

‘You mean Devereux? Probably because they realised what his game was, that’s all.’

Hepton stood for a moment, wondering how Parfit could take it all so rationally, so calmly. Then, aware that he was alone now, he made a dash for the door and followed the cool secret serviceman to Dreyfuss’ room.

Dreyfuss was quiet during the short drive towards Westminster Bridge. Hepton sat with him in the back, while Parfit sat with the driver in the front. Parfit had a briefcase on his lap; in it was a cellnet-style telephone, with which he made a steady stream of calls. The driver paid no attention to these, busying himself with the heavy, slow-moving traffic instead. His style of driving was the antithesis of Sanders’: careful, methodical, courteous. All the same, the traffic being what it was — and London drivers being what they were — he had to fall into the shunting rhythm of the cars around him, slamming the brakes on, pulling away fast, then slamming them on again. Each jolt seemed to make Dreyfuss wince. Hepton saw that he was holding his right arm with his good left hand, trying to steady it against unwanted motion.

‘You should have that in a sling,’ he observed. But Dreyfuss did not reply. Parfit, hearing Hepton and glancing in the rear-view mirror, saw the sheen of sweat on Dreyfuss’ forehead, indicative of continuing pain.

‘Take some more tablets,’ he ordered.

‘I’m fed up with being doped,’ Dreyfuss said through bared teeth. ‘I’d rather have pain and all my faculties intact than being in that bloody stupor all the time.’

‘Suit yourself.’ Parfit made another call.

Dreyfuss turned to Hepton.

‘First Jilly. Now Cam. We’re letting these people get away with murder.’ He nodded his head towards the passenger seat. ‘He’s not going to do anything about it. Not if it involves scandal. He’s paid to cover things up, not let them get into the open.’ Dreyfuss’ voice was becoming conspicuously loud, but Parfit made a show of not listening. ‘If we’re going to do anything, Martin, it’s got to be you and me.’ His eyes, the pupils tiny pinpoints, were boring into Hepton’s. ‘You and me.’

‘Yes,’ Parfit commented, ‘you’ve done so well on your own, haven’t you?’

Dreyfuss made a face at him behind his back, then winked at Hepton. ‘You and me,’ he mouthed noiselessly, before sitting back and watching from his window.

Hepton watched from his window too, but he wasn’t really seeing anything. He was thinking over what Dreyfuss had said; that, and a lot more besides...

32

Blake Farquharson was waiting for them in Parfit’s office. Hepton had expected that their destination would be Whitehall and the Foreign Office. But in fact they had travelled south, past the Houses of Parliament, over Westminster Bridge and into Westminster Bridge Road. Their destination was a large office block, where passes once more had to be issued before they headed up in the lift towards Parfit’s floor.

Parfit’s office, too, was modern, belying his old-world appearance. The desk was cream-coloured and constructed of metal and plastic and chipboard. The chairs were made from tubular steel, their fabric a gaudy lime-green design. There was a large cabinet against one wall, protected by a steel rod and a tumbler lock. Beside it stood a smaller filing cabinet, again protected from prying eyes. The windows were covered by prodigious quantities of net curtain — to stop glass from a potential bomb blast spraying the room, as Parfit later explained. There were calendars and year-planners on two walls, and a coffee table upon which sat a teapot and three mugs, whose interiors were growing cultures not dissimilar in colour to that of the chair fabric.

And in one chair sat Blake Farquharson, though he stood when they entered.

‘Hello, Parfit.’

‘Good morning, Blake.’ The two men shook hands warmly, like old friends after a separation. ‘You’ve already met Martin Hepton. This...’ Parfit gestured towards Dreyfuss, but Farquharson interrupted.

‘... Must be Major Dreyfuss,’ he said, holding out his hand. Dreyfuss stared at it, but kept his own by his side. Then Farquharson noticed the bandage and brought his outstretched hand up to his mouth, using it to shield an embarrassed cough.

‘We had a spot of bother,’ Parfit explained. He had gone to his desk and was sifting through the mass of paperwork awaiting him. He read the top sheets thoroughly, while the rest of the room kept an awkward silence. Dreyfuss had grabbed one of the chairs and was trying to make himself comfortable. Hepton preferred to stand, and went to the window. Parfit put down the sheets. ‘Sanders’ report,’ he stated.

‘Yes,’ said Farquharson, ‘I read it while I was waiting. I’m not sure about Sanders. He’s keen, but...’

‘That’s his problem,’ Hepton muttered.

‘What’s that?’ Farquharson barked.

Hepton turned to him. ‘Your Sanders,’ he said. ‘He’s all enthusiasm, no brains. I’ll give you an example.’

‘Please do,’ Farquharson said slyly.

‘Okay, when we went to talk to Cam Devereux — who died this morning, by the way, not that you’ll lose much sleep over that small fact — the doorman at the Achilles told us we couldn’t park where we’d parked. Sanders flashed some kind of ID, which the doorman studied.’

‘Yes? Is that all?’

‘No,’ said Hepton. ‘I went back to the hotel this morning. I tried to catch a killer, and a Soviet agent helped me.’

Farquharson’s eyes opened wide, and he looked to Parfit for confirmation.

‘Vitalis,’ Parfit said in a neutral voice. Farquharson nodded.

‘And this Vitalis,’ Hepton continued, getting to his point, ‘stopped on the way out of the hotel to have a few words with the doorman; a few words in Russian.’

‘Is that so?’ Farquharson looked to Parfit again. ‘That’s a useful piece of information.’

But Parfit shook his head. ‘We’ve known about the doorman for a while.’

‘Well, Sanders obviously didn’t know about him,’ Hepton said, his voice increasing by a decibel or two. ‘Besides which, I’ve been thinking over what Mike was saying in the car.’ At the sound of his name, Dreyfuss became attentive. ‘He was saying,’ Hepton continued, ‘that you seem to know a lot but aren’t prepared to do anything about it. It strikes me that he hit the nail firmly on the head. You know about Vitalis but don’t do anything about him; you know about the doorman at the Achilles but don’t do anything about him. And now you know almost everything there is to know about this COFFIN business: it’s to do with satellites, and Buchan airbase, and Major Villiers, and Harry, and General Esterhazy, and most probably my boss Fagin. But’ — he began to space his words for effect — ‘you’re not doing one damned thing about it.’ He paused, and noticed how loud his voice had become. Dreyfuss was smiling encouragement at him and applauded silently as he finished.

Farquharson didn’t like being shouted at. His cheekbones were veined with blood, his voice tremulous. ‘Well then, let me tell you a few things, Mr Hepton,’ he said. ‘We need proof, solid hard factual proof. Because RAF stations and tracking stations and their like are out of our jurisdiction. In fact, there’s precious little that isn’t out of our jurisdiction. The intelligence services have no formal powers. We have to work with Special Branch, and they’re not convinced so far by what we’ve told them. We can’t get Number Ten to listen to us, because frankly the PM has been got at by military advisors and MoD officials. Our agents in the field have found nothing, so there’s precious little we can do at this moment. Except wait.’

‘What?’ Hepton was yelling now. Yelling out all his fear and frustration, all the last few days of madness and murder. ‘Wait for them to pick us off? Look, whatever this COFFIN is, it’s been buried. How do we find something once it’s buried? We don’t. The longer we sit here, the more chance they’ve got of getting away with whatever it is they’re getting away with while we sit here!’

‘Bravo!’ Dreyfuss called. He was smiling grimly.

‘Who told you the coffin was buried?’ Parfit asked in a purposely quiet voice.

‘What?’ Hepton asked.

‘Who told you?’

‘Harry did. Well, sort of. She certainly didn’t deny it.’

‘And you believed her?’

‘Why would she lie? She was going to kill me.’

‘But she didn’t.’ Hepton began to see Parfit’s point. ‘Now answer me another question: why is the Zephyr ground station being temporarily decommissioned?’

Hepton pondered this. He gave up and shrugged his shoulders.

‘I’ll tell you,’ said Parfit. ‘Or rather, I’ll tell you my interpretation. The coffin isn’t buried yet — not quite. But they know we’re getting close. They’ll put a ring of steel around Buchan, but they can’t stop Zephyr spying on them from space. That’s why they went to an extraordinary amount of effort to nobble it. But because we’re closing in, they want to make doubly sure, so they’re sending the sky-watchers home until the burial’s complete. That means there’s still time for an exhumation.’

‘Fine,’ said Dreyfuss coolly. ‘So what do we do?’

Parfit turned to Farquharson, his eyes asking the same question.

‘We wait.’ Farquharson saw that Hepton was about to protest and hurried on. ‘We wait until we see what information comes back from Buchan. If there’s enough to present to the PM, then I’ll arrange a meeting.’

‘And if there isn’t?’ There seemed no ready answer to Hepton’s question. He repeated it.

Farquharson looked to Parfit, but Parfit’s face was a blank.

‘We’ve got video tapes,’ Hepton continued. ‘Don’t they count as evidence?’

‘They indicate that something’s going on,’ said Parfit quietly, ‘not what that something is.’

‘You mean they’re not enough?’

‘What do you think?’

Hepton considered. The tapes suddenly seemed very small in comparison to the scale of the conspiracy.

Dreyfuss was shaking his head. ‘You’re going to let them get away with it,’ he said bluntly.

Farquharson slapped the desk. ‘Get away with what exactly? We don’t know what’s happening, do we?’

But Dreyfuss only smiled, as if to say: I’ve got a damn good idea.

33

The first report arrived just after they’d eaten a lunch of sandwiches and tea. The tea came in disposable beakers, which was a relief to Hepton, who had feared the offer of one of the mouldy mugs. He was finishing his last cheese sandwich when the telephone rang. Parfit, himself still chewing, picked up the receiver.

‘Yes?’ he said. He listened, his eyes fixed to the wall in front of him. ‘Is that everything?’ he said finally. ‘Thank you.’ He replaced the receiver in its cradle and swallowed some tea.

‘Well?’ asked Farquharson.

‘That was our man in Buchan. He’s been past the base. Heavily guarded, and not very subtly. He stopped to ask why, and was told that there had been anonymous threats concerning the pull-out. He says there is a pull-out taking place, but there’s also a lot of work going on. He thought perhaps they were busy dismantling something.’

‘Dismantling something?’ Farquharson repeated. ‘What sort of thing?’

Parfit shrugged his shoulders. ‘He couldn’t be sure that it was dismantling.’

‘So it could be building work then?’ said Hepton.

‘Building work?’ Farquharson sounded sceptical. ‘But that would be noticeable, wouldn’t it?’

‘Not if it was underground,’ said Hepton. ‘As in “burial”.’

