by Ian Rankin
‘Right.’ Villiers leaned forward, resting his arms on the desk. ‘Well, it’s true enough. After Mr Hepton called here, I was able to contact our embassy in Washington. Major Dreyfuss is there at the moment, though that must remain strictly between us. Ah …’
Sanders pushed open the door and brought in a tray, the cups chinking together as he moved.
‘I hope you’re a better tea-maker than you are a driver,’ Jilly commented, the hint of a sneer on her face.
Sanders paused, but chose to ignore her. He left the tray on the desk in front of Villiers, then exited again. There was something else on the tray beside tea. It was a sheet of paper. Villiers slid it towards himself, glanced at it, then turned it so that the writing was facing away from him. His right hand went to his inside pocket and came out with a fountain pen, the top of which he removed to reveal a gold nib.
‘Miss Watson?’
‘Yes?’ Jilly stopped pacing and came to the desk. ‘What’s this?’
‘Routine, I’m afraid. I know Mr Hepton has already signed, as was required of him when he started work. If you would just …’
Jilly picked up the form and studied it. It was simple and to the point. It was the catch-all.
‘The Official Secrets Act?’ she said, smiling. ‘Well, why not?’ She snatched the pen from him and scratched her name on the paper, then handed back both paper and pen. Villiers looked satisfied, and slid the sheet into the top drawer of his desk. ‘I don’t mind signing something I’m quite willing to break,’ Jilly said with finality. Villiers’ satisfaction took the slightest of jolts. Jilly had picked up the teapot. ‘Shall I be mother?’
Villiers accepted his cup with what grace he could muster. He was still playing the senior civil servant.
‘So what’s this about Dreyfuss?’ asked Hepton, growing impatient.
‘Ah yes, Major Dreyfuss. Well, he’d like a word with you.’
‘With me?’ Jilly said, hopefully.
‘Alas, no, with Mr Hepton.’
‘Me?’ Hepton could not hide his surprise. ‘Whatever for? He hardly knows me.’
‘Yes, but he knows you by reputation, apparently. The embassy will be calling in another five minutes or so.’
‘But what does he want?’
‘I really can’t say.’ Villiers sat back, lips tightly closed, as though prepared to sit out the time before the phone call in silence.
‘Tell us about the Falklands,’ Jilly said nonchalantly.
Villiers twitched and leaned back in his chair, as though he had just been given a mild but unpleasant electric shock.
No, thought Hepton. This wasn’t the time to give away secrets. He saw why Jilly had done it. She was a journalist, a journalist who knew something about the man before her. Her professional instinct was to go for the jugular, startle him into some kind of revelation, get him worried … but this wasn’t a newspaper story. This was entirely more serious.
‘Jilly,’ he warned, ‘not now.’
‘Why not?’ she snarled. ‘Why not now?’
‘Because I say so.’ His voice was cold and hard, but his eyes were ablaze. She read his thoughts and seemed to understand them. Villiers had a bemused smile on his face.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said to Jilly, ‘what was it you were about to say?’
Her cheeks were red. ‘Nothing,’ she said.
Villiers turned to Hepton. ‘You know I served in the Royal Marines then?’ Hepton stayed silent. ‘You both seem to know a lot about me, Mr Hepton. Now why should that be? Why should a lowly civil servant interest you so much? Hmm?’
But now it was Hepton’s lips that stayed tight shut. Villiers rose from his chair and turned to stare out of his window. Hepton glanced at Jilly, whose face looked pained. She mouthed, ‘I’m sorry,’ at him. He merely winked in reassurance. Villiers turned back to face them.
‘I’m not sure speaking with Major Dreyfuss would be such a wise move,’ he stated. ‘I’d like you both to leave now.’
Hepton hadn’t been expecting this. But he saw that it made sense. He had been brought here to speak to Dreyfuss so that Villiers could ascertain how much he knew about Zephyr. But now Villiers had discovered that Hepton knew about him, making the telephone call hazardous. Indeed, Hepton now saw, it was imperative to Villiers that Hepton and Jilly leave, since their call to Dreyfuss would doubtless include their suspicions of Villiers himself …
‘We’re staying,’ he said. Jilly looked at him, uncomprehending.
