Ian Rankin - Westwind

‘Yes,’ Devereux said. ‘That was when they strongly suggested that I take a holiday.’

Hepton nodded. ‘So what’s it all about, Cam?’

‘Hell, I don’t know. I don’t want to know.’ Devereux looked up from his glass at last. ‘No, that’s a lie. I do want to know. I can tell you this: that wasn’t a comms satellite Argos was launching. It was something else, something secret. Something for the military. There were a couple of the chiefs on site to watch the launch...’

Hepton remembered the brass who had watched over his own side of things. It couldn’t be a coincidence.

‘... and I figured the satellite must be some kind of intelligence-gatherer. Maybe a communications intercept.’

‘Did the rest of the crew know?’

‘The ground staff knew, or at least we guessed.’

‘But what about the shuttle crew?’

‘Well, Mike Dreyfuss didn’t know. But as for the rest of them...’ Devereux shrugged his shoulders. ‘What does it matter, they’re dead now.’ He turned suddenly and held his glass aloft, yelling towards the waiter, ‘Another one of these!’ Then he looked back at Hepton. ‘Have I told you anything you didn’t know?’

‘Oh yes,’ Hepton answered thoughtfully. ‘Quite a lot.’ There was one thing, one innocuous thing Devereux had said, that kept echoing in his head. A communications intercept . Something didn’t ring true, but he couldn’t think just what.

As Sanders drove them to the safe house in St John’s Wood, Jilly dozed drunkenly in the back seat, her head resting in Hepton’s lap. Hepton himself felt wide awake and stone-cold sober. He saw Devereux’s face again as they took their leave of him at the Achilles Hotel. The American’s eyes had looked dull and unfocused, a man tired of living; or at least of living with lies. A man haunted by his own fears.

From time to time, Hepton glanced back to see if any cars were following them, and each time he did so, Sanders would offer a confident ‘I’d have spotted them by now.’ Which didn’t make Hepton feel any easier. The late-evening traffic was dense, and as they stopped at lights alongside a black cab, Hepton studied the foreign-looking male passenger, who, catching his eye, bowed his head slightly as though in acknowledgement before the lights turned green and both vehicles moved off.

‘Why St John’s Wood?’ he asked Sanders.

‘Because that’s where the nearest Security Service safe house is.’

‘But you’re not MI5, are you?’ Hepton didn’t know much about spies, but he did know that MI5 — the Security Service — handled intelligence work at home, while MI6 — the Secret Intelligence Service — covered foreign operations.

‘Yes,’ Sanders agreed, ‘but unfortunately the Security Service has to be in on this too. After all, we’re in Britain. This is their territory. But since the United States is involved also...’

‘It’s a joint operation, then?’

‘I believe there have been a couple of meetings today to clarify the situation. Not that we enjoy working together, you understand. It’s a matter of trust.’ Sanders glanced round at Hepton. ‘You’re lucky, actually. Their safe houses are a bit nicer than ours.’ He smiled.

They passed Lord’s Cricket Ground and continued up Wellington Road. Hepton had vague memories of a student party he had attended twenty years ago at a flat somewhere near Grove End Road. The hostess’ parents had bought the place for her. The night of the party, her friends had done their level best to wreck it. So much for peace and love.

Sanders turned left off Wellington Road and drove slowly down a narrower street of detached and semi-detached houses, some of them compact, others rising to three and four storeys. He stopped beside one of the smaller detached houses and flashed his lights once. A man appeared from nowhere and opened the garage attached to the side of the house. Sanders negotiated the car into the space and switched off the engine. Behind them, the garage doors were being pulled shut again, though the man operating them remained outside.

‘Home sweet home,’ Sanders said. ‘You lucky swine can get some rest now. I’ve still to write my report and meet with my bosses.’

The garage lights came on, and Hepton eased Jilly out of the back of the car. Sanders had opened another door, connecting with the house itself. Together they helped Jilly through it, along a carpeted hall and into a small, well-furnished living room, where she collapsed onto the sofa. Sanders pushed his hair back into place and straightened his tie.

‘Journalists,’ he said, staring at Jilly. ‘Right, I’d better be off. There are two bedrooms upstairs. Kitchen on the other side of the hall. Toilet next to the door to the garage, and bathroom upstairs. I think one of the bedrooms even has an en suite.’

‘All mod cons,’ said Hepton. ‘Is there a telephone?’

‘Yes, but I shouldn’t try using it. It just routes you straight through to a watcher team.’

‘Watcher?’

‘Surveillance.’

Hepton glanced around the room. ‘Bugged?’ he asked.

Sanders shrugged his shoulders. ‘Oh,’ he said, remembering something. ‘And if you need anything, either pick up the phone or tap on the kitchen window. There are a couple of security men front and back. Otherwise, sleep tight.’ He made to leave.

‘See you in the morning,’ said Hepton.

A few minutes later, he heard the car start up and reverse out of the garage. He went to the living room window to peer out. A tiny front garden separated the house from the pavement and the street beyond. Sanders’ Cavalier backed noisily into the road and started off, gathering speed. Hepton could see no sign of the security man, who presumably was closing the garage doors again. In the lamplight on the other side of the road, an overdressed woman stopped to let the tiny dog she was walking do its business in the gutter. She looked middle-aged, her face heavily made up. Hepton stared hard through the window at her, trying to find Harry’s features beneath the make-up. But he couldn’t. And the woman didn’t even glance across the street. She just watched her dog, cooing at it, and then walked on again, her heels noisy in the silence of the night.

Hepton turned towards Jilly. Her eyes were open and she looked around in bemused fashion, studying this new environment.

‘Where are we?’ she asked, her voice slurred.

‘Come on,’ he said, feeling himself relax for what seemed the first time in days, ‘I’ll show you to your room.’

Hepton’s sleep was dreamless, and he awoke early, refreshed. He ran a bath and lay in it until the water turned from hot to tepid. There was a portable radio on the windowsill, and he switched it on, letting the morning’s news programme wash over him like so much water. There were traffic reports, relaying stories of five-and six-mile tailbacks on some of the roads into London. The world, it seemed, kept on going as though it were just another day, and in London that meant millions of people setting off to work.

The thought was too much. He sank beneath the water, then surfaced again. Drying himself, he switched off the radio so he could concentrate. There was an idea in his head, an idea about what was going on. But what could he do with it? That was the problem: apart from Jilly, there was no one he could trust, not completely. So he mulled over his idea and tried to fit together the remaining pieces of the puzzle.

In the kitchen, he found all he needed to make breakfast. There was bacon in the fridge, and eggs, butter and milk. A fresh loaf of bread sat on the breakfast bar, along with a new carton of orange juice, a jar of coffee and a pack of tea bags. There were pots of honey and marmalade in the cupboard, and a bowl of sugar, too. Everything had the look of having been put there only the day before.