Westwind

by Ian Rankin

  ‘Very good, Martin. I was beginning to wonder if you’d ever get round to asking. I thought you’d forgotten procedures. Take this.’ She produced a slip of paper from her skirt pocket and rose from her chair to hand it to him.

  From close up, he could smell the subtle soap she used. She wasn’t wearing perfume, though; either that or his nose wasn’t attuned to it. He stared at the numbers on the paper.

  ‘It’s a telephone number,’ she said. ‘Ex-directory; you won’t have come across it before. If you dial it, you will find yourself speaking to your superior, Mr Fagin. It’s a direct line. He’ll give you clearance to speak to me, and he’ll promise also to give that permission in writing. Don’t worry, nothing you might say to me will get back to him.’

  ‘You don’t have any identification on you?’

  ‘Nothing formal,’ said Harry. ‘It’s against the rules. I can let you have a library ticket or my credit card, but that’s about it.’

  Hepton smiled but was already picking up the telephone. The receiver at the other end was answered after the very first ring.

  ‘I suppose that’s you, Martin. I was told to expect a call. Listen, I want you to tell them everything, do you understand? It may be more important than you think. Don’t let it spoil your holiday, though; just get it all off your chest and then you can enjoy yourself.’

  As Hepton listened to Fagin’s unmistakable voice, saying little himself, he watched Harry picking invisible hairs off the arms of her chair. His head was spinning. What is all this about? A little while ago, Fagin hadn’t seemed interested in anything he or Paul Vincent might have to say. Yet now he was ordering Martin to tell all. He wrenched his thoughts back to the here and now in time to catch Fagin’s final statement:

  ‘If you keep anything from them, you could get into serious trouble, and they’ll know if you’re hiding something. That’s their job. I must go now. Goodbye.’

  As though she had heard everything, Harry raised her head at this, staring towards him with a righteous look on her face. Hepton put down the telephone and sank into his chair, feeling not at all comfortable in his own home. He pinched the bridge of his nose, then straightened up.

  ‘So what do you want to know?’ he said.

  ‘What I really want, Martin,’ Harry began, ‘is not so much to be told as to do the telling. As I said before, there probably isn’t much you could tell me that I don’t know already. You should be aware, however, that this is a matter of national security. It sounds like a cliché these days, but I’m in absolute earnest. It is in everyone’s interest for you to forget whatever Paul Vincent told you.’

  ‘Told me about what?’

  Her look was that of a disappointed schoolmistress, some favoured pupil having let her down. Hepton stared at her evenly.

  ‘Told you,’ she said, ‘that he had noticed something on his monitor.’

  ‘Then there was something up there?’

  ‘Certainly there was … interference. We’re looking into it.’

  ‘But who’s “we”?’

  ‘You could say that I do PR work for the armed forces.’

  ‘Public relations?’ Hepton sounded doubtful. Harry shrugged. ‘But I don’t understand,’ he persisted. ‘What have the army got to do with it?’ Then he remembered. Zephyr was watching for civil unrest during the US pull-out. The army must be on standby, of course.

  ‘As a matter of interest, Martin, what do you think happened?’

  ‘Me?’ Hepton seemed genuinely surprised. ‘Why should anyone be interested in what I think?’ He remembered his final sighting of Paul Vincent, looking scared and beaten. For some reason, the memory stirred him to anger. ‘I’ll tell you what I think,’ he said. ‘I think you know less than you’re saying, not more.’ He was out of his seat now, standing over her. ‘I think you should get out and leave me alone. That’s what I think. And if I want to tell anybody about all of this, then I’ll damned well tell them.’

  She stood too, her eyes on a level with his. Her face had tightened, and there were spots of red on either cheek. Her voice when she spoke was as cold and lifeless as a deep freeze.

  ‘Of course you must do whatever you see fit. I’ll get my jacket.’ He followed her to the kitchen and watched her put the jacket on. She surveyed the newly cleaned work surfaces. ‘Neat and tidy,’ she said, ‘that’s how I like things, Martin.’

  ‘Is that a threat?’

  She smiled at this, but not pleasantly, and moved past him into the hall, opening the front door. She paused on the threshold, reached into her jacket pocket and brought out a laminated business card. Well, it looked like a business card, but in fact all there was on it was a printed telephone number. ‘You can contact me at that number,’ she said.