‘Not if I want you to leave,’ Villiers said quietly.
‘Nevertheless, we’re staying.’
Villiers stared at him, then smiled, coming back towards the desk. ‘You’re a clever man, Mr Hepton. But you’re also incredibly stupid.’
He reached out a hand to pick up the receiver of the internal telephone, but just at that moment the other telephone started ringing. Hepton leapt from his seat, grabbing Villiers by the shoulders and propelling him away from the desk, pinning him against the wall. Villiers was strong, and he struggled.
‘Jilly,’ Hepton hissed between gritted teeth. ‘Answer the bloody phone!’
She did so. ‘Hello?’
Villiers had stopped struggling. Hepton relaxed a little, then remembered the man’s Marine training. A heel crushed down onto the toes of his left foot, and he gasped. Then two hands chopped into his ribs. Villiers crooked his index fingers and pressed hard against them with his thumbs. He jabbed the second knuckle of each rigid forefinger into Hepton’s neck. Hepton’s grip on him fell away. But when Villiers made to push him aside, Hepton clutched at him again, and the two men fell sprawling to the floor.
Jilly was shouting into the receiver. ‘It’s Villiers! He’s trying to kill Martin! It’s George Villiers!’ She wasn’t calling for help; she was just letting the facts be known.
Villiers, hearing her words, let out a growl. His hands went to Hepton’s throat again. Hepton drew back a fist and punched him deep in his stomach. Villiers had been Royal Marines, yes, but not for some years, years spent behind a desk. His gut was soft, and the blow winded him, giving Hepton time to climb back to his feet. He swung a foot at Villiers’ head, but Villiers’ reactions were still fast. He dodged the swing and grabbed Hepton’s leg, tugging him off balance and down onto the floor again, clambering atop him.
The older, heavier man’s weight was enough to pin Hepton down. A hand scrabbled at the desktop and came away again clutching a paperknife. Too late, Hepton remembered the kitchen knife in his own pocket. He caught Villiers’ wrist, but Villiers had found new strength. The knife pushed downwards against Hepton’s resistance. Villiers was smiling now, a look of tranquillity on his face. Close combat was his true calling; killing was his destiny …
The office door opened and Sanders looked in. His mouth fell open at the sight of his superior kneeling on top of Hepton with a knife poised above his throat.
‘Christ almighty!’ he gasped.
He loped towards the two men, and as Hepton watched, he seemed to turn his body sideways, raising one leg. The leg flexed, shot out, and a well-shod foot slapped into Villiers’ jaw, cracking his head to one side and throwing him off Hepton. Hepton scrambled to his knees, but Villiers was already on his feet. He seemed to take in the whole situation – Hepton, Sanders, Jilly still talking on the telephone – at a single glance, and started for the door.
‘Sir …’ Sanders laid a restraining hand on his shoulder, but Villiers pushed him aside and ran out.
‘Get after him,’ Hepton ordered.
‘What?’
‘You saw him. He was going to cut my fucking head off. Get after him!’
Sanders hesitated, then crossed to the other telephone, dialled two digits and spoke.
‘Security,’ he said. ‘Sanders here. I want George Villiers apprehended. Yes, that’s right. No, it’s not a joke. He’s trying to leave the building. I want him stopped.’ He slammed the receiver down again and looked to Hepton, who nodded at him in thanks.
; ‘Martin?’ Jilly was saying. She was holding the receiver out towards him. ‘Martin, they want to speak with you …’
The problem with the secure line, a line unlikely to be tapped into by prying ears, was that it made voices sound as though they were trapped somewhere between an anechoic chamber and a sardine tin. There was a flat, dull lifelessness to the sound, with occasional bursts of jangling metallic tone.
Was it any wonder then that Dreyfuss did not sound like the man Hepton had met one day for lunch with Jilly? But Hepton was intrigued by the secure line, too. Did it use a satellite link? And if so, how secure could it ever be? He took several deep breaths as he took the receiver from Jilly. She was shaking, and he placed a hand on her shoulder to let her know he was all right.
‘Is that you, Martin?’
