Ian Rankin - Westwind

‘Ben, don’t be stupid. You’re a general, not some damned sergeant in the marines. And this isn’t Vietnam. This is the United States. That’s not the way we work.’

Esterhazy’s voice had become almost neutral. ‘Yes it is, Frank,’ he said. ‘You should know that. Now either you get out of here, or I’ll have a couple of my men drag you out.’

‘Ben...’ Stewart’s face was purple with blood. Nobody had talked to him like this for quite some time, which, Dreyfuss supposed, meant he was fairly high up in his organisation. But he held his rage and got slowly to his feet. ‘You’re making a mistake,’ he said. Esterhazy was smiling now.

‘Hell, Frank, what do you think I’m going to do? Wire electrodes to his nuts? Your gang might have stooped to that once upon a time. But all we’re going to do is talk. Just a one-to-one. Because the major is holding back on me, and I don’t like that.’

Stewart was at the door now, hesitant, but ready to leave.

Techniques for the survival of interrogation, number two: when a team of two is involved, everything they do is calculated, everything is a trick. Don’t be fooled .

‘Tell me something,’ Esterhazy was saying, his breath close to Dreyfuss’ ear, ‘how come nobody from your own embassy has even bothered to come see you? Huh? Answer me that.’

Esterhazy’s hands were leaning on the edge of the bed, and Stewart was turning the handle, opening the door, making to leave.

But there was someone outside the door, and as Stewart opened it, they walked in, as though they had been standing there for some time listening, awaiting the moment to make the most effective entrance.

‘Good day to you, gentlemen,’ the intruder said by way of introduction. ‘The name’s Parfit, British embassy.’

What was he, some kind of child? To be ignored like that, to be left here in his room while the three of them went off for a meeting. Parfit, British embassy. Just like that.

‘Well, Jesus, it’s about time one of you guys turned up,’ Esterhazy had sneered. ‘If this’ — jerking his head in Dreyfuss’ direction — ‘if this had been one of ours in your country, we’d have been at his bedside before the goddamned shuttle had stopped smoking! We look after our own, and I’ll tell you—’

‘I’m sure you will, General.’ Parfit’s voice was as clean as a polished window. ‘Is there a room where we can sit down and discuss things?’

‘There’s the administrator’s office,’ offered Frank Stewart.

‘Excellent,’ said Parfit. He came to the bed and touched Dreyfuss’ shoulder. ‘I’m glad to see you looking so well, Major. We’ll talk soon.’

And then they’d walked out of the room and left him. Dreyfuss fumed for a couple of minutes, his heart racing, angrier than he’d been since the crash. Then he pulled at the bedcover and swung his legs off the mattress and onto the floor. The floor itself was warm to the touch, yet the room was cool. He stood up, feeling his legs wobble from inaction. He locked them at the knees and drew himself to his full height. A few hesitant steps took him to the washbasin, where he splashed cold water onto his face. He looked in the mirror, and saw a pale face, a gaunt face, the hair cloying and in need of shampoo. The skin was singed from the shuttle blaze, and cream had been smeared onto his cheeks and forehead. And yes, those bruises on his neck were prominent. He looked a mess.

He dried himself with a towel, feeling sweat trickling down his back from the effort thus far. Then he shuffled over to where the flowers sat. There were two cards: one from Jilly, and one from Cam Devereux.

Cam! He held a snapshot in his head of Cam’s beaming face, that air-hostess-style voice: ‘Hi, I’m Cameron Devereux. Call me Cam, everyone does. I’ll be your contact down here while you’re up there.’ The day they’d gone to visit the Argos ground station, meeting with the men who would be their eyes and ears on earth while they were circling in space. The controllers, with their crew cuts and striped shirts, seated in front of screens that could show anything from the height and trajectory of the shuttle to the pressurisation of the cabin and the heartbeats of the men inside it.

Cam, too, had a striped shirt and a crew cut. He also had a smile. God, that assured smile, a fortune in dental work. Even the mechanics in this country smiled like movie stars. But he had a weak handshake, and would melt like wax if a hand grabbed at his smooth lapel or threatened to tweak his WASP nose. However, there was every chance that he would know something about what had gone wrong, or at least would have his suspicions.

I shouldn’t have been up there in the first place, Dreyfuss said to himself now. He had been chosen over younger men and better men, men more computer-literate, men fitter, more intelligent. He had told the selection panel at his third and final interview: ‘I’m just an airman who wants to be an astronaut.’ Hoping that candour would stand up where his credentials had faltered. It had: the Americans wanted him. Everyone had wondered why...

‘Major!’ It was Nurse Carraway, entering the room on her silent rubber heels. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Just taking a look at my flowers.’

‘I didn’t think you were strong enough to walk.’

‘Willpower, that’s all.’ He shuffled back to his bed and sat down on its edge, where General Esterhazy’s heavy knuckles had recently rested.

‘Well, anyway, it’s time for your medication.’ She was holding a tiny paper cup filled with liquid in one hand, and a yet smaller cup containing a mixture of tablets in the other. Dreyfuss accepted both. He put the liquid down on his bedside cabinet and picked one of the tablets out at random, holding it between forefinger and thumb. It was oval-shaped and purple in colour.

‘What’s this?’ he asked. He felt bolder now that Parfit had arrived.

‘What do you mean? It’s just medication.’

‘No, come on, you’re a nurse. What kind of medication? What’s its purpose? What’s its medical name?’

She seemed flustered. Dreyfuss had not seen her flustered before.

‘Well?’ he goaded.

She smiled. ‘Major Dreyfuss, if you don’t want to take the tablets, that is your concern. But I should warn you that I’ll have to report—’

Dreyfuss laughed, shaking his head. ‘Get out of here,’ he said. ‘Go on, shove off.’ His grin was purposeful. ‘You’re not a nurse. A nurse on the wards would know what the drugs were called, nicknames, medical names, Christian names. A real nurse would know that. But you, Nurse Carraway, you don’t know anything. As General Esterhazy might put it, you don’t know squat! Incidentally,’ he was on his feet again, shuffling forwards, ‘which one of them do you work for, Stewart or Esterhazy?’

‘Major Dreyfuss,’ she spluttered, ‘I... I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘What’s more,’ he went on, enjoying this, ‘the doctor who came to see me that first time had never seen you before. Plus,’ he said, staring at her legs, ‘I can’t see too many nurses wearing silk hosiery, can you?’

She was staring at her legs too now, as though unable to believe their treachery.

‘Go on,’ he said tiredly, ‘go and make your report.’ And with this he fell back onto the bed and lay there shading his face with his arms. There was a pause of several seconds before he heard her shoes squeak. She had turned round and was going to the door, which opened silently. Dreyfuss felt tired and tricked and used. His head was thumping, and he wondered if any of the tablets in the cup would ease it.

‘Bravo.’

It was Parfit’s voice. Dreyfuss took his arms from his face and jerked his head up. Parfit was standing in the doorway, holding the door open with the tip of a polished black leather brogue. He came into the room, letting the door close softly. His shoes made a solid clacking noise on the flooring as he approached the bed.