by Ian Rankin
‘I think I can see it,’ he said.
‘What?’ Hepton asked, still coming out of his brief hallucinatory stage.
‘What it is you’ve been looking for. I can see it now.’ Izzard turned to him. ‘They’re not the same place, are they?’
Hepton smiled. ‘No,’ he said. ‘They’re not.’ He was pleased that Izzard could see it, too. If he could see it, then everybody could see it. It wasn’t just in Hepton’s mind. ‘I should have realised right back at the beginning,’ he explained. ‘One day I was watching Buchan and it got dark at a certain time. Then Zephyr was got at, and suddenly it was starting to get dark earlier at Buchan.’
‘Except that it wasn’t Buchan,’ Izzard noted.
‘That’s right,’ said Hepton. ‘That’s what this is all about. Someone doesn’t want us to see what’s really going on at Buchan. So instead they’ve rigged a lookalike.’
‘A mock-up.’
‘Yes. But a very good mock-up. A bit too good.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I think it must be a real airbase, but not one of the other ones the USAF has been using. We’ve been watching all of those at one time or other. It must be RAF.’
‘Excuse my ignorance, but if all you do all day is watch these pictures, wouldn’t someone notice that it wasn’t Buchan?’
‘Not really,’ said Hepton. ‘For one thing, our remit wasn’t to watch the bases so much as watch their perimeters for protesters.’
‘Weird,’ said Izzard. ‘Not so long ago, they were protesting about the Americans being here. Now they’re protesting about them going.’
‘Besides,’ Hepton continued, ‘we mostly examine still photos, and still aerial photos look much the same. We would be checking for things that were different, not things that looked the same. We’re only technicians, remember. We’re not spies.’
Izzard nodded, deep in thought but enjoying himself.
‘This base, the one they’re using, it’s south of Buchan?’
‘Yes, someplace where it gets dark earlier than it does in Scotland at this time of year; somewhere down here.’
‘There are plenty to choose from.’
‘Not very many would fit the bill. It should be easy to find which one it is.’
‘This begs two rather large questions: why, and how?’
They had reached the café. There were no taxis outside now. Shifts had either ended or not yet begun. The glare of strip lighting made Hepton squint as they pushed through the door. A small, sweating man was standing behind the counter, wiping it down with a rag. He looked up as they entered.
‘This is a late one for you, Graeme,’ he said to Izzard.
‘I wouldn’t mind, Alfie, but the overtime rate is diabolical. Give us two of your special breakfasts, will you?’
‘Coming up. Where’s my flask?’
Izzard opened his arms in apology. ‘Sorry, Alfie. I forgot. It’s back at the lab.’
‘Well, never mind. Do you want any tea?’
‘Coffee for me, black and sweet. What about you, Martin?’
‘Black, no sugar, please,’ said Hepton.
The man nodded and started to work.
‘How and why,’ said Hepton. ‘Yes, you’re right. But we’re very close to answering both. I can feel it. I can almost answer the “how” right now, though it’s only guesswork.’
‘Go ahead.’ They had seated themselves on padded benches either side of a Formica-topped table. Hepton rested his elbows on the table, hands supporting his head as he thought things through.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘A shuttle, the Argos—’
‘The one that crashed?’
‘Yes, the one that crashed. It was up there launching a communications satellite. Except the satellite wasn’t just your normal COMINT satellite, it was an intercept.’
‘An intercept?’
‘Yes. Its purpose was to lock on to Zephyr. While it was locking on, Zephyr’s transmissions went haywire. But nobody minded that, because as long as the transmissions returned eventually, everyone would put it down to a glitch, nothing more. Some top brass from the military were on site when it all happened, just to check that the operation went smoothly. It did, more or less. Except I noticed how pleased they were looking, and one other person, a friend of mine, caught a hint of the interference. They murdered him and wiped his disk.’
Izzard whistled softly. Hepton paused, then continued.
‘So what do we have? We have Zephyr apparently back to normal, except that it isn’t, not quite. Because whenever we lock on to one particular spot – Buchan – the other satellite breaks in and transmits its own pictures to Zephyr before they’re transmitted to the ground station.’
