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 about 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?