‘That’s the impression I get,’ Parfit agreed. ‘They’ve got to be building something underground.’

‘Such as?’

He shrugged again. ‘If we knew what COFFIN stood for, we might get an answer.’

‘So,’ Dreyfuss said, pointing at Farquharson, ‘are you going to go see the PM?’

Farquharson was flustered. ‘What with?’ he exclaimed.

Dreyfuss got to his feet. ‘With everything you’ve got. It all adds up to quite something, after all, doesn’t it? Drag the PM up to Buchan if you have to, but do something!’

Farquharson looked to Parfit, but saw in him no ally ready to leap to his defence. He examined his trouser legs thoughtfully and picked a thread from one. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I’ll do what I can. May I use your phone?’

‘Be my guest,’ said Parfit.

Farquharson picked up the receiver and punched out a few numbers. ‘Hello,’ he said, ‘it’s Blake Farquharson here. Any chance of a word with the chief? Yes, I’m afraid it is urgent. Urgent as in very.’

Hepton and Dreyfuss were given leave to visit the canteen, situated in the building’s basement.

‘I’ll get someone to show you where it is,’ said Parfit.

‘We’ll find it,’ Dreyfuss snarled. But he calmed almost immediately and apologised. ‘I’d just like Martin and me to have a little time to ourselves, to talk about, well, Jilly. Is that okay?’

Parfit looked cowed. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘if it seems we’re not doing enough to locate and free her. I admit it’s needle-in-a-haystack stuff, but we are trying. Try to relax a little. I’ll join you shortly.’

‘No rush.’

Whether irony was intended or not, Parfit caught some in Dreyfuss’ words. No rush indeed. Farquharson had gone off to Downing Street. The prime minister had agreed to give him a ten-minute interview, starting at quarter past four, which barely gave him time to gather together the relevant details and assimilate them. Still, actually gathering the details was a job for Farquharson’s PA, Tony Poulson. Poulson would be panicking right about now, and the thought pleased Parfit greatly. What Farquharson saw in the man was quite beyond him. He had even instigated his own highly furtive investigation of Poulson’s past and private life, but with precious little success: the man was as clean as a nun’s conscience. But then how clean was that?

He sat behind his desk, wondering if he should have insisted on accompanying Farquharson to Number Ten. He stared at his door, thinking of Dreyfuss and Hepton. Pity the canteen wasn’t bugged, but no member of staff would have stood for it...

Parfit was a patient man, but also a man who enjoyed the occasional slice of action. He had, for instance, thoroughly enjoyed breaking the man’s neck at the airport in DC. He hoped one day to enjoy killing Harry. But it had to be sanctioned. Given that sanction, he was ready to fall on Villiers, Harry and the rest with the most extreme prejudice he could muster. A nod from the PM, that was all he craved right now. His men were ready to act. He’d arranged for Special Branch to turn a temporary blind eye. And he had the necessary tools of his profession to hand. A nod was all he needed. But he doubted he’d get it. All the same...

He went to the door and locked it, then crossed to the large cabinet, worked the combination and drew the steel rod out from its resting place. Pulling the cabinet open, he revealed his small but lethal arsenal. Pride of place went to his two preferred handguns, a Walther PPK and a Browning nine-millimetre pistol, the latter’s magazine already engaged, thirteen rounds ready for the firing: unlucky for some. He tested its weight. Both guns had been stripped, oiled, checked and rechecked since last use. He put them back and examined the other firearm, a Heckler & Koch MP5 sub-machine gun. Several years before, Parfit had accepted a challenge from an SAS captain to spend some time with the regiment’s Counter Revolutionary Warfare Unit as they played out a close-quarters scenario in what had become known as the Killing House. This was a closed environment in which they had to imagine three terrorists were holding a hostage. The captain’s summary of Parfit’s performance had been frank: ‘That was fucking awful. You killed each and every one of them, the hostage included.’ But then that had been Parfit’s intention, since his job usually entailed tidiness of the most rigorous kind.

Still, he had liked the feel of the MP5s used by the unit, and had acquired one, its serial number removed. Now he touched its barrel, thinking of Harry. Did he hate her so much because he saw so much of himself in her? It was a question he would rather not answer. He lifted the MP5 fluidly to his shoulder and took imaginary aim at the office door.

‘Hello, Harry,’ he whispered.

There were no windows in the canteen, and the air conditioning was working flat out just trying to dissipate the smells of cooking, of hot fat and baked beans. Sad murals the colour of mud played over the walls, while afterthoughts such as room dividers and pot plants merely added to the institutional feel of the whole. Hepton and Dreyfuss were the only inhabitants. They had been given cold stares and lukewarm tea by one of the canteen staff.

‘Too late for food,’ she’d snapped.

‘Thank God for that,’ Dreyfuss had added in an undertone as she poured tea from a huge tin pot. The tea was the same colour as the wall decoration, which gave Hepton an idea as to the mural’s genesis.

They sat at the only table not to have been wiped and stacked with four upended chairs. The table came from the same family, it seemed, as Parfit’s desk upstairs: cream plastic and chipboard. This was a sad country, Hepton thought, a stupid country. But it still didn’t deserve to be handed over to Villiers and Harry.

‘It’s not a coup,’ Dreyfuss stated. ‘A coup would be simpler, more out in the open.’

‘Maybe the Yanks want to annex us?’

Dreyfuss shook his head. ‘They did that a long time ago. It’s just that nobody noticed. No... I don’t know.’ He threw up his hands. ‘And neither do that lot upstairs. There’s only one way to find out.’

‘How?’ Hepton was sure they were working along similar lines of thought. Dreyfuss’ answer confirmed it.

‘Your little tracking station.’

Hepton nodded. It made sense, didn’t it? The only way Villiers and his crew could keep an eye on the Buchan operation was to use Binbrook. He thought about what the Russian Vitalis had told him. That Cam Devereux had found another room in the Argos base. There could be another room at Binbrook, too, a whole series of rooms, fitted with computers and screens showing what Zephyr was really seeing. Now that he considered it, he realised that there were portions of Binbrook that were off-limits to personnel. Locked doors: someone had called them storage areas, someone else had said they were disused and awaiting redecoration. Those locked doors might well be hiding a small, dedicated tracking station. A box within a box, like Izzard’s. And if such were the case, there would probably be someone there to watch: someone like Fagin, of course, but perhaps also Villiers himself. And where Villiers was, Jilly might be...

‘What are you suggesting?’ he asked.

‘I’m suggesting...’ Dreyfuss brought his head closer to Hepton’s. His eyes burned with something other than drugged or drugless pain, ‘that we do something other than sitting around here on our arses. There isn’t much time. I’m not saying that we go barging in there, but is everyone on the base in on this COFFIN thing? I think the answer is a definite no, or they wouldn’t be moving them out. Okay, so there’s the chance that you’ — his finger made a circle in the air — ‘could move freely inside the base. As far as they’re aware, you’ve been on holiday. So just tell them you’ve come back early.’

‘What about you?’

‘Me?’ Dreyfuss considered this. ‘Do you know how they got me from Washington airport to the embassy? In a crate. After that, a car boot will come as something of a luxury.’

‘A car boot?’

He nodded slowly. ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘there is a snag. First, we need a car. We could hire one, I suppose. I’ve got all sorts of false documents and credit cards on me.’

‘What about Parfit? Are you suggesting we do this without him?’

‘That’s exactly what I’m suggesting.’

‘But why?’

‘Because I don’t trust him. I don’t trust anyone in this whole thing who hasn’t been hurt. You’ve been hurt, I’ve been hurt, and right now someone could be hurting Jilly. You’ve seen how Farquharson operates. He’s scared of COFFIN. He’s not going to do anything.’

‘We don’t know that.’ But Hepton’s voice betrayed his feelings. The time for action had come. He knew his way around the Binbrook base, and Dreyfuss was right: alone, he might stand a good chance of gaining entry. Once inside, he could...

‘I could tap into their intercept,’ he said.

‘What?’

It was becoming quite lucid now. Somehow he’d known all along that this moment would come. The moment when he could put his skill to the test. A moment of challenge.

‘I could tap into their intercept,’ he repeated. Dreyfuss listened hungrily. ‘I’m sure I could. I could screw up their entire system.’

‘But won’t there be alarms? Protection circuits? That sort of thing?’

Hepton nodded. ‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘There’ll be codes. Entry codes. We’d have to crack them.’

‘That could take for ever.’

This time he shook his head. ‘I’ve got a friend,’ he said, ‘and he’s got a little box...’

Dreyfuss thought things through. Gain entry to the camp, gain entry to the control room, break into the spoiler satellite... Hepton could work on that, while he, Dreyfuss, could look for Jilly. And for Villiers. A lot of ghosts were crying out for revenge. So were a few of the living.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘If you think it’s worth a try, I say we leave now, this second. Before Parfit and his boss have a chance to hold us back. I get the feeling somebody’s been holding us back all the way along. Like bloody fish on a line. Allow us a bit of play, then reel us back in. Seeing what we know, how far we’ll swim. Hoping we’ll tire, so that we’re easy to land...’

But Hepton wasn’t listening. He was watching a young man who had entered the canteen and was studying one of the snack-vending machines at the far end of the room. He waved a hand, but it wasn’t necessary. He had already been recognised. The man, smiling, approached their table.

‘Hello again,’ he said. ‘I didn’t think I’d be seeing you so soon.’

Hepton motioned towards the man and turned to Dreyfuss. ‘Let me,’ he said, ‘introduce you to Mr Sanders. Sanders, this is Major Mike Dreyfuss.’

‘How do you do?’ The two men nodded. Dreyfuss was looking to Hepton for guidance.

‘Sanders here,’ Hepton explained, ‘is a marvellous driver. He has a very fine Vauxhall Cavalier.’

Now Dreyfuss saw what he was getting at. His smile when he turned back towards Sanders was rapacious.

‘Is that right?’ he said. ‘A Cavalier?’

‘Yes,’ said Sanders, pleased at their interest but unsure just why they were interested. ‘It’s parked in the garage downstairs.’

34

Later, Sanders was able to reflect that that was the moment, really, when he lost his job. Because he didn’t see what they were getting at. Because he told them about the modified engine, modified for speed. Because when Major Dreyfuss asked to see the car, he didn’t check with Mr Parfit. Because he accompanied them past the security guard and down to the parking bays. Because he turned his back on them to open the door of the Cavalier...

And then woke up with a sore head and the drip of oil on his face. Staring up at the underside of a car and realising he had been knocked unconscious and hidden beneath the vehicle in the bay next to his. His bay, which was by then conspicuously empty.

