Ian Rankin - Westwind

‘He’s going to be a bit surprised to get a call so quickly,’ said Dreyfuss.

‘He’s going to be absolutely furious,’ Parfit said, having pressed home the digits, awaiting a response at the other end.

Dreyfuss was intrigued. But he was also full of pain, and couldn’t separate the two. They’d used a packet of cotton wool and a whole box of plasters on his hand, but he could feel the blood soaking through already. They’d also bought aspirin, and he’d swallowed half a dozen. He needed a drink.

‘Stewart? It’s Parfit. Listen, I need some help. No questions, just help. I’ll explain later. What?’ Parfit listened. ‘No, we’re at the airport. Yes, flying out.’ He held the receiver away from his ear as Stewart’s stream of invective flew out. Then, as briskly as it had started, it ended. Parfit returned the receiver to his ear. ‘I couldn’t tell you, Stewart. It would have meant too many other people knowing about it. Anyway, the point is, we’ve encountered a slight problem. That problem has been dealt with in the short term, but some cleaning-up needs to be done.’ He listened again. ‘In the gents’ toilets,’ he said at last. ‘International departures. Last cubicle along.’ There was another pause. ‘How long will it take?’ He nodded and smiled. ‘That’s great, Stewart. What? No, he’s fine. I will. Goodbye.’

He slipped the receiver back into its cradle. ‘Stewart sends his love,’ he said to Dreyfuss.

‘But can we really trust him?’ Dreyfuss asked, his throat raw like sunburn.

‘From the way he was questioning you in that hospital in Sacramento, it was quite obvious he hadn’t a clue what was going on.’ Parfit had started walking, and Dreyfuss walked with him, his whole arm throbbing. They were nearing the long, gleaming bar of the departures lounge. Parfit kept talking as they walked. ‘We’re up against generals, not spooks,’ he said. The barman was ready to serve them. ‘Scotch on its own,’ Parfit ordered. ‘But bring over the ice bucket, will you?’ He turned to Dreyfuss. ‘What’ll you have?’

‘Whisky,’ croaked Dreyfuss. ‘A double.’

The barman nodded and moved off to fix their drinks.

‘Keep talking,’ said Dreyfuss. ‘It might take my mind off the bleeding.’

Parfit needed no further prompting. ‘There’s not much more to tell. Stewart will watch Esterhazy like the proverbial hawk.’ He smiled again. ‘It’s a bit like the old days, special relationship and all that.’ The smile faded. ‘Of course, we can’t trust the NSA too far, maybe not very far at all, but Stewart... well, I’ve got a feeling about Frank Stewart.’

The drinks had arrived, and with them the ice bucket. Dreyfuss reached his left hand into the chill centre of the white plastic basin and pulled out a cluster of cubes, which he dropped into his right-hand jacket pocket, packing them around his fingers and his palm. The barman was watching him but had seen worse behaviour in Departures.

‘Cheers,’ said Parfit, glancing towards the toilets. ‘Here’s to absent friends.’

‘Cheers,’ said Dreyfuss, before downing his drink in two hungry gulps.

Three musical notes preceded an address over the tannoy, announcing that their flight was boarding. Parfit patted Dreyfuss’ back.

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘In-flight drinks are gratis, I believe. The first one’s on me.’

Dreyfuss grimaced. ‘Plenty of ice with mine,’ he said, feeling the damp in his pocket and not knowing whether it was evidence of melting ice or of his warm blood soaking through the compress.

‘Plenty of ice it is,’ said Parfit.

Hepton had the idea that everyone knew more than they were telling. Fair enough, he thought: probably he knew more than he was telling, too. And it was with this in mind that he asked Jilly if she knew of any restaurants where the public telephone was out of sight of the dining area, and preferably close to the toilets. They were sitting in the Curzon Street building, drinking tea and waiting for Sanders to come and pick them up. The spy chiefs had thanked them for attending the meeting, and had hoped there would be no need to meet again.

‘I’ll second that,’ Jilly had said.

‘I suppose I can think of a few,’ she said now. ‘Why do you want to know?’

‘I want to make a telephone call, but I don’t want Sanders knowing about it. For one thing, I don’t trust him. For another, I don’t want him to know who I’m telephoning. Everyone who gets involved in this thing seems to be in danger.’

‘Who are you going to telephone?’

‘Nick Christopher.’

‘Your friend at the base?’

‘Yes. Don’t ask why, not yet. Are any of these restaurants close to here?’

‘One’s fairly close.’ She was rising to the challenge. ‘It’s Italian. There’s a wall phone downstairs, just next to the kitchen and the toilets. All the tables are upstairs. Would that do?’

‘Perfect. All I’d need you to do is keep Sanders occupied while I’m downstairs.’

She smiled archly. ‘If I know Sanders, that shouldn’t be difficult.’

There was a knock on the door of the room, and Sanders’ head appeared. ‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said. ‘Another job.’

‘Well, you should be sorry,’ Jilly said, sounding peeved. She rose from her chair. ‘Just for that, Sanders, lunch is on you.’

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Anything to oblige.’

‘Good,’ said Jilly, taking his arm. ‘There’s this little Italian place off Regent Street...’

Hepton, marvelling, followed.

Jilly had judged things perfectly. Sanders was keen to get on in his career, and slightly in awe of his superiors. He also felt a little aggrieved at having been left out of the top-level meeting, and his attention was total as, seated at a corner table in the restaurant, Jilly began to tell him all about it. He wanted to know every detail, and she was only too willing to tell. Soon, with a few tantalising lies thrown in to make the mixture even more intriguing, she had him hooked, a child to her fairy tale. They had just finished the first course. Hepton had ordered a veal dish to follow, though he hated veal on principle.

‘That dish is very special, sir,’ the waiter had informed him, pointing it out on the menu. ‘You see, it says there it takes thirty minutes to cook.’

It did indeed warn of this, which was why Hepton had chosen it. He didn’t want to be on the telephone downstairs and have his food waiting for him upstairs, causing Sanders to realise that he was away from the table. He had to be sure of a gap between the first course and the main. So he had nodded, and Jilly had caught his reasoning.

‘That sounds good,’ she had said. ‘I think I’ll change my mind and have the veal instead of the chicken.’ The waiter had nodded, scribbling on his pad. Then Sanders had joined in.

‘Make that three veals,’ he’d said, and they had all smiled.

‘Excuse me a minute,’ Hepton said now, lifting his napkin from his lap and dropping it onto the table. Sanders nodded, but hardly paid any attention. Jilly had started another story about the meeting. Hepton rose to his feet and walked towards the back of the restaurant. An arrowed sign told him that the toilets were downstairs, and he descended the staircase slowly, his heart thumping furiously.

The wall phone was not in use. It was a modern chrome effort, with a blue receiver. It accepted most coins, and Hepton searched in his pocket. He came out with one pound and seventy pence. He checked his watch. It had just crept past one o’clock. Good: the rate wouldn’t be at its most expensive. He probably had enough. He picked up the receiver, dropped in the money and saw it register on the liquid crystal display, and dialled.