Izzard was shaking his head. ‘This is too big for me,’ he said. ‘I’m used to bank robbers and spies, not conspiracies in space.’
‘Conspiracy is right. The Americans and the British are in on it for a start. But the governments don’t seem to know, only the generals.’
The door opened and a well-dressed man came into the café. Hepton glanced up at him, but was too intent on his story to pay him much attention. The man slid into the booth next to theirs, so that his back was to Izzard’s back. Alfie was still in the kitchen, his frying pan sizzling.
‘Only the generals,’ Izzard repeated. ‘So whatever’s happening, what can we do about it?’
‘I really don’t know. We could persuade Whitehall that something’s going on, but the suits in Curzon Street didn’t seem to think it would produce much joy. What we need is proof, absolute proof.’
‘Well, you’ve got that, haven’t you? I mean, the tapes?’
‘But what do they prove? Not what’s happening, only that something is.’
‘So go to Buchan. Take a look for yourself.’
‘Yes,’ said Hepton. ‘Yes, maybe you’re right.’
The newcomer swivelled on his bench so that he was facing their booth. Hepton glared at him, realising that he had heard every word. The man looked pale, tired. Not a killer, not just at the moment.
‘Mr Izzard generally is right,’ he said.
Izzard’s head cracked round at the sound of the voice. Then his face broke into a grin.
‘Why don’t you join us?’ he said. The man got up and did so. Izzard was still grinning. ‘Once,’ he said to Hepton, ‘I went to lunch and came back to the lab, and I’d been in there ten minutes before I realised this sneaky sod was in there too. Just sitting, out of my line of vision, and absolutely still. A professional voyeur, that’s what you are.’
The man took the remark as a compliment. He was holding out a hand to Hepton, who was wondering now where he had heard his voice before.
‘Parfit,’ the man said by way of introduction. ‘We’ve spoken on the telephone. You must be Martin Hepton. They told me you’d come to see Izzard. And since Graeme spends more time in this establishment than in his lab, I thought I’d try here first.’
Hepton shook the proffered hand, a look of disbelief on his face.
‘Parfit?’ he said. ‘Christ, when did you get back?’
‘A couple of hours ago.’
‘Is Dreyfuss with you?’
‘Well, the safe house didn’t appear to be safe any longer, so I’ve booked us into a hotel. He’s resting there.’
‘Does he know …?’
‘About Miss Watson?’ Parfit’s face darkened. ‘No. We were in a bit of a skirmish at the American end. Major Dreyfuss was injured. He lost some blood.’ He saw the shocked look on Hepton’s face. ‘He’s fine, really. I had a doctor patch him up. Believe it or not, there was one on the plane. There we were halfway over the Atlantic, and this poor chap was stitching a couple of the major’s fingers. Quite exciting really. I didn’t judge him fit enough, however, to take the news of Miss Watson’s abduction. In fact, I was wondering …?’
‘If I’d tell him?’
‘Something like that. No real hurry. I’d like to be filled in first on what’s so exciting abo
ut these mysterious tapes.’
Hepton looked to Izzard, who spoke. ‘No problem there,’ he said. ‘We’ll show you.’ Alfie was approaching with two large plates. Izzard smacked his lips. ‘Just as soon as we’ve had breakfast, eh?’
When he had seen what they had, Parfit was in no doubt about what had to be done.
‘I’ll send some men to Buchan, see what they can come up with. Not a lot, I shouldn’t think. Security’s bound to be tight. We’ll also check on the other airbases south of there, see if we can find out which one they’re using as a mock-up.’
He made the phone calls from the lab. Izzard sat on a high stool, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers and yawning: the night had finally caught up with him. Sanders was wide awake, however, and looking ready to impress Parfit, if such were possible. He’d still been sleeping when they’d arrived back at the lab, but had been shocked into wakefulness by the sound of his superior’s voice, only then to feel acute embarrassment at having allowed Hepton and Izzard out of doors without his knowing about it.
