So he stopped hating the packed carriage, and rubbed shoulders with an extraordinarily pretty young woman until Westminster, where, despite the temptation to keep travelling, he finally alighted. Tourists were already busying themselves with the day’s chores, cameras and video cameras trained on the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben. Hepton headed up Whitehall and realised suddenly that he didn’t know which of the large, anonymous buildings he needed. Understated signs beside the impressive doors were the only indication as to their identity. A man was striding purposefully towards him, black briefcase in hand. Hepton recognised the style of the briefcase: soft leather, more a school bag than a business case. There was a small crown above the nameplate. He had seen visitors from the MoD carrying such bags when they came to the base. He stopped the man.
‘I wonder if you can help me,’ he said. ‘I’m looking for the Foreign Office.’
The man said nothing; merely indicated with his head before walking on. Hepton stared at the building towards which he had nodded, then started towards its arched main door.
ALL PASSES MUST BE SHOWN declared the sign just inside the doors. Below it, another notice advised that security alert was condition Amber. Security alert was normally at Black. Hepton knew this from his own dealings with the MoD, though Binbrook had its own, different grading system. Above Black came Black Special, which meant there was cause for caution, and after Black Special came Amber. Amber was what government departments had gone to after the Libyan bombing. Amber was serious, only marginally less serious than Red. Hepton had never seen a Red alert, and, knowing what it meant, hoped he never would.
The uniformed guard was eyeing him suspiciously.
‘Can I help you, sir?’
‘I hope so,’ Hepton said. ‘I’d like to speak with someone about a friend of mine. This friend is in the United States, and it’s vital that I contact him. Is there anyone here who might help?’
‘Why not just phone your friend, sir?’
It was a fair question. Remembering Paul Vincent and Harry, however, Hepton knew that speed was of the essence. He hadn’t time to muck around, to engage in little games of ‘let’s pretend’. He needed to get past this first obstacle quickly, and he knew of only one sure way to do it.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘it’s not quite that simple. You see, he’s Major Michael Dreyfuss, the man from the shuttle crash.’
Eventually he was given a visitor’s pass to fill in, which he did, using the name Martin Harris. Then he was shown to an office along a sweeping, red-carpeted corridor. There were many doors, bearing room numbers and sometimes the name of an individual or a section. The room Hepton eventually entered, however, had neither. A young man sat behind a desk. He stood as Hepton entered, leaned across the table to shake his hand and gestured for him to take a seat.
‘Would you like some coffee, Mr Harris?’ There was a percolator standing on a table beside the small window.
‘Please,’ said Hepton.
As the man poured, Hepton studied the room. It had bookshelves, but no books, and the desk looked to be unused. Though it boasted some papers and a box of biro pens, there was a layer of dust covering its surface, evidence that this room wasn’t often occupied. He wondered if he had walked into some kind of trap.
‘Milk?’
‘Please, no sugar.’
He was handed a cup and saucer. The young man sat down again, sipped, then looked up.
‘So then, Mr Harris, what can we do for you?’
‘Well, I’m a friend of Major Michael Dreyfuss...’
‘Yes, so you said.’
‘And I really would like to get in touch with him.’
‘Any particular reason why?’
‘To wish him a speedy recovery, of course.’
The man nodded. ‘It’s taken you a while to get round to that, hasn’t it?’
Hepton reminded himself that he had no time to play games. ‘Look,’ he said firmly, ‘there’s just something I need to speak with him about. Something personal, but very important.’
‘Oh?’ The civil servant had picked up one of the new biros and was examining it. It struck Hepton that he didn’t know who this man was.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I didn’t catch your name.’
‘Sanders,’ the civil servant said. ‘And you said yours was Harris.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Well, Mr Harris, it’s just that we have to be careful. A lot of people would like to speak to Major Dreyfuss. I’m sure you understand. Reporters from the less scrupulous newspapers, and other people. So, if there’s some way we can establish your identity...?’
Hepton cursed silently. Sanders was shrewder than he had anticipated. He shook his head. Sanders appeared to have been expecting this.
‘Or,’ he said, ‘if you can prove your relationship with Major Dreyfuss...?’
Hepton thought this over. ‘We have a mutual friend,’ he said at last. ‘Miss Jill Watson. She’s a reporter on the Herald.’
The civil servant looked up from his pen. ‘And she sent you here?’
Hepton saw the implication and shook his head. ‘No, no, of course not. She doesn’t even know I’m in London, for Christ’s sake.’
‘No need to lose your temper, Mr Harris.’ Sanders was writing Jilly’s name on a sheet of paper. ‘But you’ve no proof of identity on you?’
Oh, what the hell, thought Hepton. If they’re going to check on Jilly, they’ll get my name eventually.
‘My name’s Hepton, not Harris,’ he said.
Sanders seemed satisfied. ‘But you signed the visitor’s pass Harris. That could get you into trouble, you know. Why the deception?’
‘Look, I just want to get in touch with Major Dreyfuss. If you could help me contact him...’
Sanders rose to his feet. ‘Wait here a moment, would you, please?’ He walked smartly to the door. ‘Help yourself to more coffee,’ he said, making an exit.
Hepton stayed seated, but couldn’t relax. This had seemed such a good idea at the time. There was bound to be someone from the FO in contact with Dreyfuss. It had seemed so simple... But now he had given them so much, and they had given him nothing. He got up and went to the window, pushing aside the net curtain to look out. All he saw was other windows in another building. They too had net curtains, making it impossible to see into the rooms.
He crossed to Sanders’ desk and examined it. The papers, as expected, were just blank sheets. The drawers of the desk were locked. Over at the bookcase, he wiped a finger along one surface and it came away carrying a bud of dust, which he blew into the air. There was another door, a cupboard perhaps, but it too was locked. He went to the percolator and refilled his cup, drinking slowly. What was happening? Where had Sanders gone? Would Harry walk in through the door? Had he delivered himself to her on a plate?
When the door did finally open, Sanders himself stood there, looking composed.
‘If you’d like to follow me, Mr Hepton,’ he commanded, and they set off together back along the silent corridor and up an imposing staircase. There weren’t so many rooms on this second level. A large and busy reception area was the hub of the activity as people walked briskly in and out of the various offices. Telephones rang, and a few visitors sat on modern upholstered chairs, flicking through magazines.
Sanders approached the reception desk and said something to the prim woman seated there. She filled in another pass, which was torn from its pad and handed to Sanders, who in turn gave it to Hepton.