‘Yes.’
‘Mike Dreyfuss here. What the hell’s going on?’
‘A man just tried to kill me. Lots of people seem to be trying to kill me of late. This one was a civil servant.’
‘Is Jilly okay?’
‘She’s fine.’ Hepton glanced across towards where Jilly, her arms folded in front of her, leaned against the wall. She nodded and smiled, confirming his opinion.
‘What?’ Dreyfuss seemed to be conferring with someone at his end of the line. ‘Hold on, Martin,’ he said. Then his voice was replaced by another.
‘Mr Hepton?’
‘Yes.’
‘My name’s Parfit. We haven’t spoken before.’
‘Parfit?’ Hepton repeated, his eyes on Sanders.
The young man, who had been pacing the room as though still unable to believe the scene he had just witnessed, drew himself upright at the sound of the name. His eyes turned to Hepton.
‘I work at the embassy here in Washington,’ Parfit was saying. ‘What’s all this about George Villiers?’
‘He wants me dead.’
‘But why, in God’s name?’
‘That’s a good question, Mr Parfit. It has something to do with the reason I’ve been trying to get in touch with Major Dreyfuss.’ There was a knock at the door. A uniformed guard opened it and had a short whispered conversation with Sanders.
‘Oh?’ Parfit sounded intrigued. ‘And what reason is that, Mr Hepton?’
The guard had gone. Sanders looked towards Hepton and shook his head: there was no sign of Villiers. Hepton couldn’t help wondering how hard the guards had tried. He also wasn’t entirely sure that he could trust Sanders himself. Yet here he was, having the conversation he wanted with the people he needed to speak with. He took another breath, his heartbeat slowing a little, the roaring in his ears more of a gentle breeze now.
‘The day the shuttle crashed—’ he began. But Parfit interrupted.
‘Wait one moment, would you, Mr Hepton? I’m going to put you on our conference facility, so that Major Dreyfuss can participate.’
Hepton waited impatiently.
‘Okay, go ahead now.’
He began again. ‘The day the shuttle crashed, about the time Argos was launching a satellite or whatever it was doing up there, our satellite went haywire. A friend of mine had an idea what had happened, but he ended up dead. Before he died, he gave me one word. That word was Argos.’
There was silence at the other end. Hepton glanced towards Sanders, who was listening intently.
‘Martin?’ It was Dreyfuss’ voice. ‘What do you think happened?’
‘I’m not sure. But people are getting killed because of it.’
‘All right then,’ said Dreyfuss. ‘Listen, I’ve got part of a sequence. I wonder if you know what it means. The whole sequence was much longer, but all I have are the first few letters and numbers.’ He paused. ‘Ze/446.’
Hepton smiled. He could have completed the sequence for them if they wanted.
‘That’s an easy one,’ he said. ‘It’s Zephyr, of course. It’s part of Zephyr’s identification code.’ His smile vanished. ‘How did you get hold of it?’
‘One of the crew on the shuttle had it on his screen. It kept flashing up.’
Hepton’s blood went a few degrees colder. ‘Then you were trying to lock onto Zephyr.’ It was a statement.
‘That’s just what I was thinking.’
Parfit’s voice came on the line. ‘Tell me about Zephyr, Mr Hepton.’
‘What do you want to know?’
‘What exactly does it do?’
‘It’s an all-purpose satellite, as versatile as we want it to be.’
‘What was it doing the day it went haywire?’
‘Not a lot. We’d been running some regular checks on it.’
‘Well, what might it be doing now? Any specific jobs it was supposed to carry out?’
‘A few. The big one, I suppose, is monitoring the troop pull-outs.’
‘The pull-outs?’
‘Nobody’s supposed to know. But we’ve been keeping an eye on the US bases in Britain.’
‘But why?’
‘To make sure it all runs smoothly. There are some protest groups, including one pretty big one called USA Stay. They said they intended to stage some kind of resistance. You know, linking hands around a camp, or putting a padlock and chain on the gate. Symbolic stuff mainly. But the brass wanted to know what they were up to.’
‘The brass?’
‘Yes, the military. They’ve been keeping an eye open. A couple of high-rankers were on site when Zephyr malfunctioned.’
