Ian Rankin - Westwind

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?’

‘Yes.’

‘So what do you remember?’

Dreyfuss rested his head against the pillow. ‘I was chosen as the British member of the Argos mission. We were launching a communications satellite. Everything went fine...’ He stared at the ceiling, seeing the control panel again, the computer screen, the readouts, which had stopped making sense. Heinemann had been watching the screen, too, but hadn’t said anything. He didn’t seem to think there was anything wrong.

But there was.

And at first Dreyfuss hadn’t said anything, in case the answer was simple and they all sneered at him again, thinking him underqualified to be on the flight, thinking him stupid. But then he had mentioned it to Hes Adams...

‘Yes?’ Stewart prompted.

‘Everything went fine, like I said. But when we were coming in to land, the onboard system failed.’

‘Christ, we know that!’ shouted Esterhazy. ‘Tell us something we don’t know.’

‘Ben, please.’ Stewart’s voice was pleading. He smiled at Dreyfuss.

Techniques for the survival of interrogation, number one: trust no one, and especially not anyone who appears to be your friend . That was what they had taught him. He would have to be careful of this man Stewart.

He had a question to ask for himself.

‘How far is Sacramento from Edwards Air Force Base?’

‘Maybe three hundred miles,’ Stewart said.

‘Why was I brought here then? Why not a hospital closer to Edwards?’

Stewart turned to Esterhazy. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘why was that, Ben?’

‘I told you, Frank, we were trying to throw off the press. They’ve been round this thing like vultures. We were also trying to avoid any ugly scenes, public demonstrations, folks wanting him strung up.’ Esterhazy was relishing this. ‘So instead of taking him to Bakersfield or LA, which would have been obvious choices, we landed him at McClellan and brought him here. And what do we get by way of thanks? Squat!’

Stewart ignored this, his attention still on Dreyfuss. ‘Those bruises on your throat aren’t love bites, are they, Major?’

‘I suppose we all panicked when the shuttle was coming down.’ Dreyfuss had had time to prepare this story. ‘We all got a bit crazy.’

‘Bullshit,’ hissed Esterhazy. ‘They were the best. They wouldn’t panic. They’d take it like men. I know they would.’

‘If you say so,’ Dreyfuss said.

‘Sonofabitch,’ Esterhazy growled.

There was that word again. Sonofabitch! The burial’s what matters. Coffin’s got to be buried! But what coffin? Whose? Had Hes Adams meant the shuttle itself?

Esterhazy was coming towards the bed. He looked massive, and not a little dangerous. ‘What the hell is it with you, Dreyfuss? Just what is it you’re trying to hide? I know you know something. Damn you, I want to know what it is.’ He turned to Stewart. ‘Get out, Frank. Give me ten minutes with this bastard.’