Westwind

by Ian Rankin

‘A private jet? Is that standard Foreign Office issue?’

  Parfit smiled. ‘It’s not ours, I just borrowed it from someone who happened to owe me a large favour.’

  Dreyfuss nodded.

  ‘So,’ Parfit was saying, ‘I think you’d better start at the beginning, hadn’t you?’

  ‘I nearly died up there.’ Dreyfuss turned towards him. ‘Why didn’t you warn me?’

  ‘But if you’ll remember, I did warn you. That’s why we’re sitting here today.’

  Yes, Dreyfuss remembered all right. The telephone call telling him he’d been picked for the Argos flight, and then the arrival at his home of a man in a pinstripe suit, introducing himself as ‘Parfit, Foreign Office’. He had come, so he said, to give Dreyfuss a pre-briefing briefing. In fact, he had come with a warning.

  The first thing he had done was go through Dreyfuss’ curriculum vitae, but in much more detail than the interview panel had done. He had cited Dreyfuss’ age as a point against him. Other minus points included lack of experience and slight problems of stamina. Dreyfuss, who had been elated at the news of his selection, began to feel distinctly uncomfortable at this.

  ‘Yes, but they still chose me,’ he had said.

  ‘Exactly, Major Dreyfuss,’ Parfit had replied. ‘Exactly.’

  So there had to be a good reason, and Parfit was intrigued to know what it was. Dreyfuss had been bottom of the British list of candidates – no disrespect intended – and they couldn’t figure out how he could come top of the American list. But there would be a reason, and it was judged worth warning Dreyfuss to be on his guard, and to give him a few tips, a few lessons in the art of survival in a hostile environment.

  ‘You were right about that,’ Dreyfuss said now. He had just been telling Parfit what he had told Stewart, but in a little more detail this time. ‘I didn’t get into a space shuttle, I got into a coffin.’

  ‘So you think the shuttle itself is the coffin that had to be buried?’

  ‘Don’t you?’

  Parfit rested his head against the seat-back, thinking things through. ‘No,’ he answered at last. ‘No, I don’t, not entirely.’

  ‘So what do you think was being buried?’

  ‘I don’t know. Perhaps we should just ask General Esterhazy. He seems to be involved after all, doesn’t he?’

  ‘But you don’t think Frank Stewart is?’

  ‘If he were, he wouldn’t have been asking you questions the way he did. He wasn’t questioning you to find out how much you knew. He was doing it because he doesn’t know much of anything himself.’

  ‘It’s a military thing then?’

  ‘Perhaps. Whatever it is, someone’s going to a lot of trouble over it, which would seem to indicate that it is fairly special and not very small in scale.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘I could only posit a few guesses.’

  ‘Posit away.’

  Parfit sighed. ‘Anything between an assassination and a war.’ He paused. ‘They’re not mutually exclusive.’

  ‘A war?’

  ‘Why not? Look at the way things are going.’

  ‘Christ … a war.’ Dreyfuss felt weak again. ‘But wait, if it’s such a big thing, why did they keep me alive?’

  ‘Well, that’s easy enough. Five men had already died, and yet you had been pulled alive and in surprisingly good health from the wreckage. The TV cameras and newspapers caught all that. So your sudden death in hospital would have looked a mite suspicious.’

  ‘We were all supposed to die, though, weren’t we? All the crew?’

  ‘It looks that way. A kamikaze mission to launch a communications satellite. An unlikely scenario, you’ll admit.’

  ‘But it wasn’t just a comms satellite, was it?’

  Parfit turned towards Dreyfuss and smiled, seeming pleased that he had worked this out. ‘The question is,’ he said, ‘what was it?’

  ‘I know one way we might find out.’

  Parfit seemed interested now.

  ‘How?’

  ‘My controller on the ground, Cam Devereux. He might know.’

  Parfit nodded. ‘It’s an idea. But even supposing he knows anything, why would he tell us?’

  Dreyfuss seemed not to understand the question.

  ‘I mean,’ Parfit said, ‘why should he be friendly towards us? Can we assume he’s not in on it – whatever “it” is?’

