Ian Rankin - Westwind

‘Yes.’

‘Me too. Come on.’ They started down another corridor, away from Dreyfuss.

‘But what are you doing back here? What was all that with the tapes?’

‘I’ll tell you later. Is Fagin about?’

‘Somewhere, yes. Why?’

‘I just need my console for an hour or so, and I’d rather he didn’t know about it.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘Nick.’ Hepton came to a stop, gripping Christopher’s shoulder. ‘Remember Paul Vincent?’

‘Of course.’

‘He was murdered. If I can get on my computer for an hour, I think I can catch his killers. But I need your help.’

Christopher stared at him as though Hepton were mad. But Hepton’s look was that of a sane man, a scared man, a man doing what he had to.

‘What do you want me to do?’

‘I want you to protect me. Try not to let anybody interfere with the computer.’

‘No problem. But can’t you tell me why?’

‘Remember when you were younger, when you played with computers for fun rather than for work?’ Christopher nodded. ‘Did you ever do any hacking?’

Now Christopher smiled. ‘Sure, everybody tried it at some time or other.’

Hepton nodded. ‘That’s what I’m going to attempt now. I’m going to try the scariest piece of hacking you’ll ever see.’

Nick Christopher’s face lit up. ‘All right!’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’

They were nearing their destination. Hepton needed to know what lay ahead. ‘Have the new controllers arrived?’ he asked.

‘The skeleton staff? Yeah, most of them. And a few of the old gang have already left.’

Hepton nodded. ‘And you don’t know where Fagin is?’

‘No idea.’

The storerooms that weren’t really storerooms, he thought. It was perfect: as long as he was there, keeping an eye on his satellite, he was free to go to work. He pushed open a final set of doors.

The large central control room was chaotic. Some people were tidying their desks, some were monitoring Zephyr . There was a holiday mood in the air, jokes and laughter. Furniture was being moved, consoles dismantled or serviced. A few of the new faces looked at Hepton curiously as he moved past them. He tried to smile and nod affably. Well, he was already in the lion’s cage; he might as well stick his head in a gaping mouth...

He passed Paul Vincent’s desk. It was being dismantled. The computer had already been taken away. He touched the desktop with one finger, then walked to his own console, pulled the chair out and sat down. There was a fine layer of dust on the screen, and he wiped it with the palm of his hand before switching on. A few of the original crew, the genuine crew, saw him and called over. He waved back.

‘Just in to tidy up a bit,’ he explained. Any one of them could be in on it, could be part of the COFFIN conspiracy. He had to move quickly. But then he knew all the moves, didn’t he? He’d been working them out for what seemed like days. He made the link with Zephyr ’s onboard computer and checked its co-ordinates. It was just about right. Very soon now, within the next hour, it would be over Buchan. That gave him a little time to crack the access code. He already had two passwords he reckoned to be likely candidates — COFFIN and ARGOS. Then he’d let the computer work on the numerical sequence, if one existed, going through random combinations until it found the right one.

He pulled from his pocket Izzard’s black box. If he remembered the instructions correctly, it would help save time. And time above all was precious. At any moment, he might be discovered. The new faces around him might twist suddenly with hate, guns pulled from pockets. Fagin might appear, or Villiers, or Harry. He didn’t know how long he had. He only prayed it was time enough.

Dreyfuss walked slowly along this corridor and that. Two men walked past him carrying large holdalls. They smiled, assuming him to be one of the replacement crew perhaps. He smiled back and kept walking. A door was open, allowing him a view of an empty office. The desk had been cleared, but there was a clipboard lying on top of it. He darted into the room and darted out again, carrying the clipboard now. He held it against his chest, keeping his injured hand in his pocket. The hand had stopped giving him pain. Now, it just throbbed. Nobody seemed to be paying him much notice. He hoped Hepton was all right. Dreyfuss’ part in the plan was more nebulous. He had to find Jilly, supposing they were keeping her here. It was an outside chance, though, wasn’t it? Still, Hepton had told him about the disused stores. It was as good a place as any to look.

‘Mr Fulton?’ There was a man walking towards him. ‘Mr Fulton?’ he repeated. He was trying to examine Dreyfuss’ name tag.

Dreyfuss looked down at it and saw that Peter Fulton was indeed typed there, with an indecipherable signature scrawled beneath. The small photograph was of a man younger than Dreyfuss, the hair fairer, and wearing glasses.

‘Not a very good likeness,’ the man noted.

Dreyfuss smiled, trying to look younger than his years. ‘It was taken a while ago,’ he said. He pointed to his eyes. ‘And the contact lenses make a difference.’

The man thought for a moment, then nodded. ‘Quite so,’ he said. He gestured along the corridor with his arm. ‘The guard on the main door told me you’d arrived. Shall we go?’

‘Of course.’ Go where? Dreyfuss was thinking. And who the hell was he supposed to be anyway? It would be just his luck if this Peter Fulton were crucial to the running of the station. They’d be asking him questions he couldn’t possibly hope to answer.

‘Everybody’s ready,’ the man said. Dreyfuss groaned silently. ‘When did you arrive?’

‘Oh, not long ago.’

The man nodded, seeming satisfied. He looked as though he had other things on his mind, which was fine by Dreyfuss. They walked through one set of doors, then another. At least they were progressing into uncharted territory. Dreyfuss checked each door they passed with his eyes, not sure what clues he might be given to Jilly’s whereabouts: a scream perhaps, or a muffled cry? Guards outside the door?

They came to a security door. There were numbers on its handle, and the man pressed three of these before turning the handle itself. In this new corridor, things were quieter, cooler. There was a slow hum of air conditioning, the low sounds of distant voices. They came to a final door, and the man opened it, gesturing for Dreyfuss to precede him into the room. A very attractive young woman sat on a chair, watching a bank of TV screens, switching between surveillance of one part of the base and another. One side of her face was heavily made up.

The door closed solidly behind Dreyfuss, and when he turned, the man was pointing a Beretta pistol directly at his chest.

‘The guard was right,’ he told the woman, who had risen to her feet. ‘Someone did take Peter Fulton’s pass, unaware that Fulton flew off on holiday yesterday.’ Dreyfuss’ heart sank. ‘I recognised him as soon as I saw him,’ the man continued. ‘Major Michael Dreyfuss, isn’t it?’

‘At your service,’ Dreyfuss said softly. ‘And you are...?’

‘Didn’t I say?’ The man had come round to stand beside the woman. He bowed his head slightly, but the pistol never wavered. ‘I’m George Villiers; you may have heard of me. And this is Harry.’

On hearing Dreyfuss’ identity, a keen look had come into Harry’s eyes. She examined him as though he were some rare species, some rare and endangered species.

‘Where’s Jilly?’ Dreyfuss asked, his voice as brittle as a thread of ice.

Villiers ignored him. ‘Harry,’ he said, ‘Major Dreyfuss came into the station with another man. I went and took a look at the main door just to be sure, and I was right — guess whose pass is missing all of a sudden?’