26
Dreyfuss was impressed by the performance. Parfit had assumed the brisk but awkward walk of the busy businessman, and even his face seemed to have grown new worry lines, his eyes proclaiming a head filled with spreadsheets and data analysis. There was no doubt about it: at the law firm, Parfit was the one who looked after the accounts. More, he made sure everybody paid.
Dreyfuss was no actor, however. He watched the other travellers intently, seeking out the potential assassin or arresting officer. There were video cameras trained on every angle of the building’s interior. Somewhere in the security room, someone would be watching him. He prayed they wouldn’t recognise him. His photograph had been in all the newspapers, hadn’t it? They were sure to spot him.
They had joined the queue at their chosen airline’s London check-in desk. The people in front of them looked innocent enough: businessmen mostly, one elderly couple, two young men travelling together. The young men had short hair and wore checked shirts and denims. They didn’t have much luggage, either. But it was the haircuts that worried Dreyfuss. They looked like regulation down-to-the-wood cuts, the kind only an armed forces barber could perfect. Dreyfuss knew; he’d been there.
When the crew cuts got to the front of the queue, he tried to listen in on their conversation with the smiling clerk. It all seemed normal. Small talk. They wanted smoking seats, and there seemed to be a problem about this. At last, their seat numbers having been allocated, they headed off in the direction of the departures lounge, watched by Dreyfuss.
‘Stephen?’
It took a moment for him to realise that Parfit was speaking — speaking to him. He was Stephen Jackson. But who was Parfit again? James Pardoe? Farlow? Yes, Farlow: James Farlow.
‘What is it, James?’ he said. He was perspiring now, and could hear his heart thumping through his inner ear. Parfit smiled at him, his eyes warning him not to panic.
‘You need to put your suitcase in here.’ He pointed to a gap in the desk where a set of rollers waited to send their suitcases hurtling down towards the baggage loading area. Dreyfuss nodded embarrassedly and handed over his case. ‘There aren’t any window seats left,’ Parfit said. ‘Is that okay?’
‘I don’t mind where I sit,’ Dreyfuss blurted. The clerk was staring at him now. Dreyfuss attempted a grin, which seemed to frighten her further.
‘Fear of flying,’ Parfit explained to her, accepting the two boarding cards. ‘He’ll be fine once we’re up.’
They walked towards the departures lounge, Dreyfuss on legs made of drinking straws filled with putty, Parfit looking a little less confident than before.
‘Hang on in there,’ he hissed.
‘I’m trying,’ Dreyfuss said. He was breathing deeply, trying to calm himself. Not much longer, he was thinking. Then I’ll be home. Home and dry. ‘What about the agents you said would be here to cover us? I haven’t seen them.’
‘They wouldn’t be doing their job if you could recognise them. Don’t worry, they were back there near the desk.’
‘But we’re on our own now, aren’t we?’ Dreyfuss whispered noisily.
‘We can manage.’
Their tickets and boarding cards were checked again, and their briefcases put onto a conveyer belt that transported them through an X-ray machine. A man in a suit, a large plastic ID badge clipped to his breast pocket, gestured for them to walk through the metal-detecting gateway, after which he ran a hand-held, more sensitive detector over them. Then his assistant — an only-too-willing assistant, Dreyfuss thought — slid his hands down each man’s suit, under the jacket collar and lapels, down the back, smoothly over the trousers and up along the inside legs.
‘Thank you, sir,’ he said to Dreyfuss with the hint of a smile. Dreyfuss did not smile back.
‘I don’t know about you,’ Parfit said as they picked up their cases and walked on, ‘but I need a drink.’
‘Count me in,’ said Dreyfuss. He was feeling calmer now. The worst was over, wasn’t it? Then it struck him: the last time he had flown had been on a private jet, and the time before that... on Argos. His legs lost their rigidity again.
‘Do you want anything in duty-free?’ asked Parfit, pointing towards the glossy spending mall. Dreyfuss shook his head. ‘I can never resist the malt,’ Parfit said. ‘Coming?’
‘I think I’ll just give my face a splash of water first,’ Dreyfuss said, nodding towards where a door proclaimed itself the gents’ toilets.
‘Fine, I’ll come with you.’
‘People will begin to talk,’ said Dreyfuss.
Parfit looked surprised. ‘You just made a joke!’ he said. ‘That’s more like it. Now come on, and stop looking so damned worried all the time.’
Only one cubicle was in use when they entered the toilets. Parfit gestured towards it and winked, reminding Dreyfuss not to break their cover. Dreyfuss nodded and, while Parfit went to the urinals, stood in front of the gleaming row of washbasins, examining his features in the splashed mirror. He looked fairly dreadful, like some old cancer patient: face pasty grey, eyes dark, cheeks hollow, and sweat cloying his hair. Another man came in and hurried into a cubicle, slamming the door shut after him. Dreyfuss heard him unbuckling his belt.
He ran some cold water and rested his hands in it for a few moments before starting to wash his face. He felt better almost immediately. Parfit was standing behind him, zipping himself.
‘Ready?’
‘Just give me a minute,’ Dreyfuss said. ‘I’ll catch you up in duty-free.’
‘Well...’ Parfit looked dubious, but a glance at his watch told him they didn’t have very long before they would be boarding. He could visualise that bottle of Glenlivet sitting waiting for him...
The door of the first cubicle, the one that had been occupied when they came in, snapped open. A teenager came out, his face flushed, and made for the exit, his eyes to the floor.
‘Wonder what he’s been up to,’ said Parfit with a wink. He checked his watch again. ‘Don’t be long,’ he pleaded.
‘Two minutes,’ Dreyfuss said, watching in the mirror as Parfit left. Alone, he relaxed a little more. He let the water out. As it gurgled down the plughole, a man in his forties pushed open the door and entered the toilets, nodding towards Dreyfuss as he made for the urinals.
‘Helluva day,’ he commented, but Dreyfuss wasn’t sure whether the man was talking to him or to himself. He ran more water. The man came to the basin next to him, gave his hands a quick rinse and rubbed them vigorously beneath the fan dryer. Then he left, the dryer still whirring away noisily. Dreyfuss splashed his face again, rubbing at his eyes this time, pressing fingers to sockets. He spat some water back into the basin and re-examined himself in the mirror. A toilet was flushing, and the cubicle door behind him opened. A squat man wearing spectacles and a shirt too small at the neck came waddling out. Dreyfuss smiled into the mirror, and the man seemed to smile back, but kept on coming...
Dreyfuss saw the cheese wire. It was twisted around the man’s pudgy little hands, wads of cloth stopping it cutting into the pulpy skin. It took no more than a second for the man to hoist it over Dreyfuss’ bowed head and pull tight. But in that second, Dreyfuss managed to prise his fingers between the wire and his unprotected throat, so that when the wire tightened, it cut into finger joints rather than neck. But it hurt like hell, and kept on digging, rending the tissue, sending blood trickling down Dreyfuss’ right hand. He watched in horror in the mirror as his eyes began to bulge, his tongue to twitch. The man was pulling him backwards, putting him off balance. With his free hand, Dreyfuss lashed out, finding first the man’s glasses, then his eyes, gouging at them. The man cried out, but the noise was all but masked by the greater noise of the cubicle finishing its flush and the dryer finishing its cycle.