The walk he took back upstairs — walking because it was slower than taking the lift, and he wished to defer the inevitable — was funereal. Yet necessary. There was no way he could hide what had happened. He had to tell Mr Parfit.

He was breathless when he reached Parfit’s floor, and realised with some surprise that he had just walked up eight flights of stairs. He remembered none of it.

He knocked on Parfit’s door.

‘Yes?’

He turned the handle and entered. Parfit was seated behind his desk, his hand poised on the telephone as though expecting a call.

‘Ah, Sanders,’ he said. ‘Come in. If it’s about your report, I really haven’t had a proper chance to read it yet, but I’m sure it’s...’

He stopped short. There was oil in Sanders’ hair, and the boy looked deathly pale, looked, indeed, beaten about a bit. Then it dawned.

‘Oh my God,’ he said. ‘Where are they?’

‘They’ve taken the car, sir. The Cavalier.’

‘Get me another car!’ Parfit had already picked up the receiver and was dialling. ‘Hello?’ he said. ‘Let me speak to Detective Inspector Frazer.’ He put his hand over the mouthpiece and spoke to Sanders. ‘We’ve got to find them before they leave London.’ He removed his hand. ‘Hello, Craig? Parfit here. Yes, long time no see. I want a favour. A very important one. Can you get your lads to keep their eyes peeled for a red Vauxhall Cavalier.’ He asked Sanders for the registration, and then repeated it down the line. ‘Thanks, Craig. Goodbye.’ He stared hard at Sanders. ‘I thought I told you to get us a car!’

‘Yes, sir.’ Sanders dashed out of the room, holding his neck where the fist had chopped down on it.

When the door was closed, Parfit took a deep breath and stared at his cabinet. It was time. He was about to rise from his chair when the telephone rang. He picked it up without thinking.

‘Parfit?’ said the voice. ‘Blake here.’

‘Blake.’ Parfit’s heartiness was bluff, and nothing but.

‘I’ve had my say, but the PM reckons it’s too amorphous — actual words, “too bloody vague”. We’re to gather a bit more intelligence before we can act.’

‘It may be too late by then.’ Parfit was thinking: it may be too late right now. The cabinet beckoned.

‘Nevertheless, those are the orders from on high.’

‘Since when did that stop us, Blake?’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Farquharson said, his tone full of meaning. It was time to tell him.

‘Dreyfuss and Hepton have left us, headed who knows where.’

The silence on the line was as piercing as any scream. There was a cough of static before Farquharson’s too-calm voice said, ‘What will they try to do?’

‘That’s what I’m wondering myself, Blake. I’d say they’re capable of trying anything, and I do mean anything.’

‘Oh my God.’

‘So, PM or no PM, it looks as though there is no alternative. No point in my hanging around here either, so I’m going out into the field.’ Parfit paused. ‘With your permission.’

Blake Farquharson knew what ‘going out into the field’ meant in Parfit’s terms. He thought quickly but hard. But then, as Parfit had said, there was no alternative.

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘You must do what you think fit.’

‘Thank you, Blake.’

‘But promise me one thing.’

‘Yes?’

‘Keep it as low-key as possible.’

‘Trust me, Blake.’

‘What if you don’t find them?’

‘Oh, I think I’ll find them. I’ve got a sneaking suspicion I know exactly where they’ll be headed.’

He put the receiver down. Then picked it up immediately.

‘Get me Downing Street, please.’ He waited for the connection to be made. ‘Hello? Ah, hello. This is Tony Poulson, assistant to Blake Farquharson. I believe Blake had a meeting with the PM scheduled for this afternoon. I was just wondering—’

‘Haven’t you been told?’ The voice on the other end of the line was curt to the point of rudeness. ‘Your boss took ill.’

‘Took ill?’

‘Had to call off. After the bloody lengths we went to to find ten minutes for him in the PM’s schedule. No one is amused, Mr Poulson. Good day.’ And the line went dead.

Parfit’s smile was part vindication, part acceptance of the betrayal. Farquharson had never intended keeping his appointment. It was a delaying tactic, as had been so much of the game thus far. Parfit had run a check on the lease on Villiers’ apartment. The route to ownership had been circuitous, cleverly so, keeping one name as far away from prying eyes as possible. The name had been Farquharson’s. He owned the flat, as he owned its former occupant.

Well, nothing could be done about that now. He could leave Farquharson for the moment. For now, he had better things to do. He didn’t doubt that Hepton and Dreyfuss would be making for Binbrook, and that if they actually got there, they would inflict at least some damage, perhaps even enough damage. He phoned Frazer again.

‘Craig?’ he said. ‘Cancel that request, will you? If your lads see the car, let me know about it. But don’t apprehend.’

The larger the web had grown, the smaller its circumference had become, almost in defiance of the physical laws. Not that laws meant much any more. Parfit put down the receiver and went to the cabinet. There was, as always, no real alternative.

35

Graeme Izzard didn’t seem surprised to see Hepton, and greeted him like an old friend. Hepton had ordered Dreyfuss to stop the red Cavalier beside the taxis outside Alfie’s café. Inside, Izzard was tucking into the all-day breakfast.

‘Morning,’ he said by way of greeting.

‘It’s late afternoon, in case you hadn’t noticed,’ Dreyfuss commented. Hepton and Izzard shared a conspiratorial smile: for Izzard, it was the start of the day.

‘What can I do for you?’ Izzard asked, his mind more on the tussle he was having with a particularly tough slice of middle bacon.

‘It’s about your little device,’ Hepton began, ‘the one you showed me last night.’

‘Which one? I seem to remember I showed you hundreds.’

‘Yes, but you kept this one in a cupboard. A relic of your hacking days...’

Thirty minutes later, Dreyfuss and Hepton left the industrial estate, Hepton driving and Dreyfuss clutching a small black box topped with an old calculator fascia. An unmarked police car was idling near the entrance to the estate. Five minutes later, the call went through to Parfit.

It was past six o’clock when Hepton drove up to the security barrier of the tracking station. A change of shifts was taking place. A young, unsmiling man — a stranger to Hepton — was being replaced by Bert, who had been at the station as long as anyone. Hepton sounded his horn, but Bert, not recognising the car, came out of the hut to check. Seeing who it was, he broke into a gap-toothed grin.

‘Mr Hepton sir. I thought you’d gone off on holiday.’

‘I was called back. Something about the place shutting down for a while. I’ve got to collect my things.’

‘Ah, yes, shutting down. As from tomorrow, so they tell me. Mind you, I’ll still be here. You always need security.’ Hepton nodded agreement. Bert was giving the car’s paintwork a cursory examination. ‘I see you’ve been buying yourself a new car, Mr Hepton.’

‘No, it’s on loan. I had a little mishap with the Renault.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ Bert was walking around to the back of the car. Hepton watched him in the wing mirror.

‘Anything the matter?’ he called.

‘Should there be, Mr Hepton?’

‘No,’ he said, laughing. Just don’t look in the boot.

‘Yes, sir, a very nice car this. Hired, did you say?’

‘No, it’s a friend’s.’

‘I suppose I should log it in,’ Bert said. He had finished his tour and was returning to the driver’s-side window. ‘All cars are supposed to be logged, aren’t they?’

Hepton shrugged. ‘I suppose so,’ he said casually.

‘Then again,’ Bert reasoned, ‘if you’re only coming in to pick up some stuff...’

‘That’s all.’

‘And you’ve just borrowed this car... well, I suppose it hardly matters, does it?’

‘Whatever you think, Bert. So long as it won’t get you into trouble.’

‘Well then, I’ll just go and raise the barrier.’

‘Thanks, Bert.’ Hepton thought of something. ‘Oh, Bert?’

‘Yes, Mr Hepton?’

‘That security man, the one who just clocked off. He’s new, isn’t he?’

‘Started yesterday. His name’s Ken. Quiet bloke, keeps himself to himself. But he seems to like the job.’

‘Right.’ Hepton seemed satisfied with this, so Bert walked away from the car and towards his office, where a moment later he pushed the button that raised the barrier, allowing Hepton into the compound. Hepton gave a wave as he drove in, making for the other side of the administration building. There were plenty of parking spaces in front of the block, but he wanted to be far away from prying eyes. Thankfully, a few cars had parked at the rear, in a sort of courtyard enclosed by a picket fence, a hedge and an emergency generator, itself surrounded by high iron railings. Hepton did not drive to the furthest corner: there were no other vehicles there to provide cover. Instead, he made for the busiest point, where two cars had parked a bay apart, with another car a little distance in front of them. He manoeuvred the Cavalier into the narrow space between the two cars and turned off the engine. Yes, the new security man on the gate liked his job... They were moving their own men into the base. Slowly but surely, COFFIN was taking over.

He opened the driver’s-side door as far as it would go without denting the car next to him and squeezed out, then closed the door again but did not lock it. He wasn’t planning on staying long, and their leave-taking might have to be rapid. Unlocking a door took time, time they might not have.

He looked around. The place was quiet. There was a security camera trained on the back of the admin block and on the path that led towards the control building, but no camera, he knew for a fact, covered this rear car park. He unlocked the boot.

Dreyfuss blinked into the light and quickly, silently, pulled himself out of his foetal position. While Hepton relocked the boot, Dreyfuss did some limbering exercises. The boot had been a tight squeeze, and he was thankful he’d only needed to be in it for the last mile of the drive. He shook his arms loose of any stiffness and straightened his clothes.

‘I thought your pal at the gate was going to ask to see inside,’ he said.

‘To be honest,’ answered Hepton, ‘so did I. But I already had a story ready about the boot being jammed shut.’

‘Very likely,’ Dreyfuss said. He was taking deep breaths.

‘Okay,’ Hepton said. He pointed towards the meandering line of paving slabs, cracked and showing tufts of wild grass. ‘That’s the path we take. There’s a camera trained on it beginning and end, so look relaxed. Pretend I’ve just arrived on base and bumped into you.’

‘Fine,’ Dreyfuss replied.

They set off, Dreyfuss with his hands in his pockets and seeming to listen intently to what Hepton was saying, not that Hepton was saying very much other than reminding him of the layout of the tracking station’s interior. At the end of the path stood a hefty-looking steel door, and on the wall next to it a numerical keypad, topped by yet another video camera. Hepton tried to look nonchalant as he pressed home the combination 52339, then waited. There was a ca-chunk as the several locks on the door disengaged. He gave it a push, and they entered a sort of antechamber. Against one wall stood what looked like a clocking-in system, but instead of identifier cards, Dreyfuss saw that each slot held a plastic-coated name badge, and beside each name a photograph. Hepton reached for his own badge and tagged it to his trouser pocket. Dreyfuss took the first badge he saw and did likewise. He had been informed: Some guys clip them to their shirts, others to their trousers. If we tag them to our trouser pockets, there’s less chance of someone noticing that you’re not the face on the ID.

