by Ian Rankin
‘So,’ said Hepton, ‘what can we do for you?’
‘Well, for a start,’ said Sir Laurence, ‘bearing in mind that Miss Watson is a journalist, though with no disrespect to that estimable profession’ – there were smirks at this – ‘we would remind you both that you have signed the Official Secrets Act. Now, that being understood, really what we’d like is your version of events thus far.’
Jilly nodded towards the file in front of him. ‘Isn’t it all in there?’
He laid a proprietorial hand on the cover of the file. ‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘But these are … facts. What we’d like now are opinions, thoughts.’
‘Thoughts?’ She leaned forward in her chair. ‘I’ve been doing plenty of thinking this past day, and I’ll tell you what I think.’ Hepton had to admire her. Coming to London had made her more assertive, not afraid to voice her opinions or to ask for other people’s. She held up one finger. ‘I think you don’t want the American troops to pull out of Britain.’ Another finger. ‘I think the military is planning a coup, and I think you’re going to let them do it.’ A third. ‘I think they’re being aided by the Americans, and I think both countries are going to turn themselves into fortresses.’ She paused, but no one seemed ready to refute her allegations, so she continued. ‘What I’d like to know is how much the government knows.’ The three fingers became one, pointed straight at Sir Laurence. ‘How much do you know? The prime minister is still head of the Security Service, isn’t that right?’
Sir Laurence took this outburst quite calmly – they all took it calmly. He cleared his throat. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘that much is true, Miss Watson. The PM is titular head of the Security Service. However, as for your other … thoughts, I’m afraid they are rather off-beam. I’ll admit, though, that we had been thinking along similar lines ourselves. We’ve had inklings, for example, that something is simmering, and that the chefs are the chiefs of staff of our own armed forces. That much is true. A coup seemed a feasible explanation. However, it was difficult to go to the PM with what were merely inklings—’
‘Especially now,’ interrupted Farquharson, his voice more reasonable than before, and obviously not wishing Strong to be allowed to tell too much of the story by himself. ‘What with NATO bickering, and this blasted pull-out and all. You see, the military bigwigs have been whingeing, and they’ve also been currying favour within Parliament, seeking out supporters, that sort of thing. In the current climate, the government wants to remain on friendly terms with the military, so anything we might say would in all likelihood be taken as paranoia or even jealousy. Though,’ he added as an afterthought, ‘both those notions are preposterous.’
Having had his say, he sat back and folded his arms. Sir Laurence continued. ‘What Blake is saying is that we couldn’t find many friendly ears to listen to us. Yet we knew something was going to happen.’
‘So,’ asked Hepton, ‘just what is happening?’ Jilly’s notion of a coup had crossed his mind too, but he had rejected it for something a little more frightening.
There was silence in the room as eyes sought out other eyes, looking for answers. Sir Laurence spoke first.
‘We aren’t sure. We planted agents in some of the more important military offices – new clerical help, that sort of thing. Risky, and so far we’ve been able to shed no new light.’
‘And meanwhile,’ interrupted Farquharson, ‘I’ve got agents abroad trying to find out what they can.’
‘Including Parfit,’ stated Hepton. Farquharson glowered at him.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘including Parfit. He’s one of our best men. I hope you’ll be able to meet him.’
‘What does that mean?’ asked Jilly, frowning incomprehension.
‘It means,’ said Farquharson, ‘that he’s on his way here. And bringing Major Dreyfuss with him. Things are getting too uncertain in the States, and we want the major out of there. Now, tell us about your meeting with Cameron Devereux …’
Part IV
Guardian, 13 March 1987
25
They left the embassy compound in a van that claimed to belong to DC Hygiene. Dreyfuss, dressed in overalls and uneasy in the passenger seat, asked Parfit – also in overalls and driving – what the company did.
‘They deliver roller towels for the toilets, that sort of thing. Gum?’
He noticed that Parfit was offering him a stick of chewing gum.
‘No thanks,’ he said.
‘Take one,’ Parfit ordered. ‘Delivery men around here all seem to chew gum.’