  ‘Well,’ said Dreyfuss, ‘can you think of anyone else who might have the answers?’

  Parfit considered this. ‘Off the top of my head, no.’

  ‘Besides which,’ Dreyfuss continued, ‘I got on well with Cam. He sent flowers to the hospital. We struck up what you might call a special relationship.’

  Parfit raised an eyebrow. ‘Any particular reason why?’

  ‘We had something in common,’ said Dreyfuss. ‘As kids, we were both scared to death of roller coasters.’

  Parfit stared at him. Dreyfuss smiled back.

  ‘Well,’ Parfit said, ‘I suppose we’ve nothing to lose by talking to Mr Devereux. Best wait until we’re safely back in the embassy compound, though. We’ll try and contact him from there. All we need to do now is find someone who would know what that readout meant. Ze/446 – you’ve really no idea?’

  ‘No, but if Cam Devereux can’t help, I might know someone who can.’

  Now Parfit looked genuinely impressed.

  ‘A friend of a good friend of mine,’ he continued. ‘He works with satellites in the UK.’

  ‘And what is his name?’

  ‘His name’s Hepton,’ said Dreyfuss. ‘Martin Hepton.’

  16

  Hepton took his car to the long-term car park at Heathrow and slept the night there. He awoke cramped and stiff, locked the car and wandered off towards the terminal building in search of breakfast. He hadn’t been to Heathrow in what seemed like years. The place was huge, a city almost in itself. Eventually he found what he was looking for, and drank two cups of coffee before buying an overpriced croissant, then another, then a third, chewing each one slowly as he considered his options. His first plan still seemed the best: get in touch with Dreyfuss.

  It was early, but the cafeteria section was busy with business executives and security men. Hepton felt scruffy and a little too obvious. He went to the toilets and washed, tidying his hair as best he could. At the sky shop, he bought a comb and a toothbrush. He also bought two newspapers, neither of which carried any mention of Paul Vincent’s death. Not that he had expected them to.

  He found a cashpoint machine, and was about to empty it of his day’s maximum allowance when he hesitated. Would they have access to his bank account? By ‘they’, he meant Villiers and Harry. If so, they could track him as far as Heathrow just by tapping into the present transaction. On the other hand, he had to have money, and if he took it out now at least they wouldn’t be able to pinpoint him to London itself. He might even be about to get on a plane, mightn’t he? Running scared and flying for cover. So he pushed the card home, tapped in his identity number and withdrew ten crisp ten-pound notes.

  He had decided to leave the car here. For one thing, they had his licence plate number and the car’s description, so he didn’t want to drive it around London. Besides, he had the feeling that in London a car might actually slow him down. It wasn’t a series of roads out there; it was a jungle. Which was all to the good. He wanted to lose himself there, and hope the big-game hunter in the black Sierra went home without a kill.

  He took the uncrowded Tube train towards town. It filled up as it hit west London, then became claustrophobic as it neared the centre. South Kensington came as merciful release. But all he was doing here was changing platforms to the District and Circle Line, and the train that eventually arrived was again crowded. How could people live like this? He thought of green fields, of Louth. Of hangings and cars trying to crush him … Safety in numbers: that was what a city provided.

  So he stopped hating the packed carriage, and rubbed shoulders with an
extraordinarily pretty young woman until Westminster, where, despite the temptation to keep travelling, he finally alighted. Tourists were already busying themselves with the day’s chores, cameras and video cameras trained on the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben. Hepton headed up Whitehall and realised suddenly that he didn’t know which of the large, anonymous buildings he needed. Understated signs beside the impressive doors were the only indication as to their identity. A man was striding purposefully towards him, black briefcase in hand. Hepton recognised the style of the briefcase: soft leather, more a school bag than a business case. There was a small crown above the nameplate. He had seen visitors from the MoD carrying such bags when they came to the base. He stopped the man.

  ‘I wonder if you can help me,’ he said. ‘I’m looking for the Foreign Office.’

  The man said nothing; merely indicated with his head before walking on. Hepton stared at the building towards which he had nodded, then started towards its arched main door.