He had also been warned about the wall opposite this one, which was made of glass. Behind it, in a small room filled with video screens, sat another security guard. Hepton waved to the guard, who smiled and waved back, then pushed on through the interior door, Dreyfuss following mutely. Now they were in a long corridor, and walking briskly. Dreyfuss felt a kind of complete terror overtake him. They were getting deeper and deeper into this, almost too deep to facilitate any hope of escape. Hepton misread his companion’s fear.

‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I reckon that with the shutdown, and the change of staff, nobody’s going to think a new face suspicious. In fact, we couldn’t have picked a better day, all things considered. The only thing that bothers me is that there are so many new faces, all of them probably connected to COFFIN. That guard back there, for instance. I’ve never seen him before in my life.’

Dreyfuss nodded his head. ‘So what if he checks up on us?’ He was trying to walk at the same pace as Hepton, but it was difficult not to fall a step or two behind and let him take the lead. After all, Dreyfuss had little idea where they were going. But he had to look as though he knew. He stared at the floor, matching his footsteps with those of his guide, and so concentrating grew less frightened and less nervous.

After a moment, he realised that Hepton hadn’t answered his question. The silence was answer enough in itself. Any check, and they’d be doomed. Suddenly a voice sounded behind them, and both men froze.

‘Hey! Martin! Hold on!’ They turned slowly towards the voice. A man was approaching them, grinning. ‘Martin, what are you doing back?’

‘Hello, Nick.’ This was what they hadn’t wanted, but could hardly hope to avoid: close contact with someone who knew Hepton well.

‘Did you get the tapes?’ Nick Christopher asked.

‘Yes, thanks,’ answered Hepton.

Dreyfuss’ good hand rested momentarily on Hepton’s arm. ‘I’ll see you later,’ he said, smiling towards Nick Christopher before moving off down the corridor. Christopher stared after him.

‘Who was that?’

‘Some new guy,’ said Hepton.

‘I get the feeling I’ve seen him somewhere before.’

‘Oh?’ Hepton was staring at Dreyfuss’ back too, wondering where he was headed. Their plan, hatched on the way here, now seemed woefully inadequate and as full of holes as a disassembled circuit board. But then even on the way here it had seemed so. He turned to Christopher. ‘Going to the control room?’

‘Yes.’

‘Me too. Come on.’ They started down another corridor, away from Dreyfuss.

‘But what are you doing back here? What was all that with the tapes?’

‘I’ll tell you later. Is Fagin about?’

‘Somewhere, yes. Why?’

‘I just need my console for an hour or so, and I’d rather he didn’t know about it.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘Nick.’ Hepton came to a stop, gripping Christopher’s shoulder. ‘Remember Paul Vincent?’

‘Of course.’

‘He was murdered. If I can get on my computer for an hour, I think I can catch his killers. But I need your help.’

Christopher stared at him as though Hepton were mad. But Hepton’s look was that of a sane man, a scared man, a man doing what he had to.

‘What do you want me to do?’

‘I want you to protect me. Try not to let anybody interfere with the computer.’

‘No problem. But can’t you tell me why?’

‘Remember when you were younger, when you played with computers for fun rather than for work?’ Christopher nodded. ‘Did you ever do any hacking?’

Now Christopher smiled. ‘Sure, everybody tried it at some time or other.’

Hepton nodded. ‘That’s what I’m going to attempt now. I’m going to try the scariest piece of hacking you’ll ever see.’

Nick Christopher’s face lit up. ‘All right!’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’

They were nearing their destination. Hepton needed to know what lay ahead. ‘Have the new controllers arrived?’ he asked.

‘The skeleton staff? Yeah, most of them. And a few of the old gang have already left.’

Hepton nodded. ‘And you don’t know where Fagin is?’

‘No idea.’

The storerooms that weren’t really storerooms, he thought. It was perfect: as long as he was there, keeping an eye on his satellite, he was free to go to work. He pushed open a final set of doors.

The large central control room was chaotic. Some people were tidying their desks, some were monitoring Zephyr. There was a holiday mood in the air, jokes and laughter. Furniture was being moved, consoles dismantled or serviced. A few of the new faces looked at Hepton curiously as he moved past them. He tried to smile and nod affably. Well, he was already in the lion’s cage; he might as well stick his head in a gaping mouth...

He passed Paul Vincent’s desk. It was being dismantled. The computer had already been taken away. He touched the desktop with one finger, then walked to his own console, pulled the chair out and sat down. There was a fine layer of dust on the screen, and he wiped it with the palm of his hand before switching on. A few of the original crew, the genuine crew, saw him and called over. He waved back.

‘Just in to tidy up a bit,’ he explained. Any one of them could be in on it, could be part of the COFFIN conspiracy. He had to move quickly. But then he knew all the moves, didn’t he? He’d been working them out for what seemed like days. He made the link with Zephyr’s onboard computer and checked its co-ordinates. It was just about right. Very soon now, within the next hour, it would be over Buchan. That gave him a little time to crack the access code. He already had two passwords he reckoned to be likely candidates — COFFIN and ARGOS. Then he’d let the computer work on the numerical sequence, if one existed, going through random combinations until it found the right one.

He pulled from his pocket Izzard’s black box. If he remembered the instructions correctly, it would help save time. And time above all was precious. At any moment, he might be discovered. The new faces around him might twist suddenly with hate, guns pulled from pockets. Fagin might appear, or Villiers, or Harry. He didn’t know how long he had. He only prayed it was time enough.

36

Dreyfuss walked slowly along this corridor and that. Two men walked past him carrying large holdalls. They smiled, assuming him to be one of the replacement crew perhaps. He smiled back and kept walking. A door was open, allowing him a view of an empty office. The desk had been cleared, but there was a clipboard lying on top of it. He darted into the room and darted out again, carrying the clipboard now. He held it against his chest, keeping his injured hand in his pocket. The hand had stopped giving him pain. Now, it just throbbed. Nobody seemed to be paying him much notice. He hoped Hepton was all right. Dreyfuss’ part in the plan was more nebulous. He had to find Jilly, supposing they were keeping her here. It was an outside chance, though, wasn’t it? Still, Hepton had told him about the disused stores. It was as good a place as any to look.

‘Mr Fulton?’ There was a man walking towards him. ‘Mr Fulton?’ he repeated. He was trying to examine Dreyfuss’ name tag.

Dreyfuss looked down at it and saw that Peter Fulton was indeed typed there, with an indecipherable signature scrawled beneath. The small photograph was of a man younger than Dreyfuss, the hair fairer, and wearing glasses.

‘Not a very good likeness,’ the man noted.

Dreyfuss smiled, trying to look younger than his years. ‘It was taken a while ago,’ he said. He pointed to his eyes. ‘And the contact lenses make a difference.’

The man thought for a moment, then nodded. ‘Quite so,’ he said. He gestured along the corridor with his arm. ‘The guard on the main door told me you’d arrived. Shall we go?’

‘Of course.’ Go where? Dreyfuss was thinking. And who the hell was he supposed to be anyway? It would be just his luck if this Peter Fulton were crucial to the running of the station. They’d be asking him questions he couldn’t possibly hope to answer.

‘Everybody’s ready,’ the man said. Dreyfuss groaned silently. ‘When did you arrive?’

‘Oh, not long ago.’

The man nodded, seeming satisfied. He looked as though he had other things on his mind, which was fine by Dreyfuss. They walked through one set of doors, then another. At least they were progressing into uncharted territory. Dreyfuss checked each door they passed with his eyes, not sure what clues he might be given to Jilly’s whereabouts: a scream perhaps, or a muffled cry? Guards outside the door?

They came to a security door. There were numbers on its handle, and the man pressed three of these before turning the handle itself. In this new corridor, things were quieter, cooler. There was a slow hum of air conditioning, the low sounds of distant voices. They came to a final door, and the man opened it, gesturing for Dreyfuss to precede him into the room. A very attractive young woman sat on a chair, watching a bank of TV screens, switching between surveillance of one part of the base and another. One side of her face was heavily made up.

The door closed solidly behind Dreyfuss, and when he turned, the man was pointing a Beretta pistol directly at his chest.

‘The guard was right,’ he told the woman, who had risen to her feet. ‘Someone did take Peter Fulton’s pass, unaware that Fulton flew off on holiday yesterday.’ Dreyfuss’ heart sank. ‘I recognised him as soon as I saw him,’ the man continued. ‘Major Michael Dreyfuss, isn’t it?’

‘At your service,’ Dreyfuss said softly. ‘And you are...?’

‘Didn’t I say?’ The man had come round to stand beside the woman. He bowed his head slightly, but the pistol never wavered. ‘I’m George Villiers; you may have heard of me. And this is Harry.’

On hearing Dreyfuss’ identity, a keen look had come into Harry’s eyes. She examined him as though he were some rare species, some rare and endangered species.

‘Where’s Jilly?’ Dreyfuss asked, his voice as brittle as a thread of ice.

Villiers ignored him. ‘Harry,’ he said, ‘Major Dreyfuss came into the station with another man. I went and took a look at the main door just to be sure, and I was right — guess whose pass is missing all of a sudden?’

‘Whose?’ Her voice was soft and feminine.

‘Martin Hepton’s.’

The laugh was cavernous beyond her slender frame. She went to the desk and lifted an attaché case onto its surface. The locks clicked, and she pulled the case open. Inside was the most lethal-looking handgun Dreyfuss had ever seen. It resembled a heavily modified target pistol, with a long shining silver barrel. There was a sight in another compartment of the case’s moulded interior, and she fixed this along the pistol. Then she closed the case again and brought a plastic carrier bag out from the bottom drawer of the desk, placing it over her left hand, which was now grasped around the carved butt of the gun. It didn’t quite look as though she were merely carrying an empty bag, but the gun was sufficiently disguised. She touched the fingers of one hand to the scald marks on her face. Finally, wordlessly, and on silent feet, she walked to the door, opened it and left, closing it behind her.

Dreyfuss looked at Villiers, who appeared impressed by the performance. ‘Where’s Jilly?’ he repeated.

‘She’s safe. For the moment. Why don’t we sit down? I’m sure there are questions you want to ask. We have a little time until Harry returns. Fire away.’

Dreyfuss sat on the chair Harry had been using. Villiers, however, remained standing, leaning against the far wall next to another door.

‘Okay,’ said Dreyfuss. ‘What’s COFFIN?’

