by Ian Rankin
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 preven
t 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.’