  ALL PASSES MUST BE SHOWN declared the sign just inside the doors. Below it, another notice advised that security alert was condition Amber. Security alert was normally at Black. Hepton knew this from his own dealings with the MoD, though Binbrook had its own, different grading system. Above Black came Black Special, which meant there was cause for caution, and after Black Special came Amber. Amber was what government departments had gone to after the Libyan bombing. Amber was serious, only marginally less serious than Red. Hepton had never seen a Red alert, and, knowing what it meant, hoped he never would.

  The uniformed guard was eyeing him suspiciously.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’

  ‘I hope so,’ Hepton said. ‘I’d like to speak with someone about a friend of mine. This friend is in the United States, and it’s vital that I contact him. Is there anyone here who might help?’

  ‘Why not just phone your friend, sir?’

  It was a fair question. Remembering Paul Vincent and Harry, however, Hepton knew that speed was of the essence. He hadn’t time to muck around, to engage in little games of ‘let’s pretend’. He needed to get past this first obstacle quickly, and he knew of only one sure way to do it.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘it’s not quite that simple. You see, he’s Major Michael Dreyfuss, the man from the shuttle crash.’

  Eventually he was given a visitor’s pass to fill in, which he did, using the name Martin Harris. Then he was shown to an office along a sweeping, red-carpeted corridor. There were many doors, bearing room numbers and sometimes the name of an individual or a section. The room Hepton eventually entered, however, had neither. A young man sat behind a desk. He stood as Hepton entered, leaned across the table to shake his hand and gestured for him to take a seat.

  ‘Would you like some coffee, Mr Harris?’ There was a percolator standing on a table beside the small window.

  ‘Please,’ said Hepton.

  As the man poured, Hepton studied the room. It had bookshelves, but no books, and the desk looked to be unused. Though it boasted some papers and a box of biro pens, there was a layer of dust covering its surface, evidence that this room wasn’t often occupied. He wondered if he had walked into some kind of trap.

  ‘Milk?’

  ‘Please, no sugar.’

  He was handed a cup and saucer. The young man sat down again, sipped, then looked up.

  ‘So then, Mr Harris, what can we do for you?’

  ‘Well, I’m a friend of Major Michael Dreyfuss …’

  ‘Yes, so you said.’

  ‘And I really would like to get in touch with him.’

  ‘Any particular reason why?’

  ‘To wish him a speedy recovery, of course.’

  The man nodded. ‘It’s taken you a while to get round to that, hasn’t it?’

  Hepton reminded himself that he had no time to play games. ‘Look,’ he said firmly, ‘there’s just something I need to speak with him about. Something personal, but very important.’

  ‘Oh?’ The civil servant had picked up one of the new biros and was examining it. It struck Hepton that he didn’t know who this man was.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I didn’t catch your name.’

  ‘Sanders,’ the civil servant said. ‘And you said yours was Harris.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Well, Mr Harris, it’s just that we have to be careful. A lot of people would like to speak to Major Dreyfuss. I’m sure you understand. Reporters from the less scrupulous newspapers, and other people. So, if there’s some way we can establish your identity …?’

  Hepton cursed silently. Sanders was shrewder than he had anticipated. He shook his head. Sanders appeared to have been expecting this.

  ‘Or,’ he said, ‘if you can prove your relationship with Major Dreyfuss …?’

  Hepton thought this over. ‘We have a mutual friend,’ he said at last. ‘Miss Jill Watson. She’s a reporter on the Herald.’

  The civil servant looked up from his pen. ‘And she sent you here?’

  Hepton saw the implication and shook his head. ‘No, no, of course not. She doesn’t even know I’m in London, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘No need to lose your temper, Mr Harris.’ Sanders was writing Jilly’s name on a sheet of paper. ‘But you’ve no proof of identity on you?’

  Oh, what the hell, thought Hepton. If they’re going to check on Jilly, they’ll get my name eventually.

  ‘My name’s Hepton, not Harris,’ he said.

  Sanders seemed satisfied. ‘But you signed the visitor’s pass Harris. That could get you into trouble, you know. Why the deception?’

