Ian Rankin - Westwind

‘So how will we contact you, Mr Hepton, should we get through to Major Dreyfuss?’

‘As soon as I know where I’m going to be, I’ll let you know.’

‘Yes.’ Villiers sounded sceptical. ‘That would probably be best.’ He seemed preoccupied.

‘Is there anything wrong?’

‘Wrong?’ Villiers looked up.

‘I mean, wrong with Major Dreyfuss. Any reason why I shouldn’t be allowed to speak to him.’

Villiers smiled. ‘Oh no, nothing like that. Nothing like that at all. But procedures, you know...’

‘Red tape?’

‘Exactly. A bore, but it’s what we’re paid for.’ He smiled again, and Sanders laughed quietly.

‘Is there someone from our embassy with Major Dreyfuss?’

Villiers’ smile vanished. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Well, I would have thought it usual to have someone there beside him. To make sure everything’s all right.’

‘There’s someone with him,’ Villiers said in a cool voice. ‘Don’t worry on that score, Mr Hepton. Now, if you’ll excuse me...’

‘Of course.’ Hepton stood up.

Villiers reached out a dry, cold hand for Hepton to shake.

‘Just tell us when you get settled in somewhere, and then when we get through to Major Dreyfuss, well, we’ll take it from there. All right?’

Not really. Hepton felt that he had failed badly. But at least the mood in this office had alerted him to the fact that something was going on out in the States. Perhaps Dreyfuss was in danger from the rednecks who had nicknamed him ‘Jonah’ after the crash. Perhaps, though, there was another kind of danger altogether. On the other hand, he had walked into the lion’s den, and here he was walking out again. He decided to classify this fact a minor victory.

‘Thank you,’ he said, following Sanders out of the door.

As soon as Hepton had gone, Villiers took a fountain pen from his pocket and scribbled down a brief summary of the meeting. Then he amended the information about Hepton and Miss Watson on the typed sheet of paper, initialled the summary and slipped it into the Dreyfuss file. From the top drawer of his desk, he took out another folder. This one was unlabelled, and into it he slipped the single typed sheet to which he had been referring throughout the meeting. This was the file on Martin Hepton.

He locked his drawer and picked up one of the two telephones on his desk, punching in three digits.

‘Sanders is seeing someone to the front door,’ he said in a monotone. ‘Have them followed. But keep it low-key. A one-man job, if you can.’ He listened for a moment. ‘No, no forms to fill in on this one. I want it kept strictly off the books.’ He listened again, his cheekbones showing red with suppressed anger. ‘Yes, I know,’ he hissed. ‘I’ll assume full responsibility, just bloody well do it!’ Then he slammed down the receiver and stared at it, thinking hard. Hepton wanted to speak to Major Dreyfuss. If he did so in Villiers’ presence, then Villiers would find out all he needed about what both men knew. So why keep two old acquaintances apart? He picked up the other receiver.

‘Sarah?’ he said. ‘Put through a call to Washington, will you? I want to speak to Johnnie Gilchrist.’

The city was swarming, and there was no shade to be found. Hepton tried to keep to the backstreets, the narrower passages that neither sun nor tourists could penetrate. The tourists were predominantly European and Japanese. The Americans were staying closer to home this summer. He went into a café for a cold drink, but found the heat indoors unbearable, so came away thirsty. The man who had been a dozen paces behind him walking in was still a dozen paces behind him when he walked out. Hepton smiled.

Where was he heading? In all honesty, he did not know. He stepped into a few shops, browsed, then came out again empty-handed. He crossed the expanse of Green Park with the man still behind him, and in Piccadilly he visited two large stores, taking lifts up, stairs down and back-door exits where possible.

He didn’t know where he was headed, but he knew where he was avoiding going: the offices of the London Herald . Could he face Jilly? What would she say? Would she help him? He tried to rehearse various lines as he walked the streets. They all sounded false. They all were false. What was more important, however, was that he should shake this tail before he tried to contact her. Otherwise he would be drawing her into the nasty little web, and that was the last thing he wanted to do.

Lunchtime approached, and he felt hungry again. Breakfast at Heathrow seemed an eternity ago. He touched the roll of banknotes in his pocket and decided to treat himself to something at Fortnum’s. But the queue for the Fountain restaurant was disheartening, so he left again. Besides, his clothes were looking decidedly shabby and slept in: definitely not the stuff of a Fortnum’s luncheon. One of the floorwalkers had kept a beady eye on him all the way around the ground floor.

He had been expecting a tail, of course. Now that Villiers had found him, he would want to keep tabs on him. But who was Villiers? He appeared to be some not-very-minor official at the Foreign Office. What was all or any of this to him? Hepton didn’t know. But he did know one thing. Like a dog offered a bone, it was time for him to shake his tail.

At Piccadilly Circus there was a large record shop — new since his last visit to London and exactly what he was looking for. He entered the noise and the confusion of aisles. At the main door he had spotted a uniformed security guard, and had passed the alarm system with its warning to potential shoplifters. The place was well protected. He walked up and down the aisles, squeezing past this and that browser. He paused by a display of compact discs and saw, from the corner of his eye, the tail browsing a few aisles further along. He smiled and picked up a disc enclosed in a protective clear plastic sheath. On the back of the packaging was a price label and a barcode. Through the barcode ran a strip of silver. Pleased, he examined the disc again. Barbed Wire Kisses by The Jesus and Mary Chain. Yes, this would do.

He walked casually back along the aisle, towards where the tail was now enthusiastically reading the sleeve notes to an offering by The Dead Milkmen. As he was about to pass the man, he paused and put a hand on his shoulder. The tail flinched, but kept his eyes on the record. Hepton kept his hand where it was and brought his face close to the man’s ear.

‘I’m starving,’ he said. ‘I think I’m going to go to lunch now. Okay?’ Then he moved quickly away towards the main doors. The man hesitated, then put the record back into its rack and followed.

Hepton was already on the pavement and hailing a taxi. Damn: the tail would have to hurry. He’d have to find a taxi too, in order to follow Hepton’s taxi. As he was about to push open the heavy glass door, a sudden high-pitched whine came from behind him. The security guard was upon him immediately, hands on his shoulders, turning him around. The tail protested, but the guard’s hands were patting his jacket, and one of them slipped into the left pocket, bringing out a compact disc.

The tail glared through the glass at Hepton, who was bending to get into his taxi. Hepton waved at him and grinned. Then the door slammed shut and the taxi moved off into the line of traffic.

‘Where to, guv?’ the driver asked.

‘First, a clothes shop,’ ordered Hepton. ‘Nothing too flashy. And somewhere between here and the Isle of Dogs.’

He reckoned he would need a shirt, jacket and casual trousers. He reasoned that he would be less conspicuous dressed smartly, and also that he needed a change of clothes in any event, otherwise his description could be circulated too easily. It was tempting to relax a little, to forget that somewhere out there Harry was waiting, ready to kill him if she must. He would use his credit card to buy the clothes: even if Villiers had access to his credit card record, it would take a little time for the transaction to come to light. Villiers knew he was in London. The least Hepton could do was make it difficult for the man to circulate a description of him. That necessitated a change of clothes. A change of hair colouring would be an idea, too. And, while he was at it, why not a change of height and weight and sex?