‘Is that a threat?’
She smiled at this, but not pleasantly, and moved past him into the hall, opening the front door. She paused on the threshold, reached into her jacket pocket and brought out a laminated business card. Well, it looked like a business card, but in fact all there was on it was a printed telephone number. ‘You can contact me at that number,’ she said.
Hepton stared at the card. ‘What did you mean when you said we work for the same bosses?’
She chose not to reply, but reached again into her pocket and held out a ten-pence piece towards him. ‘For the call,’ she said. He accepted the money. She was leaving now, but she turned one last time. ‘You know Major Dreyfuss, don’t you?’
‘How do you know that?’
‘It’s my job,’ she said.
He watched her descend the stairwell, then listened as she walked along the passage to the main door. He closed his front door and walked briskly to the living room window, but there was no sign of her in the street outside, no sound of her shoes moving away. His head was spinning. His flat, his private life, everything had been suddenly whisked away from him, reshuffled and brought back altered beyond repair. The old man was still examining stray scraps left by the market stalls. Dispossessed, but no more so than Hepton was himself. As Hepton watched, the man arched his back, straightening it, and in that moment looked up at the window. Hepton flinched, shrank back into the room. Was he being watched? Who was watching him? He realised that he wasn’t just confused. He was afraid. Terribly afraid, and yet without knowing quite why.
Harry used a small infrared device to disconnect her car alarm as she walked towards the black Sierra, then unlocked the boot and took from it a large attaché case, which she carried with her to the driver’s-side door. Sliding into the seat, she quickly opened the case and studied the telephone equipment inside. She should check in, but she still wasn’t sure how much of a threat Hepton was. He seemed at the same time quite innocent and quite devious. Of course, as she knew from experience, even the innocent could be dangerous. She had to be sure. She closed the case again, unlocked the glove compartment and removed from it a small black plastic module. Switching it on, she was rewarded with a high-pitched bleep and a strong green light at the centre of a series of radiating LEDs. It wasn’t the world’s most sophisticated tracking device, but it would do. She placed the tracker on the passenger seat and sat back, hands on the steering wheel, eyes staring straight ahead, waiting...
Part II
11
Days were passing. Dreyfuss felt sure of that, though he slept mostly. Probably because of the drugs they were giving him: the ones he could see, the ones they asked him politely to swallow; and perhaps the ones he couldn’t see, concealed in his drinking water, his meals.
But after his latest bout of unconsciousness, he awoke not to the restorative sight of Nurse Carraway, but to two stern figures, the same men as before, the ones the doctor had named as General Esterhazy and Mr Stewart.
The general was examining the cards attached to the few flowers that had been sent to the invalid.
‘Who’s Jilly, for Christ’s sake?’ he asked the other man, unaware as yet that Dreyfuss’ eyes were opening.
‘Just some woman he knows. They used to date in school apparently.’
God, they know so much about me...
‘He was married, though?’
‘Divorced now. The ex-wife lives somewhere in Australia.’
‘I notice she didn’t send any flowers,’ the general commented, taking pleasure in the fact.
Dreyfuss noted that Stewart seemed subdued, while the general himself was as abrasive in his speech as a grinding tool. Now Stewart had noticed that Dreyfuss’ eyes were opened to slits.
‘General,’ he warned, and both men came to the bed. Dreyfuss could smell salt and something sweeter, an aftershave perhaps. ‘My name’s Frank Stewart,’ said the civilian. ‘I’m from the State Department.’
He’s CIA, Dreyfuss thought. Either that or NSA.
‘And this is—’
‘Jesus Christ, Frank,’ snapped the general, ‘I can make my own introductions, can’t I?’ He turned his eyes to Dreyfuss. The pupils were inky, like staring down the barrel of a pistol. ‘The name’s General Ben Esterhazy.’
Esterhazy, one of the biggest of the cheeses. He had been on a mission to Europe and hadn’t been able to meet with the Argos crew to offer them good luck. Instead, an aide had come to give them the general’s best wishes.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Dreyfuss in a voice weak from sleep. In fact, he didn’t feel at all bad, but he didn’t want the hospital thinking he could be moved. He felt safe here, safe from choking hands. And he still had to find out a few things. ‘They’re all dead, aren’t they?’ he asked.
‘Every goddamned one of them,’ Esterhazy said bitterly, while Stewart threw him a look that said he shouldn’t have told Dreyfuss that. Dreyfuss had the feeling there was no love lost between these two men, or between their respective organisations.
Stewart dragged the nurse’s chair closer to the bed and sat down. He was a heavyset man in his early fifties. Dreyfuss thought his hair had probably been grey for quite a few years. In build, however, he was Joe Frazier to Esterhazy’s Ali. The general was tall, and as broad as Americans liked their heroes to be. Esterhazy had been publicly and vociferously opposed to the European pull-out, and had received a polite but stinging slap on the wrist from the White House as a result.
Which hadn’t stopped them sending him to Europe to negotiate the terms of the pull-out itself.
‘So,’ Frank Stewart was saying, ‘how are you doing?’
Stewart had slipped out of his jacket, which he was now hanging over the back of the chair. Dreyfuss noticed the gold armbands on his shirtsleeves. He had never seen anyone wear bands before, outside of old movies. Maybe a snooker player or two, but only of the old school. Perhaps they were there to cut off the supply of blood to Stewart’s fists, so he wouldn’t sling a punch at General Esterhazy. Stewart’s eyes were as murky as prunes swimming in semolina, and the cracks on his face weren’t there from laughing. He reached into his pocket for a crisp white handkerchief with which to mop his forehead. Dreyfuss knew who he was now: he was Spencer Tracy playing the tired, put-upon father in some film.
‘I’m doing okay,’ Dreyfuss answered, pouring himself a little water. He saw for the first time that the drip by his bed had been taken away. There was a fresh sticking plaster on his arm where the syringe had been removed.
‘Better than some,’ spat Esterhazy.
‘Ben, for Christ’s sake—’
‘Well, what do you want from me?’ Esterhazy exploded. ‘Tears and flowers?’ He slapped at the bunch of flowers nearest him and sent some petals spinning floorwards. ‘Five good men died up there.’
‘Do we know what happened yet?’ asked Dreyfuss.
‘We don’t, no,’ said Esterhazy. His eyes drilled into Dreyfuss’. ‘Do you?’
Dreyfuss took his time, sipping the water, thinking over his reply. But Stewart was ready with another question.
‘The doc says you’ve got a case of partial amnesia. Is that right?’