  ‘Look, I just want to get in touch with Major Dreyfuss. If you could help me contact him …’

  Sanders rose to his feet. ‘Wait here a moment, would you, please?’ He walked smartly to the door. ‘Help yourself to more coffee,’ he said, making an exit.

  Hepton stayed seated, but couldn’t relax. This had seemed such a good idea at the time. There was bound to be someone from the FO in contact with Dreyfuss. It had seemed so simple … But now he had given them so much, and they had given him nothing. He got up and went to the window, pushing aside the net curtain to look out. All he saw was other windows in another building. They too had net curtains, making it impossible to see into the rooms.

  He crossed to Sanders’ desk and examined it. The papers, as expected, were just blank sheets. The drawers of the desk were locked. Over at the bookcase, he wiped a finger along one surface and it came away carrying a bud of dust, which he blew into the air. There was another door, a cupboard perhaps, but it too was locked. He went to the percolator and refilled his cup, drinking slowly. What was happening? Where had Sanders gone? Would Harry walk in through the door? Had he delivered himself to her on a plate?

  When the door did finally open, Sanders himself stood there, looking composed.

  ‘If you’d like to follow me, Mr Hepton,’ he commanded, and they set off together back along the silent corridor and up an imposing staircase. There weren’t so many rooms on this second level. A large and busy reception area was the hub of the activity as people walked briskly in and out of the various offices. Telephones rang, and a few visitors sat on modern upholstered chairs, flicking through magazines.

  Sanders approached the reception desk and said something to the prim woman seated there. She filled in another pass, which was torn from its pad and handed to Sanders, who in turn gave it to Hepton.

  ‘Sign it, please,’ he ordered, and Hepton accepted the proffered pen. ‘Best stick to calling yourself Harris,’ Sanders advised. ‘That way it doesn’t get complicated when you’ve handed back both passes and somebody tries to collate the day’s visitors in and out.’

  ‘Right.’ Hepton signed himself as Martin Harris and followed Sanders towards one of the doors. This led into a smaller reception, where a young black secretary tapped away at a computer.

  ‘Morning, Sarah,’ said Sanders, passing her and pausing at yet another door. Sarah smiled at Hepton, and he s
miled back. He was thinking now that everything was going to be all right.

  Sanders had knocked at the door. There was a command from within, and he opened it, ushering Hepton into the room before him.

  It was a decent-sized office, its furniture a mixture of the antique and the up-to-date. Books lined one wall, while another contained paintings and prints. The fourth and last was taken up for the most part by a large window, again net-curtained. At the window stood a middle-aged man, an important-looking man. The cut of his clothes was expensive, and where his cheeks had been shaved there was a bright ruddiness that bespoke health and wealth. Hepton had the feeling that he had seen this man before somewhere, on television perhaps.

  ‘Ah, Mr Hepton. Do come in, please. I’m George Villiers.’

  Villiers! Hepton’s heart shrank to the size of a peach stone. But he kept his face neutral, betraying no emotion, and finally shook the proffered hand. It struck him that Villiers wouldn’t – couldn’t – know that Hepton knew about him. He had to stay calm, not give anything away. He breathed deeply to stop himself from hyperventilating. His heart was racing, but he kept his posture stiff.

  Villiers motioned for him to sit, and Hepton did so. Then Villiers seated himself and drew his chair in towards the table. Something about his actions – a clipped, rehearsed quality, a feeling that each movement of the body possessed its own cause and effect – told Hepton that he was ex-military. And not all that ex either.

  Villiers lifted a sheet of paper from his desk. It was a typed sheet, not the one Sanders had taken with him from that first room. ‘Can you tell us why you wish to contact Major Dreyfuss?’

  ‘No,’ said Hepton briskly. ‘If you could just pass a message on to him that I’m trying to reach him, perhaps—’

  ‘You’re on holiday at the moment, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but how could you—’

  ‘These things aren’t difficult. All right, Mr Hepton. We’ll see what we can do. Where will you be staying while you’re here?’

  ‘I haven’t decided yet.’

  ‘With Miss Watson, perhaps?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Oh?’ Villiers stared past Hepton’s shoulder, towards where Sanders stood. ‘I was under the impression the two of you were friends?’