Hepton had passed his own nadir and felt numb but not sleepy. He listened to the efficient phone calls with an appraising ear. Parfit didn’t waste a single word, and his instructions were as foolproof as seemed possible. When he had finished, he replaced the receiver and turned to the room.
‘Well, that’s as much as we can do from here. Thanks, Graeme. Can we offer you a lift?’
But Izzard shook his head, in the middle of a protracted yawn, and gestured with an arm. ‘I’m only five minutes’ walk away,’ he said.
Parfit nodded and turned his attention to Hepton. ‘I think you’d better come back to the hotel with me,’ he said. ‘I can’t think of anywhere safer to keep you, and you can see Major Dreyfuss.’
‘That’ll be fun,’ Hepton said in an unemotional voice. Then: ‘Where’s the hotel anyway?’
‘Only the best,’ said Parfit. ‘What better cover is there than an expensive West End hotel?’
‘But not on Park Lane?’ Hepton asked, growing uneasy.
Parfit caught his tone. ‘Just off it,’ he said. ‘Why?’
‘Because Cam Devereux’s in the Achilles.’
‘Ah.’ Parfit nodded his understanding. ‘Don’t worry, we’re in the Bellevue. Two streets back from the Achilles. Not so expensive either.’ He turned to Sanders, who all but stood to attention. ‘You can go home, too, Sanders. Get some rest. But I’ll want your report on my desk by ten o’clock.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Hepton knew Sanders would get precious little sleep: he’d work through the morning to perfect his report and buff it to a conspicuous sheen. He was a company man all right. Hepton shook hands with Izzard.
‘Thanks for your help,’ he said.
‘Any time,’ said Izzard, easing himself off the stool. ‘But try to make it daylight hours, okay?’
‘Okay,’ said Hepton, with the glimmer of a smile. Then, to Parfit: ‘Let’s go see Mike Dreyfuss.’
‘Wait a second,’ said Hepton, checking from the car window. ‘This isn’t the way to Park Lane.’
‘A slight detour,’ Parfit said. ‘It won’t take long.’
They were in a maze of elegant town houses, somewhere in the midst of unimaginable wealth, otherwise known as Belgravia. The car pulled in to the kerb. The streets were silent; there was little to remind Hepton that he was living in the dangerous tail-end of the twentieth century. But there were subtle hints: alarm boxes above most of the tightly shut doors, a latticework of metal bars across a basement window. Little Fort Knoxes all in a row …
‘Here we are,’ said Parfit.
‘Where?’
They were standing at the bottom of a short flight of stairs leading to a doorway. To the side of the door were a dozen nameplates, evidence that the house had been divided up into apartments. Hepton turned at the sound of a car door opening. The vehicle had been there when they’d arrived, but he’d spotted no signs of life. Now two men emerged. One stayed by the car while the other came to the steps, climbed them, and turned keys in the door, opening it. Coming back down the steps, he handed the keys to Parfit.
‘Thank you,’ said Parfit. The man returned to the car. Both men got in. Hepton realised that they were keeping guard.
‘What is this place?’ he asked.
‘This is George Villiers’ home,’ Parfit explained. ‘Come on, let’s take a look.’
The reception hall was huge and elegant. There was some mail on a marble table. Parfit browsed through it, finding nothing of interest. They took the near-silent elevator to the third floor, where Parfit opened one of two doors on the landing. The nameplate had been removed.
‘Why are we here?’ asked Hepton. He breathed in the stagnant air of the long hallway. Parfit walked noiselessly towards the far door and pushed it open. A lounge, leading on to further rooms: dining room, a small study, and past this the bedroom. The apartment seemed to be a series of conjoined rooms, shaped in a ‘U’ around the hallway. Hepton repeated his question, but Parfit appeared intent on his surroundings, as though planning to make an offer on the vacant property.
‘He didn’t own this, you know,’ he mused. ‘I thought he did, but he didn’t. It was supposed to be an inheritance. That was the story.’
‘Who does own it then?’
Parfit smiled at Hepton, his eyes hooded and intelligent as a crow’s. But instead of answering, he walked on from one room to another. Hepton caught him up as he was beginning to speak again.