Hepton was trying not to be melodramatic. He wanted to state facts rather than his own suppositions, just to see what Dreyfuss and Parfit might make of it. This was the first time he had told anyone the story – Jilly excepted – and it felt good. Almost like the confessional.
‘Then,’ he continued, ‘a friend of mine who works beside me thought he had something on his computer, some data showing interference with Zephyr. Next thing I know he’s been rushed to hospital, and soon after that he’s supposedly hanged himself in a closet. Then a woman called Harry tried to shoot me, run me over, and shoot me again.’
‘Harry?’ Parfit sounded almost excited.
‘Yes. Do you know her?’
‘I think so. We had a run-in with her four or five years ago. I thought she’d retired.’
‘She tried to kill me.’
‘Surprised you’re still alive then. Killing is her job. But how in hell is she mixed up in this?’
Hepton stared fixedly at Sanders. ‘My friend, the one who died. He told me to watch for someone called Villiers. I think Villiers and Harry are working together.’
‘But working on what?’ asked Parfit. ‘That’s the question. What does this satellite …’
‘Zephyr,’ said Hepton.
‘Yes, Zephyr. What does it do exactly when it’s hovering over its target?’
‘It takes photographs and sends them back to control.’
‘Control being where?’
‘Binbrook.’
‘Are these still photographs or videos?’
‘Stills, mostly. The data is beamed down to us, and the pictures develop on a machine almost instantaneously.’
‘Ingenious,’ Parfit said, as though he meant it. ‘A little like a fax then?’
Hepton smiled again. ‘A little, yes.’
‘But clear?’
‘Clear enough. In focus, if that’s what you mean.’
‘Ingenious,’ Parfit said again. Then: ‘Sorry, hold on a second, will you?’ There were muffled sounds at the Washington end, the sounds of a conversation. Hepton thought he heard the name ‘Johnnie’ mentioned at one point. Then Parfit’s voice came back, loud and more or less clear. ‘Sorry about that. Right, so are we any further forward, do you think?’
‘Well, we know that Argos locked onto Zephyr,’ said Hepton. ‘Probably using the satellite it was launching. What we don’t know is why. I had the idea it was all some kind of secret test, trying out some capability of the satellite that the powers-that-be wanted to keep hidden from even the ground controllers.’
&n
bsp; Parfit seemed to consider this. ‘Hmm,’ he said at last. Hepton wasn’t sure whether it was an interested ‘hmm’ or a sceptical ‘hmm’; the scrambler was still robbing the voices of any emotion. Then Parfit cleared his throat, and Hepton thought he could hear Dreyfuss whispering something, a name …
‘As Major Dreyfuss has just reminded me,’ Parfit said, ‘there is a man who might help us. His name is Cameron Devereux. He’s the other reason we called. Devereux was Major Dreyfuss’ contact at mission control. What you need to realise is that Argos was meant to crash, and with no survivors.’
‘A suicide mission?’
‘I doubt whether the crew knew that, though they must have known why they were up there in the first place. One of them tried to strangle Major Dreyfuss.’
‘Strangle Dreyfuss?’ Hepton saw the effect of his words on the room. Sanders, who was starting to sit, now stood up again, and Jilly looked aghast.
‘This man said something about needing to bury a coffin. Does that mean anything to you?’
‘No, nothing. So what about this Devereux?’
‘He might well know something about the sabotage. And if so, he may also know what the mission was.’
‘So talk to him.’
‘Yes, but he’s gone on vacation to London.’
Hepton rested against the edge of the table. ‘Has he now? And you’d like me to talk to him?’
‘Well, you might understand him better than we amateurs could.’
‘Okay, Mr Parfit. Where is he staying?’
‘A hotel on Park Lane, I believe. The Achilles. Our intelligence sources have just come up with it. He booked in yesterday.’
‘I’ll go there this evening.’
‘Good man. Take care, won’t you? If Harry’s supposed to have—’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘Who’s there in the room with you? I mean, besides Miss Watson. I’ve already spoken with her. Or rather, I’ve already had her screaming at me that you were being murdered before her eyes.’