‘An easy one to start with. Very well, let’s take COFFIN’s lid off.’ Villiers smiled at his own joke, but Dreyfuss remained unmoved. Villiers’ face lost its humour. ‘COFFIN, Major Dreyfuss, stands for Combined Forces International Network. It has an interesting history. I myself was unaware of it until quite recently. By then, COFFIN had decided it needed a few agents in the field, people who couldn’t be traced back to it. People, in other words, outwith the armed forces. Eventually they came to me, and were able to introduce me to Harry. Really, she’s the more...’ he seemed to search for the right word, ‘professional of the two of us. But I’m afraid we’re very lowly figures, comparatively speaking.

‘COFFIN came about by accident,’ he continued. ‘You see, generals don’t always agree with their governments, and they command more respect from their men than do politicians. Well, a lot of generals — from the United States, the other NATO countries, even a few of the non-aligned states — got together and found that they had a good deal in common. More in common, in fact, than they did with their own countries’ leaders. So they started to swap information, intelligence, that sort of thing, all very informally, very sub rosa. That seemed to work to everyone’s advantage, so they started trading all kinds of things.’

‘What kinds of things?’

‘Oh, tactics, armaments, maybe even a few men for certain special missions. Of course, no one ever questioned orders, and so no one ever knew that the generals were doing more and more off their own bat, without anyone else knowing about it outside the forces themselves.’

Dreyfuss whistled, trying to sound impressed. Damn it, he was impressed, ‘But how could you hope to keep something like that secret?’

‘Easily enough,’ said Villiers, warming to his subject. ‘For one thing, who did they have to hide it from? A few men from the MoD and the more investigative of our journalistic profession. But the thing was so big — is so big — that virtually no one can see it! That’s its beauty.’

‘Then why the need for a burial?’

‘Look around you, Major Dreyfuss.’ George Villiers paced the floor like an actor of old. This was his big soliloquy, and he knew it, but to Dreyfuss he was all amateur dramatics. Amateur dramatics or no, he still held the Beretta. And while he held the gun, Dreyfuss could do little but listen.

‘American defence strategy is forward-thinking,’ Villiers was saying, ‘forward meaning Europe, so as to prevent war on American soil. The American generals weren’t happy about the enforced pull-out. It’s all down to trust, and they weren’t about to trust a civilian Britain not under the US umbrella. Anything might happen. We all might become bloody Europeans, and it’s a short step from there to Euro-communism. They decided it wasn’t right. So it was decided that a base was needed, an underground base, away from prying eyes. RAF Buchan was chosen as the intended site. It has a surveillance system, a few dozen staff and even a couple of silos.’

‘Silos?’

‘Nuclear silos, Major. Built when Britain was expecting to play host to American missiles.’

Dreyfuss’ throat was suddenly very dry. ‘Are there missiles, too?’

Villiers nodded eagerly. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Isn’t that amazing?’

‘It’s impossible.’

‘Oh no, I assure you that it is fact. The missiles were already here. Instead of dismantling them, our cousins merely moved them around, stripping off a bit here and a bit there, then rebuilding new missiles from pieces of the old. Simplicity itself. After all, they already had more missiles here than anyone knew about.’

‘But why do you need silos?’

‘For the first strike.’

‘What?’ Dreyfuss’ head spun.

‘Buchan is merely the UK base. There are others dotted all over Europe. They are the centres of attack for a series of forthcoming coups, apparently by the armed forces of each country, but in reality by COFFIN. Soon after that, we launch the missiles.’

‘But why, for God’s sake?’

Villiers laughed. ‘I took you for an intelligent man, Major. Think about it. Can you see Eastern Europe accepting such a series of coups so close to their borders and — if you’ll excuse the pun — their satellites? No, they’ll be forced to attack. But they’ll be too late. We’ll have hit them first!’

‘This is mad.’

‘No, it is completely sane, Major.’

‘You’re saying nobody’s noticed any of this?’

‘Buchan is isolated, as are the other chosen bases. The fact that the troops were pulling out gave the perfect cover for some excavation and building work. There was already a small underground chamber there, to protect the systems against nuclear attack. We disguised a building programme as a dismantling programme. The Scots are a wonderful nation, Major. They keep themselves to themselves, and so long as no one’s interfering with them, they’re happy to turn a blind eye to most things.’

Dreyfuss nodded. ‘But,’ he said, ‘you couldn’t hope to hide the construction work from the skies?’

‘Exactly. Which is where Zephyr came in. I must say, the generals proposed a simple but ingenious idea. Tap into the surveillance satellite, and you can transmit anything you like. So that’s what they did.’

‘But I was on the shuttle that launched the pirate satellite.’ It was a comment, nothing more. Dreyfuss was still looking for a chance to wrest the gun away from this insane man.

‘Indeed you were,’ Villiers said, smiling again. ‘There was little that could be done about that. The mission had been planned for ages. The US pull-out was supposed to be amicable. To have suddenly announced that a Briton was no longer to go up in the shuttle would have been more than a mite suspicious.’

‘More suspicious than blowing the shuttle up?’ Dreyfuss felt queasy now, thinking of how heartlessly the crew of Argos had been dispatched.

‘Yes.’ Villiers seemed surprised by the question. ‘I mean, shuttles do crash, don’t they? Anyway, the generals made Zephyr work for them, rather than against them, which is a brilliant strategy. Of course, having decided that a Briton must go up, COFFIN had to be sure that the least capable member of the shortlist was chosen.’ He was really enjoying himself now. He waved the gun across Dreyfuss’ body, then up and down from head to toes. ‘So there was the least risk of your seeing anything suspicious and reporting those suspicions back to Earth before the crash-landing. It all worked well enough, except that you survived the landing. At first, everyone thought you had amnesia, and decided to allow you a lease of life. And by the time General Esterhazy realised what a threat you really were, it was too late. You’d gone. And now here you are.’

‘Yes, here I am.’ Dreyfuss shook his head. ‘I still don’t understand, though. The ground crew, the technicians who worked on the Argos satellite, they must have known its purpose.’

‘Why should they?’ Villiers opened his arms for a second: not long enough for Dreyfuss to consider charging him, but enough to give him hope of a later opportunity. ‘They built to a military design. They didn’t need to know what that design’s intention ultimately was, and’ — Villiers stressed his final words — ‘they just followed orders, the way they’d been taught.’ He stared at the screens for a moment, then pointed to one. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘there’s your friend Hepton now. He’s in the control room.’

Dreyfuss looked. Hepton was seated at his console, unaware of the camera trained on his sector of the room.

‘Won’t be long now till Harry finds him,’ Villiers said. His face took on a glaze of sincerity. ‘But what you really must try to understand,’ he continued, ‘is that COFFIN is operating for the greater good. It’s defence we’re talking about.’

‘It’s more like murder we’re talking about,’ Dreyfuss growled.

Villiers’ gun hand twitched. ‘The greater good,’ he repeated, robotically. Dreyfuss remembered then what Parfit had said about Villiers: a cold-blooded killer with a history of instability. He tried to calm himself. The last thing he wanted to do right this second was die.

‘Well, if that’s what you believe,’ he said evenly.

‘We do, Major Dreyfuss. Believe me, we do.’ Villiers paused, seeming to drink in his own sense of power. ‘Any more questions?’ he asked. Dreyfuss shook his head. ‘Then if you’ll follow me, or rather, precede me through here...’ He lifted his left arm to unbolt another door.

Dreyfuss stood, taking a final look at the surveillance screen. He had no way of letting Hepton know Harry was on her way. ‘Where are we going?’ he asked.

‘I thought you wanted to find Miss Watson?’ said Villiers. ‘Besides, you haven’t seen half of what we’re doing here. Not nearly half.’

Then he pulled open the door to another world.

37

It had all gone smoothly at first. Hepton had done a spot of hacking in his time, and the process still intrigued and enthralled him. Once, he had found himself hacking into a company’s computer at the same time as another hacker. They had exchanged greetings before the other hacker identified himself as a member of the Chaos Club in West Germany; he was hacking from the Ruhr Valley into a computer system in Milton Keynes. Contact with the Chaos Club had taught Hepton much about hacking, and for a time he’d been hooked. But after a while, personnel records and medical files ceased to hold their one-time interest, and he’d given the sport up.

Like cycling, however, you never forgot the ‘how’. Having accessed the Zephyr onboard computer, he found that COFFIN 762 was the code to unlock the interface between the two satellites, or rather between their two computers. The code was simple enough: COFFIN hadn’t been expecting anyone to attempt an access, or to have the knowledge so to do. Otherwise they would not have been so unimaginative with the password, and they would surely have used a less simplistic numerical combination. Izzard’s black box had done its job, finding the number sequence in a space of minutes.

Nick Christopher was watching over Hepton’s shoulder, interested and excited but trying to look unimpressed so as not to draw undue attention to the console.

But meantime, Hepton was stuck. He’d got this far, but progressing any further seemed an impossibility, for there was a further code to be gleaned, and he had run out of ideas.

What is your name?

COFFIN

Thank you, COFFIN. Please wait.

-------------------------------------------

-------------------------------------------

What is your identifier number?

762

Identifier number accepted. Welcome to interphase control at 19:45 hours. You have fifteen minutes online remaining before engagement of protection circuitry. Do you wish to access:

1. Classification?

2. Interlock?

3. Transmission?

4. Quit?

Hepton wasn’t sure, but had taken a chance on Interlock, pressing the number 2 on his keyboard.

Interlock control required. State access password.

And that was where he had so far drawn the blank. He was in, but he wasn’t in. He could speak to the damned computer, but it wouldn’t do what he wanted until he’d found the password. COFFIN had already been used, so it wouldn’t be anything similar. He had an idea.

ZEPHYR

Incorrect password. Please try again.

He sat there staring at the screen. If not ZEPHYR, then what?

‘Try Argos,’ Nick Christopher suggested. Hepton typed in the letters.

Incorrect password. Please try again.

Hepton snarled, then typed in FUCK YOU and pressed the keyboard’s return button.

Fuck you too, 762, came the onscreen reply.

‘I hate computers with an inbuilt sense of humour,’ Christopher commented. Then he touched Hepton’s shoulder. Hepton looked up and saw that a security guard had entered the room. The guard stopped and held a murmured conversation with one of the new controllers. Hepton didn’t like this one bit. He reached around the side of the computer screen and turned the brightness and contrast knobs as low as they would go, blacking out the screen. Then he turned to Christopher. The guard was looking in their direction now.

‘Does that guard know you?’ Hepton whispered.

‘I’ve seen him around,’ Nick said, trying hard not to sound nervous.

‘Yes, but has he seen you around?’

‘We’ve nodded to one another in the corridor.’

‘Does he know your name?’