‘I never liked him. I was against his recruitment from the start.’
‘Why didn’t you stop him then?’
Parfit’s smile this time was bitter. ‘It wasn’t up to me,’ he said. ‘I really had no say in things.’ His eyes sought Hepton’s. ‘All I do is clear up the mess. Treatment rather than prevention, you see.’ Hepton could feel the man’s irritation. It filled the room and threatened to burst from it. ‘My superiors recruited him, not me. Blake Farquharson recruited him. Well, he had his reasons, I suppose.’ The emotion was melting away again, or rather was being shovelled back into some hidden cellar. But still there.
Why, Hepton wondered, was he being shown this side of Parfit, a man he barely knew?
Parfit walked on, through the study and into the bedroom. The bed was narrow, the room small and airless. There were no ornaments, nothing to brighten it or make it more than just a place for resting.
Resting and waiting. Hepton could imagine Villiers lying here at night, nothing distracting him from his thoughts, and his thoughts filled with death, glory, deceit.
There was a piece of card on the bed’s one pillow. Hepton lifted it and turned it over: SORRY YOU COULDN’T MAKE IT TO THE BURIAL. The message was printed. Parfit read it, then took the card from Hepton and slipped it into his pocket.
Hepton started opening drawers, flicking through books in the study. He didn’t doubt that some team specialised in such things had been through the apartment before him. But perhaps he knew what he was looking for better than they did. There were few clues, however. He switched on Villiers’ word processor, only to find that what disks there were had been wiped clean, or had been empty to begin with.
Coffin … burial. The words rang in his head, growing loud, dissonant. He was wasting his time here. Why had they come?
They were leaving the apartment when it dawned on him. He remembered the book well. It had been one of the first he had ever read … well, the first without pictures in it. A bear was terrorising an isolated village. The backwoodsman hunted it. He tracked it to its lair, but found the lair empty. The man was fascinated by the cave, examined every inch of it. Then found the bear and killed it. Yes, Hepton remembered. He remembered, too, the way Harry had come to his flat in Louth and waited for him there.
The hunter gains strength and insight from the lair of his victim. Parfit was a hunter. And he had brought Hepton here because he wanted him to be a hunter too.
Satisfied, both men headed to Park Lane.
30
If Dreyfuss took the news of Jilly’s abduction better than they had expected, it could probably be put down to a mixture of painkilling drugs and jet lag. His right hand was heavily bandaged up to and past the wrist, and he lay on the hotel bed with his good arm falling across his face, shielding his eyes from the light.
He mumbled something.
‘What’s that, Mike?’ Parfit asked. Dreyfuss took his arm away from his eyes and angled his head up so as to look right into Parfit’s face.
‘I said,’ he spat, ‘we’ve got to kill them. It’s the only way. They’re killing us; we’ve got to kill them.’ Then he flung his arm across his eyes again and let his head fall back onto the bed.
Parfit stared at Hepton worriedly. Dreyfuss was exhausted, doped and shocked. It was a lethal cocktail. Hepton understood and gave a reassuring nod.
But in his heart, he agreed with Dreyfuss. The scent of Villiers was still in his nose.
Dreyfuss turned onto his side, letting his damaged hand fall onto the bedcovers, where it lay. He was drifting back to sleep again, looking much older than Hepton remembered him: older, sad and angry at the same time. Well, if half of what Parfit had related on the drive over here was true, Dreyfuss had been to hell and back. Hepton had the feeling that he too might have to visit hell before this was all over. A little part of him was looking forward to it.
‘Get some sleep, Mike,’ Parfit said. ‘We’ll see you later.’
Hepton was to share with Parfit.
‘My room’s got twin beds anyway,’ Parfit explained, ‘and it saves paying for another single. God knows, my expenses on this are big enough already. The accounting department is going to want my head on a block.’
‘How do you explain away a four-star hotel?’ Hepton asked.
Parfit shrugged. ‘Well, there don’t seem to be any safe houses any more, and the first place they’d think of looking after that is seedy anonymous hotels. This place isn’t exactly seedy.’