Dreyfuss took the stick, unwrapped it and folded it into his mouth. Parfit did the same, then popped the tube back into his overall pocket. He was checking in his wing mirrors. There was a car following them, but that was okay – it was from the embassy, and would stay with them for the next few miles until they could be sure no one else was on their tail. Until then, they were due to drive around – not too fast, not too slow, just driving – as though between destinations. When Parfit was satisfied, they would head out to the airport, where another car filled with his men would be waiting, watching to see that they made it to the terminal building without incident. He had arranged for two more men to be posted inside the terminal building itself, but after that, once they had headed into the departure lounge, they were on their own.
‘You seem to have plenty of men at your disposal,’ Dreyfuss had said when told the plan.
‘I’m using just about every member of staff the embassy has,’ Parfit had replied, smiling. ‘When Johnnie finds out, he’ll be livid. The embassy’s going to be deserted apart from himself and a few typists. I reckon our need might be greater than his.’
Dreyfuss tried not to think about it, but found himself thinking of nothing else. His mouth was dry, and the gum wasn’t helping. He wanted to return to Britain, of course he did. But somehow the more plans Parfit concocted to make sure they would do so safely, the more worried Dreyfuss became, for if these precautions were necessary, surely the danger must be necessarily as great? Yet Parfit carried no gun, no weapon of any kind. A weak man needs a weapon, he had once told Dreyfuss. In that case, Dreyfuss thought now, I must be weak as a deathbed grandmother. For the thought of a very large gun was all that seemed to soothe him just at the moment.
‘Relax,’ Parfit said; it sounded like another command. ‘We’re only delivery men, just driving around doing our job. We don’t need to look so tense or grip the seat like that.’
Dreyfuss looked down and saw that his hands were indeed clenching either side of his seat, the knuckles white. He loosened them and folded his arms instead.
‘You still look tense,’ Parfit said.
‘That’s because I am tense, for Christ’s sake. If I try to let my arms hang down, I just know I’ll end up waving them wildly and screaming to be let out of here.’
Parfit laughed. Dreyfuss wasn’t sure he had heard him laugh before, and found the sound strangely reassuring.
They drove in silence for a while, until they were crossing the Potomac River.
‘We may as well take a look at the Pentagon while we’re here,’ said Parfit. ‘After all, you did want to see a bit of the United States, didn’t you? It said so on your application form for the Argos mission.’
Dreyfuss turned to him. ‘You’re enjoying all this,’ he hissed.
‘I enjoy my work, yes,’ Parfit admitted. ‘Sometimes I do, anyway. Haven’t you ever been part of a team who had a rival team? At football, maybe, or cricket?’
‘I was never very interested in sports.’
‘Well,’ said Parfit, unperturbed, ‘try to imagine it. Here’s us, and we’re up against the military – people like Esterhazy.’
‘You seem to forget that I’m military,’ Dreyfuss said.
Parfit glanced towards him. ‘Well, try to set that aside for a moment. So it’s an us-and-them situation, and I want us to win the game.’
‘But it isn’t a game.’
‘Yet in many ways it is exactly that. And if you
forget that it’s a game, you start playing the wrong way. So far, the opposition has been in a strong position, because we don’t know what they’re up to. But now they’ve started making mistakes – letting you live was only the first. People are getting suspicious, people like your friend Hepton. And to cover their mistakes, they – whoever they ultimately are – are starting to take bigger and bigger chances, which only force them further and further into the open. So yes, I am enjoying myself, because at last I think we’ve got a chance of beating them. What about you?’
‘I’m delirious,’ said Dreyfuss blandly, causing Parfit to laugh again, louder this time.
After another half-hour or so, Parfit decided that they should stop at a roadside café.
‘I thought we were supposed to keep driving?’ said Dreyfuss.
‘We’re still early,’ replied Parfit. ‘And I’d rather we spent the spare time away from the airport. Nobody’s following us, so why not stop for a coffee?’
‘Okay, if you say so,’ Dreyfuss said.