Nick shrugged. ‘I don’t think so. We’re not that close.’

Hepton’s hand went to his trousers and unclipped the ID badge, slipping it into the pocket. ‘Do you have a name badge?’ he whispered. As well as the official ID, some of the staff owned larger, rectangular badges made from stiffened card and boasting name only. These had been given out at the beginning of the Zephyr project, a stopgap until the proper IDs had been made. But Nick had held onto his, finding its inverted mistake — CHRISTOPHER NICHOLAS — amusing. He reached into his shirt pocket now, brought out the badge and laid it in the palm of Hepton’s hand. Pretending to fuss with his keyboard, Hepton attached the badge prominently to his own shirt.

A moment later, the guard confronted them.

‘Yes?’ Hepton asked imperiously. The guard stared at the name tag, then at Nick, whose face he recognised. He seemed confused, shook his head.

‘Nothing, sorry,’ he said, moving away again. Hepton watched from the corner of his eye as the guard said a few reassuring words to the controller, then left the room. He sighed and turned the screen back on. He was still no further forward. He stared upwards, seeking inspiration, and found himself gazing into the single black lens of a video camera, angled into the room from one corner.

‘Shit!’ he said. ‘I forgot about that.’

‘About what?’

‘That camera.’ Its red light was on, too. There was no doubt about it: it was beaming his picture back to security. Perhaps he had even less time than he had thought. He stared around the room. Two controllers were laughing over a photo in the newspaper...

Newspaper!

‘Nick,’ he said, ‘do you still do those crosswords?’

‘Yes, why?’ Nick Christopher sounded scared: he had an inkling now that this was all very serious after all.

‘Got a thesaurus?’

‘Sure. Stay there.’ As if Hepton were going to leave! A moment later, he returned with a large paperback book.

‘Look up zephyr for me,’ Hepton ordered.

Christopher started flipping through pages. ‘Why zephyr?’ he asked.

‘Because I don’t suppose Argos will be in there, and we’ve already used coffin.’

‘Okay.’ Christopher had found zephyr in the index, and now sought the correct section. ‘Three-five-two,’ he said to himself. ‘Right, here we are.’ He held open the book, his hands tense, as though he might at any moment tear the pages in half.

‘Start at the top,’ commanded Hepton.

‘“Breeze”,’ Christopher read.

Hepton typed the word in: incorrect.

‘“Breath of air”.’

Hepton was dubious, but typed it anyway: incorrect.

‘Next,’ he said.

‘“Waft”, “whiff”, “puff”, “gust”...’

Hepton entered all four individually: incorrect.

‘Damn this thing!’ he cursed.

One of the older operatives came up to the console.

‘Hi, Martin,’ he said. ‘What happened to the holiday?’

‘Just clearing things up, Gary,’ Hepton said, his grin as tight as a rictus.

Gary took a look at the screen.

‘It’s a game,’ said Christopher grimly. Gary sensed that he wasn’t wanted.

‘That’s nice,’ he said, moving away. Hepton watched him go.

‘Next,’ he said.

Christopher had lost his place. There was a pause while he found it.

‘Next!’ Hepton hissed.

‘Jesus, Martin, I’m doing my best. Hold on, here we are. “Capful of wind”.’

Hepton stared at him, saw he was serious and shook his head. Then tapped the letters in anyway. Incorrect.

‘“Light breeze”, “fresh breeze”, “stiff breeze”,’ Christopher concluded, closing the book with a thump.

‘That’s it?’ Hepton asked.

‘That’s it.’

‘Okay.’ Hepton thought hard, seeking another way.

‘What about a dictionary?’ Christopher suggested.

Hepton nodded vigorously, then, while the large red book was being fetched, rubbed at his aching temples. Time was rushing by. Soon he would run out of his online allocation, and the satellite’s computer would warn its guardians that someone was attempting to tamper with it. They would try to shut him down right then... that was supposing security didn’t get to him first.

‘Here you go.’

Hepton took the book. There was a mark on the cover where Nick’s palm had left some sweat.

‘What are you looking for?’ Christopher asked.

‘Straws to clutch at,’ muttered Hepton. He turned to the back and found zephyr. ‘“The west wind”,’ he read aloud, ‘“gentle breeze, the god of the west wind”.’ He closed the dictionary and handed it back, then turned to his keyboard. The west wind. Well, what the hell. He started to type.

WEST WIND. Then the return key.

There was a pause, and he held his breath, then: Incorrect password. Please try again.

Nick Christopher cursed quietly, but Hepton was staring at the screen. There had been a pause, a very slight pause, before the computer had responded. As though it were checking... As though it weren’t sure. He typed again, his fingers solid on each plastic key.

WESTWIND. This time with no space. Then the return.

There was another pause, if anything longer than the first, then the screen kicked into life.

Welcome to interlock option on interphase. Do you wish to:

1. Change interlock coding?

2. Enter interlock program?

3. Check interlock co-ordinates?

4. Oversee interlock?

5. Disengage interlock?

Nick Christopher sucked in air and leaned lower towards the screen. ‘You’ve done it!’ he gasped.

Hepton almost leapt out of his chair, but gripped its arms with his hands instead. Yes, he was in! He was right there in the nerve centre of the American satellite! He wondered if someone somewhere in a tracking station in the US was watching a screen and beginning to worry. He hoped so. Because he was going to give them a show.

Christopher slapped his back. ‘You clever sod,’ he whispered, his voice trembling. ‘You’ve actually done it.’

‘Now watch this,’ said Hepton. But Nick’s attention had switched to something else. He was looking over towards the far door, his antennae twitching.

‘She’s new,’ he said. ‘Must be part of the skeleton crew. A bit tasty for a skeleton, though. No, wait a second, I’ve seen her before...’

Hepton, curious, looked up for a moment from his screen and saw Harry standing just inside the far door, holding it open as her eyes swept the room. She seemed to be carrying a plastic bag.

He froze momentarily, watching her. ‘She’s the one who’s been trying to kill me,’ he stated, his voice cool. Then he concentrated on the screen again. Any second now she would see him. And she would kill him. But he had so little time left anyway, so little time to crack the whole COFFIN thing wide open. And what a foul stench he’d release. So rotten and pungent that no one could ignore it any longer. It didn’t matter if he died right here and now, just so long as he wrecked their plans.

‘Hello, Martin.’

She was in front of him, standing on the other side of the console, her head and shoulders visible above the monitor, the rest of her body hidden from his view. He didn’t glance up from the screen. Instead, with quiet pressure from his left index finger, he pressed the number 2.

ENTER INTERLOCK PROGRAM

A message flashed onto the screen: WARNING! INTERPHASE USER TIME NOW UP. INFORMING CONTROL OF THIS TRANSACTION. PRESS RETURN TO CONTINUE. YOU ARE NOW BEING MONITORED BY CONTROL.

Monitored by control: that meant someone would now be watching his every move, ready to negate it if they could. (Harry in front of him! Don’t think about her!) He had to finish this quickly, but without allowing them to work out just what he was up to. (Harry standing right there, a rustling of plastic. The carrier bag.) It wouldn’t be easy.

‘Hello, Martin,’ she said again. ‘Bring your hands where I can see them.’ And this time he did look up. He couldn’t help himself. He gazed towards her dark glassy eyes. And found himself staring down the barrel of a gun, so close that he could swear he could see the bullet resting at the end of the long, long chamber.

Then the gun seemed to speak. ‘Goodbye, Martin.’

38

‘What the hell is this?’

Villiers had ushered Dreyfuss into a series of rooms, separated by glass wall dividers. The rooms were packed with electronics Dreyfuss didn’t — couldn’t — recognise. It wasn’t like in the old movies he’d seen, banks of flashing lights and huge rolls of tape rotating on their mainframe computer spools. It wasn’t even like Argos mission control. It was cool and peaceful, and the machines made a low, soothing sound, while six dot matrix printers disgorged their data and a row of six television monitors showed a mixture of satellite pictures and computer graphics. DAT machines recorded without apparent end the digital transmissions from... well, wherever. Telemetry? Satellite waves? Computer language? Dreyfuss thought all three were possible. COFFIN seemed to have limitless access and limitless funds. But then COFFIN was potentially the largest army the world had ever seen.

And in a corner of this most impressive of the rooms sat Jilly.

Surrounded by state-of-the-art hardware, her captors had chosen a good old-fashioned method of securing her: rope bands looping around her body and the chair-back, and around her wrists; an adhesive gag for her mouth. Except that on closer inspection, Dreyfuss saw that the bands were made of thin plastic strips, secured by metal clips. Unbreakable, and painful to fight and chafe against. He ran to the chair and placed his hands on her shoulders. Her eyes were wild with surprise at seeing him, and she tried to speak, mouthing her frustration against the restraining pad.

‘Are you okay?’ he asked awkwardly, no other more sensible words coming to mind. She nodded briskly.

A man in a white coat was standing over one of the recording machines, checking line levels. He seemed relieved to see Villiers.

‘Thank God!’ he snapped. ‘I’m a scientist, you know, not a bloody gaoler.’

Villiers ignored the outburst. ‘This is Major Dreyfuss,’ he said. ‘And Major Dreyfuss, this’ — pointing his gun hand at the man — ‘is Henry Fagin, head of this... establishment.’

‘A bloody pawn more like,’ Fagin muttered, loud enough to be heard. He was still bent over his machines, moving from one to the next like a commander inspecting his troops.

‘What is this place?’ Dreyfuss said, looking around him. One hand still rested on Jilly’s shoulder, kneading the skin gently, calming her.

The reply came from Fagin. ‘It’s a listening post. Off-limits to Zephyr personnel. They don’t even know it’s here. Officially, it’s an offshoot of Menwith Hill.’

‘Menwith Hill?’

‘Yes. That’s an NSA operation, American personnel. The job is SIGINT, signals intelligence, picking up all sorts of information while it’s in transit.’ He gave a sly glance in Dreyfuss’ direction. ‘Nothing’s safe any more, not if it’s being transmitted. It still gets from A to B, of course.’

‘But on the way it’s listened to?’

Fagin slapped one of the machines proudly. ‘And copied. You name it: telephone conversations, rocket telemetry. Here, take a listen.’ He flipped a switch and a stream of noise started issuing from the speakers set into the walls. ‘Know what that is?’ he asked, his face opening into a smirk. ‘Computers talking to one another. Satellite computers.’ He pointed earthwards. ‘The ground asks Zephyr for close-ups of RAF Buchan.’ His finger jerked skywards. ‘Zephyr transmits this request to the other satellite, which then sends it live shots of a base in Wales, made to look like Buchan.’ He pointed downwards again. ‘Zephyr then sends these pictures to the ground. It’s quite easy if you think about it.’

