Westwind

by Ian Rankin

  ‘Who did you say you were?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Since school,’ Jilly answered.

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

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

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

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

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

  Sanders was relentless. ‘Is it necessary?’

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

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

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

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

  ‘What’s it to you anyway?’

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

  Devereux seemed confused. ‘Your lives?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Such as?’ asked Hepton.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Did the rest of the crew know?’

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

  ‘But what about the shuttle crew?’

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

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

  24

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘It’s a joint operation, then?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Watcher?’

  ‘Surveillance.’

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

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

  ‘See you in the morning,’ said Hepton.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Ditto MI6,’ snapped Farquharson.

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