  Hepton stared at the card. ‘What did you mean when you said we work for the same bosses?’

  She chose not to reply, but reached again into her pocket and held out a ten-pence piece towards him. ‘For the call,’ she said. He accepted the money. She was leaving now, but she turned one last time. ‘You know Major Dreyfuss, don’t you?’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘It’s my job,’ she said.

  He watched her descend the stairwell, then listened as she walked along the passage to the main door. He closed his front door and walked briskly to the living room window, but there was no sign of her in the street outside, no sound of her shoes moving away. His head was spinning. His flat, his private life, everything had been suddenly whisked away from him, reshuffled and brought back altered beyond repair. The old man was still examining stray scraps left by the market stalls. Dispossessed, but no more so than Hepton was himself. As Hepton watched, the man arched his back, straightening it, and in that moment looked up at the window. Hepton flinched, shrank back into the room. Was he being watched? Who was watching him? He realised that he wasn’t just confused. He was afraid. Terribly afraid, and yet without knowing quite why.

  Harry used a small infrared device to disconnect her car alarm as she walked towards the black Sierra, then unlocked the boot and took from it a large attaché case, which she carried with her to the driver’s-side door. Sliding into the seat, she quickly opened the case and studied the telephone equipment inside. She should check in, but she still wasn’t sure how much of a threat Hepton was. He seemed at the same time quite innocent and quite devious. Of course, as she knew from experience, even the innocent could be dangerous. She had to be sure. She closed the case again, unlocked the glove compartment and removed from it a small black plastic module. Switching it on, she was rewarded with a high-pitched bleep and a strong green light at the centre of a series of radiating LEDs. It wasn’t the world’s most sophisticated tracking device, but it would do. She placed the tracker on the passenger seat and sat back, hands on the steering wheel, eyes staring straight ahead, waiting …

  Part II

  Independent, 21 September 1987

  11

  Days were passing. Dreyfuss felt sure of that, though he slept mostly. Probably because of the drugs they were giving him: the ones he could see, the ones they asked him politely to swallow; and perhaps the ones he couldn’t see, concealed in his drinking water, his meals.

  But after his latest bout of unconsciousness, he awoke not to the restorative sight of Nurse Carraway, but to two stern figures, the same men as before, the ones the doctor had named as General Esterhazy and Mr Stewart.

  The general was examining the cards attached to the few flowers that had been sent to the invalid.

  ‘Who’s Jilly, for Christ’s sake?’ he asked the other man, unaware as yet that Dreyfuss’ eyes were opening.

  ‘Just some woman he knows. They used to date in school apparently.’

  God, they know so much about me …

  ‘He was married, though?’

  ‘Divorced now. The ex-wife lives somewhere in Australia.’

  ‘I notice she didn’t send any flowers,’ the general commented, taking pleasure in the fact.

&n
bsp; Dreyfuss noted that Stewart seemed subdued, while the general himself was as abrasive in his speech as a grinding tool. Now Stewart had noticed that Dreyfuss’ eyes were opened to slits.

  ‘General,’ he warned, and both men came to the bed. Dreyfuss could smell salt and something sweeter, an aftershave perhaps. ‘My name’s Frank Stewart,’ said the civilian. ‘I’m from the State Department.’

  He’s CIA, Dreyfuss thought. Either that or NSA.

  ‘And this is—’

  ‘Jesus Christ, Frank,’ snapped the general, ‘I can make my own introductions, can’t I?’ He turned his eyes to Dreyfuss. The pupils were inky, like staring down the barrel of a pistol. ‘The name’s General Ben Esterhazy.’

  Esterhazy, one of the biggest of the cheeses. He had been on a mission to Europe and hadn’t been able to meet with the Argos crew to offer them good luck. Instead, an aide had come to give them the general’s best wishes.

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Dreyfuss in a voice weak from sleep. In fact, he didn’t feel at all bad, but he didn’t want the hospital thinking he could be moved. He felt safe here, safe from choking hands. And he still had to find out a few things. ‘They’re all dead, aren’t they?’ he asked.