They pulled into a parking area beside a large café proclaiming ALL DAY ALL NIGHT BREAKFAST/BURGER. It wasn’t until Dreyfuss was studying the large, plastic-coated menu, seated beside Parfit in one of the booths by the window, that he realised this capitalised mouthful was in fact the name of the establishment.
A waitress approached, looking as well used as the dishcloth with which she wiped their table.
‘What can I get you?’ she asked tiredly.
‘Just coffee, please,’ said Parfit. Dreyfuss nodded. ‘Two coffees,’ Parfit corrected.
‘Cream?’
Parfit nodded, and the waitress tore off a sheet from her pad, left it on their table and walked back towards the counter.
‘Americans used to say “cream” and mean it,’ Parfit said conversationally. ‘Nowadays they almost always mean “creamer”, and that’s a polite way of saying “whitener”, which in turn means monosodium glutamate. A long way from cream.’ Dreyfuss didn’t appear to be listening. ‘You can’t believe words any more,’ Parfit continued.
Dreyfuss turned his head to look at him, then narrowed his eyes. ‘What the hell are you talking about, Parfit?’
Parfit considered. ‘Nothing,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders.
‘What exactly are we doing here?’
‘I told you, killing time.’
‘And I don’t believe you.’
The door to the café was opening, bringing in another customer. Parfit leaned close to Dreyfuss’ ear.
‘Don’t say anything about our leaving,’ he whispered.
The man walked over towards Dreyfuss and Parfit’s booth, then slid into the seat opposite them. It was Frank Stewart.
‘Hello,’ he said.
‘Mr Stewart,’ Parfit said by way of greeting.
‘What’s he doing here?’ Dreyfuss’ voice had become strained.
‘Parfit thought we should meet,’ said Stewart. He was admiring their uniforms. ‘Nice disguise.’
‘It’s the only way to travel,’ said Parfit.
‘So what can I do for you?’ said Stewart. The waitress was coming near. ‘Coffee and a half-pound cheeseburger, medium rare,’ he called. She nodded and started back to her counter, yelling the order through to the kitchen. Stewart shrugged. ‘I’m starving,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ said Parfit, ‘I thought a little chat might be of benefit to both of us. Esterhazy’s walking a very thin line.’
‘Oh?’
‘If you’re able to keep a close watch on him, without his knowing, then you might be doing yourself a great service.’
‘Keep talking,’ said Stewart. He picked up a sachet of sugar, tore it open and emptied it into his mouth.
‘There’s not much more I can add,’ said Parfit. ‘I’ll need a telephone number where I can contact you twenty-four hours a day.’
‘You’re doing this unsanctioned,’ Stewart observed. ‘That’s a dangerous game for us both.’ His eyes were interested but full of caution. He hadn’t survived this long without covering every bet on the table.
‘What makes you think—’
‘Because,’ Stewart interrupted, ‘you stipulated this meeting be strictly off the books. That smacks to me of a solo outing, and I’ve never been keen on one-man shows.’
‘This isn’t exactly a one-man show,’ Parfit said. ‘But you’re right. So far, there are more suspects than people I can rely on.’
‘But you’re willing to take a chance on relying on me? Why?’
‘Because you want to nail Ben Esterhazy,’ stated Parfit. The waitress was approaching with their order. The three mugs chinked together as she carried them.
‘I can’t argue with that,’ Stewart said, chuckling. He stared at the burger as it was placed in front of him. ‘No, sir,’ he said, picking it up, ‘I can’t argue with that.’
Dreyfuss lifted his mug to his lips. He wasn’t sure he liked the way Parfit seemed to be breaking the rules. He was certain that this meeting had been set up without the knowledge of anyone in the embassy. Sure, too, as Parfit’s whispering had warned, that Stewart didn’t know they were about to leave the country. Parfit was trying to have it all ways. He seemed confident that such was not only possible but entirely feasible. Yet Dreyfuss still wasn’t sure of his motives or his ultimate goal.
He wasn’t sure about anything any more.
They stayed long enough to finish their coffee, then left before Stewart, shaking his hand.
‘Be careful out there,’ he said, grease from the burger glistening on his lips.