‘You’re forgetting, Fagin,’ interrupted Villiers, ‘Major Dreyfuss doesn’t need to think about it. He was there when the satellite was launched.’

‘And when the crew were murdered,’ said Dreyfuss coldly. Villiers just shrugged.

‘A US branch decision. What could we do?’

‘I’ll tell you what you did do, though,’ said Dreyfuss, remembering Hepton’s story. ‘You killed a man called Paul Vincent, you tried to murder Martin Hepton, you murdered Cam Devereux, and God knows, that may only be the tip of the dagger.’

Villiers shrugged again but seemed, if anything, pleased by Dreyfuss’ catalogue. He glanced at one of four clocks on the wall, each one set for a different time zone.

‘Harry should have disposed of Mr Hepton by now.’

On hearing this, Jilly screamed behind her gag, her face purple with effort. Villiers was delighted by this effect and lifted his head to laugh. But a choking sound from Fagin cut him off.

‘What is it?’ he asked.

Fagin was studying one of the computer screens. He pressed a few buttons, then studied the screen again. ‘There’s a fifteen-minute access alarm on the interface,’ he explained quietly. ‘And it’s just gone off.’ He turned to Villiers, his eyes twinkling with humour. ‘Somebody’s trying to out-sting our own little sting.’

‘Can you stop it?’ Villiers sounded wary.

‘Oh yes. Every time the intruder makes a move, I’ll just order the computer to make another. A bit like chess. Strange, though. He’s in, but he’s not doing anything.’

As Villiers peered at the computer screen, Dreyfuss knew he had to make his own move. But Villiers wasn’t his target: Fagin was. Fagin could wreck everything. He had to take him out. He threw himself forward and grabbed the scientist, pulling him to himself as a shield, then backed away. Villiers was already aiming his gun, undecided whether to risk the shot.

Fagin saw his hesitation. ‘For God’s sake,’ he pleaded.

Villiers stared at him, then at Dreyfuss. Finally he brought his gun arm down, but then angled it away from Dreyfuss and his prisoner and began raising it again. Directly at Jilly’s head.

‘I think,’ he said stonily, ‘this is what’s called an impasse. Except that you, Major, can do nothing with your hostage except hide behind him. While I, on the other hand, won’t hesitate to shoot mine.’

And to prove it, he turned his head away from Dreyfuss towards Jilly, taking aim and beginning to squeeze the trigger.

‘No!’ Dreyfuss pushed Fagin aside and started forward again. But he was too far away from Villiers, far too far away. The gun moved in an easy sweep until it was pointed directly at him. The explosion in such a confined space was deafening, but the impact in Dreyfuss’ chest was silent. He felt himself propelled backwards with great force, until, with a new and sickening sound of shattering glass, he slammed into and through one of the dividing walls.

Shards sparkled in his hair as he lay on the floor, a red stain spreading rapidly across his shirt. Villiers examined him through the sizeable hole in the glass wall, seemingly content, then turned back into the room. Fagin looked ghostly white, smoothing strands of hair back across his gleaming pate. And Jilly Watson... well, she was staring at Dreyfuss’ still body with wide, tear-brimming eyes and horror carved into her cheekbones. Seeing this, Villiers smiled at her with a face that seemed to be transfigured before her very eyes, becoming quite mad and more dangerous, even, than ever.

But now Villiers’ attention was drawn to Fagin. ‘Don’t just stand there!’ he roared. ‘Get to work! Let’s see who stops Martin Hepton first: you with your computer, or Harry with her gun.’

There was chaos in the control room. Some of the men had risen from their consoles to stare wide-eyed at Harry, and more especially, at the gun she was pointing in Hepton’s face. A few onlookers, caught between one desk and another, had frozen where they stood, while others had slipped out of the room. Harry didn’t appear to see any of this. She had eyes only for Hepton. He was still seated at his computer but had taken his hands off the keyboard and placed them either side of it. His left hand rested on the desktop, his right hand on Nick Christopher’s heavy dictionary.

‘I can’t believe,’ Harry was saying, ‘you thought you could just walk in here.’

‘Why not?’ said Hepton. ‘You did, after all.’

She didn’t seem particularly angry or vengeful or confident or nervous. She seemed... relaxed. A job was a job, and this was just another one. Hepton took pleasure in the scars across her face, the result of his boiling water.

‘Now look,’ Nick Christopher said from somewhere behind Hepton’s shoulder. ‘You can’t just come in here waving a bloody gun—’

‘Don’t waste your breath, Nick,’ said Hepton. His fingers had closed around the book under his right hand.

‘That’s right,’ Harry said. ‘Don’t waste your breath.’

Hepton swallowed hard. He had one last card. ‘I was sorry to learn about your mother,’ he said.

Harry’s eyes widened, then narrowed to slits. ‘What?’

‘Your mother,’ Hepton repeated casually. ‘I was sorry to learn that she committed suicide. Something to do with your father, wasn’t it?’

‘Shut up.’

‘He was in the army, wasn’t he? I find that odd, you see.’ He paused.

‘You find what odd?’

‘That you should end up working for the military, working for everything your father stood for. Yet he was so brutal to your mother, to Harriet.’

‘Shut up!’

‘That was why you left home, wasn’t it? Did the old drunkard like to give you a beating too, eh?’

It was enough. Harry’s teeth were bared in absolute, mindless hate. She swung back the pistol and whipped it across Hepton’s face. As it connected, he brought up his left hand and gripped Harry’s pistol hand, her left hand, angling the gun away from him, while his right hand, now clutching the dictionary, swiped at her head, connecting heavily. The gun went off, its deadly charge hammering home into a computer screen, which sparked once before starting to smoke.

Hepton rose from his chair and placed one foot on the seat, using it as a springboard to launch himself over the desk, the computer, the monitor screen, landing heavily on Harry. His left hand still clutched her gun arm, while his right flexed and sent a clenched fist hard into her face. The contact was satisfying. She gasped, writhing beneath his weight. He could feel blood trickling down his cheek from where the pistol barrel had hit him. Then Harry’s knee connected with his groin, and he felt searing pain. He retched, but held fast to her arm, and punched her again, in the mouth this time. But she was wrenching free of him, kicking out, and scrabbling with her free hand towards his face, his hair, his eyes...

Her nails were like tools as they raked down his already bloodied cheek, digging into flesh. He cried out and pulled away from her hand. She used the moment to kick again with her full weight, sending him flying into a desk. People were pouring from the room, not about to lend a hand. Even Nick Christopher seemed rooted to the spot, his eyes on the pistol. The pistol she was raising again, aiming. Blood dripped from Hepton’s face onto the stone floor. His skin felt on fire. He prepared himself for a final assault, while four feet away Harry stood, blood flowing from nose and mouth, her trigger finger squeezing...

‘Bastard,’ she screeched. ‘No more!’

‘Harry!’

She froze at the sound of the voice. Her gun still trained on Hepton, her eyes peered towards the far door, where another gun was trained on her.

‘Parfit!’ she spat, arcing the pistol towards the door. But too late: Parfit’s bullet hit home with a wet sound like an overripe peach hitting a wall. An inky pink spray covered Hepton as Harry fell back, her head crashing against a computer screen, cracking it, then her body sliding floorwards in a clumsy, ungainly mess. And there she lay, the gun still in her hand, but like nothing so much as a toy now, a rag doll with too little stuffing. Inelegant, and not at all tidy.

There were shouts, panic, pandemonium. Parfit didn’t care, didn’t bother identifying himself. He walked over to Hepton.

‘Have you finished?’ he asked. His eyes strayed momentarily to the corpse.

‘What?’ Hepton was still in shock, still reeling from a great feeling of being alive.

‘Whatever it is that you’re doing here.’

‘Oh.’ He was jolted back to the present. ‘No,’ he said, ‘not quite.’

‘Then get on with it.’ Parfit looked around. ‘Where’s Dreyfuss?’

‘He’s gone off to look for Jilly.’

‘Right.’ Parfit handed him a clean handkerchief. ‘Here, mop some of that blood off your face.’ As he stalked off, Nick Christopher slumped weeping into a swivel chair, covering sticky red face with sticky red hands. Hepton looked towards Parfit’s retreating figure.

‘What took you so long?’ he called with a grin, before walking back around the row of consoles to his own screen, where, numbly but fixedly, he began to go to work. ‘Nick,’ he said, ‘I need your help.’

Nick Christopher rubbed at his eyes. His voice was hollow. ‘What do you want me to do?’

Hepton pointed to the computer console next to his own. ‘Get that thing up and running. Do you remember that TV satellite we hacked into a couple of months back, so we could get the porn channel?’

‘Yes.’ Christopher looked uncomprehending.

‘Good, get me back into it, will you?’

Fagin stared at the screen. Villiers was growing ever more agitated beside him.

‘What’s happening?’ he snarled.

‘Nothing’s happening,’ said Fagin. ‘Absolutely nothing.’

‘Then Harry must have found him!’ Villiers said.

‘I don’t think so,’ Fagin answered. ‘Look.’

He was pointing towards the screen. Numerical sequences were appearing, rows and rows of numbers.

‘What are those?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Fagin simply. ‘Perhaps he’s trying to confuse us.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean,’ Fagin explained, ‘maybe he’s using these to throw us off the scent of what he’s really doing.’

‘You mean you don’t know? I thought you were supposed to be an expert?’

‘In some things, yes. But when it comes to hacking, I think Martin Hepton might just have the edge.’ Fagin’s smile had a hint of pride about it. Villiers grabbed him and shook him.

‘So shut it down,’ he yelled. ‘Close the whole thing down.’

Fagin did not resist. Instead he waited until Villiers had stopped shaking him. ‘I can’t do that,’ he said. ‘All we can do is wait for him to make his move — his real move.’ Then he sat down in front of the screen, a grandmaster awaiting his opponent’s opening gambit.

The room was empty now, with the exception of two live bodies and one very cold one. Hepton was in a chair on castors. Once Nick had tapped into the television satellite, he used this chair to wheel himself quickly between the two computer terminals — his own, locked into the Argos satellite and, consequently, into Zephyr; and the TV satellite. He worked fast and expertly, so that even Nick Christopher had trouble deciding what he was doing. Hepton was happy to explain.

‘I’m going to marry these two bastards,’ he said. ‘I’m going to take over the TV satellite and lock it into Zephyr, then disconnect Zephyr from Argos. Resulting in...’

Nick Christopher saw it all now, and broke into a wide, devilish grin. ‘You can’t do that,’ he said. ‘Do you know—’

‘Of course I know. I know what it’ll do. What’s more,’ smiling too, he turned to glance at his friend, ‘I really think I can do it.’