  ‘Every goddamned one of them,’ Esterhazy said bitterly, while Stewart threw him a look that said he shouldn’t have told Dreyfuss that. Dreyfuss had the feeling there was no love lost between these two men, or between their respective organisations.

  Stewart dragged the nurse’s chair closer to the bed and sat down. He was a heavyset man in his early fifties. Dreyfuss thought his hair had probably been grey for quite a few years. In build, however, he was Joe Frazier to Esterhazy’s Ali. The general was tall, and as broad as Americans liked their heroes to be. Esterhazy had been publicly and vociferously opposed to the European pull-out, and had received a polite but stinging slap on the wrist from the White House as a result.

  Which hadn’t stopped them sending him to Europe to negotiate the terms of the pull-out itself.

  ‘So,’ Frank Stewart was saying, ‘how are you doing?’

  Stewart had slipped out of his jacket, which he was now hanging over the back of the chair. Dreyfuss noticed the gold armbands on his shirtsleeves. He had never seen anyone wear bands before, outside of old movies. Maybe a snooker player or two, but only of the old school. Perhaps they were there to cut off the supply of blood to Stewart’s fists, so he wouldn’t sling a punch at General Esterhazy. Stewart’s eyes were as murky as prunes swimming in semolina, and the cracks on his face weren’t there from laughing. He reached into his pocket for a crisp white handkerchief with which to mop his forehead. Dreyfuss knew who he was now: he was Spencer Tracy playing the tired, put-upon father in some film.

  ‘I’m doing okay,’ Dreyfuss answered, pouring himself a little water. He saw for the first time that the drip by his bed had been taken away. There was a fresh sticking plaster on his arm where the syringe had been removed.

  ‘Better than some,’ spat Esterhazy.

  ‘Ben, for Christ’s sake—’

  ‘Well, what do you want from me?’ Esterhazy exploded. ‘Tears and flowers?’ He slapped at the bunch of flowers nearest him and sent some petals spinning floorwards. ‘Five good men died up there.’

  ‘Do we know what happened yet?’ asked Dreyfuss.

  ‘We don’t, no,’ said Esterhazy. His eyes drilled into Dreyfuss’. ‘Do you?’

  Dreyfuss took his time, sipping the water, thinking over his reply. But Stewart was ready with another question.

  ‘The doc says you’ve got a case of partial amnesia. Is that right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So what do you remember?’

  Dreyfuss rested his head against the pillow. ‘I was chosen as the British member of the Argos mission. We were launching a communications satellite. Everything went fine …’ He stared at the ceiling, seeing the control panel again, the computer screen, the readouts, which had stopped making sense. Heinemann had been watching the screen, too, but hadn’t said anything. He didn’t seem to think there was anything wrong.

  But there was.

  And at first Dreyfuss hadn’t said anything, in case the answer was simple and they all sneered at him again, thinking him underqualified to be on the flight, thinking him stupid. But then he had mentioned it to Hes Adams …

  ‘Yes?’ Stewart prompted.

  ‘Everything went fine, like I said. But when we were coming in to land, the onboard system failed.’

  ‘Christ, we know that!’ shouted Esterhazy. ‘Tell us something we don’t know.’

  ‘Ben, please.’ Stewart’s voice was pleading. He smiled at Dreyfuss.

  Techniques for the survival of interrogation, number one: trust no one, and especially not anyone who appears to be your friend. That was what they had taught him. He would have to be careful of this man Stewart.

  He had a question to ask for himself.

  ‘How far is Sacramento from Edwards Air Force Base?’

  ‘Maybe three hundred miles,’ Stewart said.

  ‘Why was I brought here then? Why not a hospital closer to Edwards?’

  Stewart turned to Esterhazy. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘why was that, Ben?’

  ‘I told you, Frank, we were trying to throw off the press. They’ve been round this thing like vultures. We were also trying to avoid any ugly scenes, public demonstrations, folks wanting him strung up.’ Esterhazy was relishing this. ‘So instead of taking him to Bakersfield or LA, which would have been obvious choices, we landed him at McClellan and brought him here. And what do we get by way of thanks? Squat!’

  Stewart ignored this, his attention still on Dreyfuss. ‘Those bruises on your throat aren’t love bites, are they, Major?’