Dreyfuss smiled but said nothing. He said nothing, in fact, the rest of the way to the airport. What was there he could say and be sure of getting a truthful answer to? Absolutely nothing.
The airport car park seemed, to Dreyfuss’ eyes, to be full. An attendant told them as much, but Parfit insisted on driving around.
‘Somebody’s bound to be coming out,’ he said. The attendant shrugged his shoulders and left them to it. Parfit knew exactly where he was going, however. He drove purposefully towards where two cars were parked side by side, their drivers reading newspapers. He blew four times on the van’s horn, three short, one long, and the driver of one of the cars threw his paper onto the passenger seat, started his engine and drove off. With a certain amount of elegance, Parfit eased the van into the now vacant bay. He turned to Dreyfuss again. ‘Easy when you know how,’ he said. ‘Right, you first.’
Dreyfuss had been told what to do. He got out, walking around to the rear of the van, where he opened the doors and pulled himself in, closing them after him. In the back of the van were two parcels, one marked ‘P’ and one ‘D’. He opened the second package, revealing a two-piece suit, shirt, tie, socks and shoes. All in sober colours, and all in his size. He unzipped his overalls and began to change. Once he was dressed, he left the van again and got into the passenger seat of the second car, whose driver acknowledged his presence with a grunt and a ‘You took your time,’ before continuing with his reading.
Now Parfit went to the back of the van, reappearing less than two minutes later dressed in similar garb to Dreyfuss and looking more comfortable now that he had shed his workman’s clothes. The driver saw him, folded his newspaper and got out of the car, moving to the van and climbing into the driver’s side. Parfit meantime slid behind the steering wheel of the car. He watched as the driver moved off in the van, then looked left and right. Appearing satisfied, he touched Dreyfuss on the shoulder. Dreyfuss felt the touch like an electric spark, and flinched.
‘Stay calm,’ Parfit advised, ‘for the next hour or so at least. Right, we’re going in now.’ He checked his watch. ‘We’ll go straight to Departures. Okay?’
Dreyfuss nodded and opened his door again. The car had a central-locking mechanism, and he watched as Parfit locked the driver’s door and all four door locks engaged with a silent movement. Then Parfit opened the boot and brought out two small suitcases and two attaché cases. He handed one of each to Dreyfuss
.
‘Just some clothes, a few magazines, the usual stuff a businessman would take on a trip. Remember, we’re only going to London for a couple of days. We’re based in Washington—’
‘At an international law firm. I remember.’
Parfit nodded. He seemed preoccupied now: perhaps he was growing just a little bit nervous himself. ‘Oh,’ he said, remembering something. He dug a hand into his jacket and brought out two passports, one of which he handed to Dreyfuss. ‘There you go, Stephen.’
Dreyfuss opened the passport. It was a brilliant fake; in fact, it was more: it was for real. A real passport, bearing a real name: Stephen Jackson. Occupation: solicitor. Stamped with American visas, and with evidence of holidays spent in Greece, Canada, Tunisia. Next of kin: a father, Bernard Jackson, who lived in Dundee.
‘There aren’t too many Bernards in Dundee,’ Dreyfuss commented. Parfit seemed to take this criticism seriously.
‘Good point,’ he said. ‘I’ll have a word with the chaps who make these up.’
The photograph was of Dreyfuss: of course it was. They’d had it taken only yesterday, at the embassy. But a make-up artist had erased a few lines from his face, and given more hair to his forehead. The result was that the man in the picture looked a few years younger; as young as he would have been when the passport was supposedly validated.
‘I’ll hang on to our tickets,’ said Parfit. ‘Okay?’
‘Fine,’ said Dreyfuss, slipping the passport into his jacket pocket. There was something else in there. He brought out a wallet. Opening it, he found money in dollars and sterling, a UK driving licence and three credit cards. ‘Christ,’ he whispered, amazed.
Parfit tapped the cards.
‘Don’t run up too much of a bill. We always ask for the money back sometime.’ Then, having locked the boot, he was off. Dreyfuss picked up the attaché case and suitcase and hurried after him.
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