Ian Rankin - Westwind

‘Ah yes, Major Dreyfuss. Well, he’d like a word with you.’

‘With me?’ Jilly said, hopefully.

‘Alas, no, with Mr Hepton.’

‘ Me? ’ Hepton could not hide his surprise. ‘Whatever for? He hardly knows me.’

‘Yes, but he knows you by reputation, apparently. The embassy will be calling in another five minutes or so.’

‘But what does he want?’

‘I really can’t say.’ Villiers sat back, lips tightly closed, as though prepared to sit out the time before the phone call in silence.

‘Tell us about the Falklands,’ Jilly said nonchalantly.

Villiers twitched and leaned back in his chair, as though he had just been given a mild but unpleasant electric shock.

No , thought Hepton. This wasn’t the time to give away secrets. He saw why Jilly had done it. She was a journalist, a journalist who knew something about the man before her. Her professional instinct was to go for the jugular, startle him into some kind of revelation, get him worried... but this wasn’t a newspaper story. This was entirely more serious.

‘Jilly,’ he warned, ‘not now.’

‘Why not?’ she snarled. ‘Why not now?’

‘Because I say so.’ His voice was cold and hard, but his eyes were ablaze. She read his thoughts and seemed to understand them. Villiers had a bemused smile on his face.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said to Jilly, ‘what was it you were about to say?’

Her cheeks were red. ‘Nothing,’ she said.

Villiers turned to Hepton. ‘You know I served in the Royal Marines then?’ Hepton stayed silent. ‘You both seem to know a lot about me, Mr Hepton. Now why should that be? Why should a lowly civil servant interest you so much? Hmm?’

But now it was Hepton’s lips that stayed tight shut. Villiers rose from his chair and turned to stare out of his window. Hepton glanced at Jilly, whose face looked pained. She mouthed, ‘I’m sorry,’ at him. He merely winked in reassurance. Villiers turned back to face them.

‘I’m not sure speaking with Major Dreyfuss would be such a wise move,’ he stated. ‘I’d like you both to leave now.’

Hepton hadn’t been expecting this. But he saw that it made sense. He had been brought here to speak to Dreyfuss so that Villiers could ascertain how much he knew about Zephyr . But now Villiers had discovered that Hepton knew about him , making the telephone call hazardous. Indeed, Hepton now saw, it was imperative to Villiers that Hepton and Jilly leave, since their call to Dreyfuss would doubtless include their suspicions of Villiers himself...

‘We’re staying,’ he said. Jilly looked at him, uncomprehending.

‘Not if I want you to leave,’ Villiers said quietly.

‘Nevertheless, we’re staying.’

Villiers stared at him, then smiled, coming back towards the desk. ‘You’re a clever man, Mr Hepton. But you’re also incredibly stupid.’

He reached out a hand to pick up the receiver of the internal telephone, but just at that moment the other telephone started ringing. Hepton leapt from his seat, grabbing Villiers by the shoulders and propelling him away from the desk, pinning him against the wall. Villiers was strong, and he struggled.

‘Jilly,’ Hepton hissed between gritted teeth. ‘Answer the bloody phone!’

She did so. ‘Hello?’

Villiers had stopped struggling. Hepton relaxed a little, then remembered the man’s Marine training. A heel crushed down onto the toes of his left foot, and he gasped. Then two hands chopped into his ribs. Villiers crooked his index fingers and pressed hard against them with his thumbs. He jabbed the second knuckle of each rigid forefinger into Hepton’s neck. Hepton’s grip on him fell away. But when Villiers made to push him aside, Hepton clutched at him again, and the two men fell sprawling to the floor.

Jilly was shouting into the receiver. ‘It’s Villiers! He’s trying to kill Martin! It’s George Villiers!’ She wasn’t calling for help; she was just letting the facts be known.

Villiers, hearing her words, let out a growl. His hands went to Hepton’s throat again. Hepton drew back a fist and punched him deep in his stomach. Villiers had been Royal Marines, yes, but not for some years, years spent behind a desk. His gut was soft, and the blow winded him, giving Hepton time to climb back to his feet. He swung a foot at Villiers’ head, but Villiers’ reactions were still fast. He dodged the swing and grabbed Hepton’s leg, tugging him off balance and down onto the floor again, clambering atop him.

The older, heavier man’s weight was enough to pin Hepton down. A hand scrabbled at the desktop and came away again clutching a paperknife. Too late, Hepton remembered the kitchen knife in his own pocket. He caught Villiers’ wrist, but Villiers had found new strength. The knife pushed downwards against Hepton’s resistance. Villiers was smiling now, a look of tranquillity on his face. Close combat was his true calling; killing was his destiny...

The office door opened and Sanders looked in. His mouth fell open at the sight of his superior kneeling on top of Hepton with a knife poised above his throat.

‘Christ almighty!’ he gasped.

He loped towards the two men, and as Hepton watched, he seemed to turn his body sideways, raising one leg. The leg flexed, shot out, and a well-shod foot slapped into Villiers’ jaw, cracking his head to one side and throwing him off Hepton. Hepton scrambled to his knees, but Villiers was already on his feet. He seemed to take in the whole situation — Hepton, Sanders, Jilly still talking on the telephone — at a single glance, and started for the door.

‘Sir...’ Sanders laid a restraining hand on his shoulder, but Villiers pushed him aside and ran out.

‘Get after him,’ Hepton ordered.

‘What?’

‘You saw him. He was going to cut my fucking head off. Get after him!’

Sanders hesitated, then crossed to the other telephone, dialled two digits and spoke.

‘Security,’ he said. ‘Sanders here. I want George Villiers apprehended. Yes, that’s right. No, it’s not a joke. He’s trying to leave the building. I want him stopped.’ He slammed the receiver down again and looked to Hepton, who nodded at him in thanks.

‘Martin?’ Jilly was saying. She was holding the receiver out towards him. ‘Martin, they want to speak with you...’

The problem with the secure line, a line unlikely to be tapped into by prying ears, was that it made voices sound as though they were trapped somewhere between an anechoic chamber and a sardine tin. There was a flat, dull lifelessness to the sound, with occasional bursts of jangling metallic tone.

Was it any wonder then that Dreyfuss did not sound like the man Hepton had met one day for lunch with Jilly? But Hepton was intrigued by the secure line, too. Did it use a satellite link? And if so, how secure could it ever be? He took several deep breaths as he took the receiver from Jilly. She was shaking, and he placed a hand on her shoulder to let her know he was all right.

‘Is that you, Martin?’

‘Yes.’

‘Mike Dreyfuss here. What the hell’s going on?’

‘A man just tried to kill me. Lots of people seem to be trying to kill me of late. This one was a civil servant.’

‘Is Jilly okay?’

‘She’s fine.’ Hepton glanced across towards where Jilly, her arms folded in front of her, leaned against the wall. She nodded and smiled, confirming his opinion.

‘What?’ Dreyfuss seemed to be conferring with someone at his end of the line. ‘Hold on, Martin,’ he said. Then his voice was replaced by another.

‘Mr Hepton?’

‘Yes.’

‘My name’s Parfit. We haven’t spoken before.’

‘Parfit?’ Hepton repeated, his eyes on Sanders.