  ‘I suppose we all panicked when the shuttle was coming down.’ Dreyfuss had had time to prepare this story. ‘We all got a bit crazy.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ hissed Esterhazy. ‘They were the best. They wouldn’t panic. They’d take it like men. I know they would.’

  ‘If you say so,’ Dreyfuss said.

  ‘Sonofabitch,’ Esterhazy growled.

  There was that word again. Sonofabitch! The burial’s what matters. Coffin’s got to be buried! But what coffin? Whose? Had Hes Adams meant the shuttle itself?

  Esterhazy was coming towards the bed. He looked massive, and not a little dangerous. ‘What the hell is it with you, Dreyfuss? Just what is it you’re trying to hide? I know you know something. Damn you, I want to know what it is.’ He turned to Stewart. ‘Get out, Frank. Give me ten minutes with this bastard.’

  ‘Ben, don’t be stupid. You’re a general, not some damned sergeant in the marines. And this isn’t Vietnam. This is the United States. That’s not the way we work.’

  Esterhazy’s voice had become almost neutral. ‘Yes it is, Frank,’ he said. ‘You should know that. Now either you get out of here, or I’ll have a couple of my men drag you out.’

  ‘Ben …’ Stewart’s face was purple with blood. Nobody had talked to him like this for quite some time, which, Dreyfuss supposed, meant he was fairly high up in his organisation. But he held his rage and got slowly to his feet. ‘You’re making a mistake,’ he said. Esterhazy was smiling now.

  ‘Hell, Frank, what do you think I’m going to do? Wire electrodes to his nuts? Your gang might have stooped to that once upon a time. But all we’re going to do is talk. Just a one-to-one. Because the major is holding back on me, and I don’t like that.’

  Stewart was at the door now, hesitant, but ready to leave.

  Techniques for the survival of interrogation, number two: when a team of two is involved, everything they do is calculated, everything is a trick. Don’t be fooled.

  ‘Tell me something,’ Esterhazy was saying, his breath close to Dreyfuss’ ear, ‘how come nobody from your own embassy has even bothered to come see you? Huh? Answer me that.’

  Esterhazy’s hands were leaning on the edge of the bed, and Stewart was turning the handle, opening the door, making to lea
ve.

  But there was someone outside the door, and as Stewart opened it, they walked in, as though they had been standing there for some time listening, awaiting the moment to make the most effective entrance.

  ‘Good day to you, gentlemen,’ the intruder said by way of introduction. ‘The name’s Parfit, British embassy.’

  What was he, some kind of child? To be ignored like that, to be left here in his room while the three of them went off for a meeting. Parfit, British embassy. Just like that.

  ‘Well, Jesus, it’s about time one of you guys turned up,’ Esterhazy had sneered. ‘If this’ – jerking his head in Dreyfuss’ direction – ‘if this had been one of ours in your country, we’d have been at his bedside before the goddamned shuttle had stopped smoking! We look after our own, and I’ll tell you—’

  ‘I’m sure you will, General.’ Parfit’s voice was as clean as a polished window. ‘Is there a room where we can sit down and discuss things?’

  ‘There’s the administrator’s office,’ offered Frank Stewart.

  ‘Excellent,’ said Parfit. He came to the bed and touched Dreyfuss’ shoulder. ‘I’m glad to see you looking so well, Major. We’ll talk soon.’

  And then they’d walked out of the room and left him. Dreyfuss fumed for a couple of minutes, his heart racing, angrier than he’d been since the crash. Then he pulled at the bedcover and swung his legs off the mattress and onto the floor. The floor itself was warm to the touch, yet the room was cool. He stood up, feeling his legs wobble from inaction. He locked them at the knees and drew himself to his full height. A few hesitant steps took him to the washbasin, where he splashed cold water onto his face. He looked in the mirror, and saw a pale face, a gaunt face, the hair cloying and in need of shampoo. The skin was singed from the shuttle blaze, and cream had been smeared onto his cheeks and forehead. And yes, those bruises on his neck were prominent. He looked a mess.

  He dried himself with a towel, feeling sweat trickling down his back from the effort thus far. Then he shuffled over to where the flowers sat. There were two cards: one from Jilly, and one from Cam Devereux.