‘What’s happening now?’ Villiers was frantic. What had happened to Harry? Why hadn’t she disposed of Hepton?

Fagin rubbed his temples. He was too old for this, too old for Hepton’s tricks. ‘He’s doing something,’ he said. ‘But I don’t quite know what...’ His fingers worked slowly, methodically, on the keyboard, trying to cancel whatever Hepton was doing. Then it dawned on him. His voice became a whisper. ‘He’s using two terminals.’

‘What?’

‘He’s using two terminals at the same time.’

‘So open a second terminal! Now!’ Villiers pushed Fagin against the console. Fagin reached to a second computer and started coding in. ‘Perhaps there’s still time,’ Villiers said.

‘Yes, perhaps,’ agreed Fagin.

Jilly, however, saw what they could not. One of the monitor screens had burst into life. And instead of the aerial views she had become used to, she was watching a nature programme. The scene looked very much like Africa. Parched earth, creatures gathering around a drying pool of water. Then a voice.

‘Quickly, the animals learn that old enmities must be put aside, for now at least. Water is necessary for their survival, so they gather around, forgetting that they are enemies, knowing only that life is their priority. Hunters and hunted sip side by side...’

Villiers and Fagin turned slowly, disbelievingly, towards the TV monitor. For that was, unmistakably, where the sound was coming from. Stuck to the top of it was a large piece of Dymo tape, on which was printed ZEPHYR: LIVE PICTURES.

Fagin began to laugh. ‘I see what he’s done now!’ he roared hysterically. ‘I see!’

‘What?’ screeched Villiers. ‘What?’

‘Look,’ said Fagin, pointing to the screen. The wildlife programme had vanished, to be replaced by sharply focused pictures of Buchan, the camera homing in on the building work, the underground silos, the tips of the missiles themselves. Villiers opened his mouth in horror.

There was a deferential cough at the open door.

‘Good evening, Villiers,’ said Parfit, his gun extremely steady in his hand.

39

The screens began to jump around 8.15. Hepton’s intention was always to wreck the interface, not merely snip the connection. The estimated viewing figures of seven and a half million, however, came as a bonus. For in linking up the satellites, he had projected the shots of what was really happening in Buchan to a Europe-wide audience. While two video tapes, one master, one backup, ran, capturing the moment for posterity, satellite receiver dishes across most of Europe started to pick up a new station. Early-evening quiz shows, old movies and wildlife programmes crackled and faded and were replaced by pictures of nobody quite knew what. Some pirate station, people assumed, and many of them settled back, waiting to see if there would be any pornography on display, as the tabloid newspapers had been warning and promising. But all they got until nightfall was pictures of a building site. At least, they mostly assumed it was a building site. Except that one repeated shot showed what looked to be a large and ugly missile, resting nose up in its near-finished silo...

The plug had been well and truly pulled on COFFIN.

Villiers and Fagin were easily subdued, and Jilly was released. But Dreyfuss was in a bad way. Parfit felt an uncomfortable moment of sentiment: one second the pleasure of terminating Harry; the next the grief of seeing the blood-soaked shirt and feeling the fading pulse. How many lives could a man have? Dreyfuss had used up a fair quota already, but Parfit was grimly determined that he deserved yet another. He staunched the wound as best he could and waited for the ambulance.

Jilly buried her face in Hepton’s shoulder and let the tears come. They were tears of frustration rather than relief. Hepton, his work finished, didn’t know what his own tears were. But he let them fall all the same.

40

General Colin Mathieson-Briggs was sitting in his office when the men from Special Branch arrived. He knew why they had come, and had prepared himself for the moment, his tie knotted tightly so that his head remained erect.

General Jack Holliday was not, however, to be found in his office. Like Mathieson-Briggs, he had been on site at Binbrook the day they had infiltrated Zephyr. He had timed the whole process. From initial interference to complete locking-on had taken just under four minutes. Not long enough for anyone to notice any mischief, surely? There had been risks, of course, but they were not so great as the risk of leaving Britain defenceless and dependent on unreliable European allies for future safety...

His wife found him dead in the woods near their country estate. Holliday had gone shooting with his dog, a young Weimaraner. She discovered him slumped against a tree, his head taken clean off, the dog anxiously licking and cajoling the corpse’s hands and neck, its whiskers shiny crimson.

In France, Germany, Spain, Greece, Turkey, Finland, arrests were happening. And in the United States, too. Parfit had called Frank Stewart and given him the go-ahead to move in on General Ben Esterhazy and others, including, at the Pentagon, General William Colt. But without any apparent fuss or urgency: it had been decreed that the whole COFFIN affair was to be kept hidden from the world at large. In London, an anxious Home Secretary signed more D-notices in the space of an evening than in the rest of his term of office put together. It was all for the best.

Though Parfit had the devil of a job convincing Hepton, Dreyfuss and Jilly Watson of this. They were gathered around Dreyfuss’ bed, a good old-fashioned English hospital bed in a good old-fashioned (albeit private) English hospital. Dreyfuss was recovering slowly, but convincingly, though it seemed to him he’d been through all this one time too many.

‘So what did we accomplish?’ he asked.

Parfit shrugged. ‘What we set out to achieve,’ he answered.

‘So it just gets hushed up?’ yelled Jilly.

Parfit knew of her fiery reputation and was at pains not to test it too far.

‘The guilty will be punished,’ he said.

‘But not publicly!’

‘Does it matter?’

‘Yes, I think it does.’ She was out of her chair now, stalking towards the window.

‘I could remind you...’ Parfit began.

‘... That we’ve signed the Official Secrets Act,’ Jilly finished for him. ‘I know.’ She sighed. ‘But it’s so bloody unfair, after what we’ve been through.’

‘Jilly.’ The voice of reason was Dreyfuss’. ‘As Parfit says, does it matter? We’ve won.’

Jilly’s arm snapped out towards Parfit. ‘They’ve won,’ she said. ‘He’s won. Not us, Mickey. Not any of us.’ Her eyes went to Hepton, silent still in his chair, thoughtful, looking tired and numbed. ‘Martin?’ she coaxed.

He seemed to come awake. ‘What?’

‘What do you think?’

‘I think satellite TV’ll never be the same again.’ Then he laughed, the others joining in. ‘And I think I need a holiday.’

‘That shouldn’t present a problem,’ said Parfit, checking his watch. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve really got to go now. I have an appointment in London.’

‘Getting your back slapped?’ Jilly couldn’t resist asking.

‘Not quite,’ he said. ‘Can I offer anyone a lift?’

‘Yes please,’ said Hepton. He looked over towards Jilly, who paused, but finally shook her head.

‘I think I’ll stick around here for a little while,’ she said. She gave a hint of a smile in Dreyfuss’ direction, and he returned it.

‘Fine,’ said Hepton, meaning it. Parfit glanced at him.

‘Shall we go?’

‘Yes,’ said Hepton, ‘let’s go.’

As the car — yet another black Ford Sierra — sped towards London, Parfit revealed the nature of his appointment.

‘I’m seeing our friend Vitalis,’ he said. ‘Having dinner with him, actually, just to let him know what happened. He did the same for me after the Polish thing.’

‘Will you tell him everything?’ Hepton asked, staring at the passing scenery.

Parfit thought this over. ‘Probably not,’ he said. ‘Almost certainly not. It doesn’t matter, so long as he’s told a little of it and doesn’t have to find out for himself.’

‘The special relationship,’ Hepton said quietly to himself, musing. Then he asked the question that had been bothering him for days. ‘How come COFFIN always knew where to find us?’

The question seemed to surprise Parfit. He raised his eyebrows and puckered his mouth. Then he shook his head with slow deliberation.

‘It could have just been Villiers, I suppose,’ he said casually.

‘Or it could have been someone in your organisation. It could even have been you, Parfit, couldn’t it?’

Parfit’s eyes were on the road ahead.

‘It could have been you,’ Hepton repeated, enjoying this deliberate train of thought, ‘because you wanted to get Harry. And because you wanted Harry, you were only too willing to set us up as bait. Catchable bait.’

Now Parfit barked out a laugh, though with a slight, noticeable edge to the sound.

‘It’s an intriguing thought,’ he said. He was on the point of adding something, but he had already given away enough confidences. It would reflect badly on the Service if people found out that Blake Farquharson was in COFFIN up to his mottled neck. There had to be a quiet demise for Farquharson. An accident, perhaps, or heart failure. These things could be arranged. Parfit was, after all, an expert in damage limitation. He couldn’t tell Hepton and he couldn’t tell Vitalis. He couldn’t even tell Frank Stewart, who was so looking forward to being there when Ben Esterhazy was arrested. No, it had to be the Department’s secret... for the moment. The Department’s secret that Blake Farquharson, head of the Secret Intelligence Service, had been a traitor at the highest level; a traitor not to his country so much as, in Parfit’s mind, to his calling. He hadn’t visited the PM that day; he had called from a public telephone kiosk and made his apologies. And he had been ever ready to slip information to George Villiers — his protégé of sorts — and to Harry; as much information as was necessary. God might know why he’d done it; Parfit didn’t.

He squinted ahead into the sunshine. The sky was blue, peppered with tiny high-level clouds. If the sky was blue, how come space was black? He could always ask Hepton. There was a lot he should ask Hepton, but this probably wasn’t the time.

Blake Farquharson carried only one case as he left his home. A small case, the kind one might use on an overnight trip. Not that he was going on an overnight trip. He was fleeing for ever. He had some money in a confidential account, tucked away on a Caribbean island. They would find him eventually. But that didn’t matter. All that mattered was that it shouldn’t happen here, at home, in England.

The streets seemed quiet. He looked up and down for a taxi, and was elated to see one turn the corner in his direction. Its orange light was on, too, proclaiming it for hire. He waved an arm, and the taxi signalled, pulled into the kerb and stopped.

‘Heathrow,’ Farquharson ordered, getting in.

‘Of course,’ said the driver, his voice oddly inflected.

The taxi started off, and Farquharson stared at the driver. He looked familiar. In the rear-view mirror, the man’s dark eyes wrinkled with pleasure.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘you do know me, Mr Farquharson. At least, I think you do. My name is Vitalis. You are about to leave the country. Probably for some warm climate. But might I suggest a slightly cooler one? Somewhere your old friends won’t find you? At any rate, let us talk.’

Farquharson stared out of the window. The taxi was not travelling fast. He wrapped his fingers around the door handle and tried it, but it was locked. Vitalis was still smiling at him. Farquharson rested his back against the seat and closed his eyes. Slowly they filled with tears.