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.