‘Yes.’
‘So what do you remember?’
Dreyfuss rested his head against the pillow. ‘I was chosen as the British member of the Argos mission. We were launching a communications satellite. Everything went fine...’ He stared at the ceiling, seeing the control panel again, the computer screen, the readouts, which had stopped making sense. Heinemann had been watching the screen, too, but hadn’t said anything. He didn’t seem to think there was anything wrong.
But there was.
And at first Dreyfuss hadn’t said anything, in case the answer was simple and they all sneered at him again, thinking him underqualified to be on the flight, thinking him stupid. But then he had mentioned it to Hes Adams...
‘Yes?’ Stewart prompted.
‘Everything went fine, like I said. But when we were coming in to land, the onboard system failed.’
‘Christ, we know that!’ shouted Esterhazy. ‘Tell us something we don’t know.’
‘Ben, please.’ Stewart’s voice was pleading. He smiled at Dreyfuss.
Techniques for the survival of interrogation, number one: trust no one, and especially not anyone who appears to be your friend. That was what they had taught him. He would have to be careful of this man Stewart.
He had a question to ask for himself.
‘How far is Sacramento from Edwards Air Force Base?’
‘Maybe three hundred miles,’ Stewart said.
‘Why was I brought here then? Why not a hospital closer to Edwards?’
Stewart turned to Esterhazy. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘why was that, Ben?’
‘I told you, Frank, we were trying to throw off the press. They’ve been round this thing like vultures. We were also trying to avoid any ugly scenes, public demonstrations, folks wanting him strung up.’ Esterhazy was relishing this. ‘So instead of taking him to Bakersfield or LA, which would have been obvious choices, we landed him at McClellan and brought him here. And what do we get by way of thanks? Squat!’
Stewart ignored this, his attention still on Dreyfuss. ‘Those bruises on your throat aren’t love bites, are they, Major?’
‘I suppose we all panicked when the shuttle was coming down.’ Dreyfuss had had time to prepare this story. ‘We all got a bit crazy.’
‘Bullshit,’ hissed Esterhazy. ‘They were the best. They wouldn’t panic. They’d take it like men. I know they would.’
‘If you say so,’ Dreyfuss said.
‘Sonofabitch,’ Esterhazy growled.
There was that word again. Sonofabitch! The burial’s what matters. Coffin’s got to be buried! But what coffin? Whose? Had Hes Adams meant the shuttle itself?
Esterhazy was coming towards the bed. He looked massive, and not a little dangerous. ‘What the hell is it with you, Dreyfuss? Just what is it you’re trying to hide? I know you know something. Damn you, I want to know what it is.’ He turned to Stewart. ‘Get out, Frank. Give me ten minutes with this bastard.’
‘Ben, don’t be stupid. You’re a general, not some damned sergeant in the marines. And this isn’t Vietnam. This is the United States. That’s not the way we work.’
Esterhazy’s voice had become almost neutral. ‘Yes it is, Frank,’ he said. ‘You should know that. Now either you get out of here, or I’ll have a couple of my men drag you out.’
‘Ben...’ Stewart’s face was purple with blood. Nobody had talked to him like this for quite some time, which, Dreyfuss supposed, meant he was fairly high up in his organisation. But he held his rage and got slowly to his feet. ‘You’re making a mistake,’ he said. Esterhazy was smiling now.
‘Hell, Frank, what do you think I’m going to do? Wire electrodes to his nuts? Your gang might have stooped to that once upon a time. But all we’re going to do is talk. Just a one-to-one. Because the major is holding back on me, and I don’t like that.’
Stewart was at the door now, hesitant, but ready to leave.
Techniques for the survival of interrogation, number two: when a team of two is involved, everything they do is calculated, everything is a trick. Don’t be fooled.
‘Tell me something,’ Esterhazy was saying, his breath close to Dreyfuss’ ear, ‘how come nobody from your own embassy has even bothered to come see you? Huh? Answer me that.’
Esterhazy’s hands were leaning on the edge of the bed, and Stewart was turning the handle, opening the door, making to leave.
But there was someone outside the door, and as Stewart opened it, they walked in, as though they had been standing there for some time listening, awaiting the moment to make the most effective entrance.
‘Good day to you, gentlemen,’ the intruder said by way of introduction. ‘The name’s Parfit, British embassy.’
What was he, some kind of child? To be ignored like that, to be left here in his room while the three of them went off for a meeting. Parfit, British embassy. Just like that.
‘Well, Jesus, it’s about time one of you guys turned up,’ Esterhazy had sneered. ‘If this’ — jerking his head in Dreyfuss’ direction — ‘if this had been one of ours in your country, we’d have been at his bedside before the goddamned shuttle had stopped smoking! We look after our own, and I’ll tell you—’
‘I’m sure you will, General.’ Parfit’s voice was as clean as a polished window. ‘Is there a room where we can sit down and discuss things?’
‘There’s the administrator’s office,’ offered Frank Stewart.
‘Excellent,’ said Parfit. He came to the bed and touched Dreyfuss’ shoulder. ‘I’m glad to see you looking so well, Major. We’ll talk soon.’
And then they’d walked out of the room and left him. Dreyfuss fumed for a couple of minutes, his heart racing, angrier than he’d been since the crash. Then he pulled at the bedcover and swung his legs off the mattress and onto the floor. The floor itself was warm to the touch, yet the room was cool. He stood up, feeling his legs wobble from inaction. He locked them at the knees and drew himself to his full height. A few hesitant steps took him to the washbasin, where he splashed cold water onto his face. He looked in the mirror, and saw a pale face, a gaunt face, the hair cloying and in need of shampoo. The skin was singed from the shuttle blaze, and cream had been smeared onto his cheeks and forehead. And yes, those bruises on his neck were prominent. He looked a mess.
He dried himself with a towel, feeling sweat trickling down his back from the effort thus far. Then he shuffled over to where the flowers sat. There were two cards: one from Jilly, and one from Cam Devereux.
Cam! He held a snapshot in his head of Cam’s beaming face, that air-hostess-style voice: ‘Hi, I’m Cameron Devereux. Call me Cam, everyone does. I’ll be your contact down here while you’re up there.’ The day they’d gone to visit the Argos ground station, meeting with the men who would be their eyes and ears on earth while they were circling in space. The controllers, with their crew cuts and striped shirts, seated in front of screens that could show anything from the height and trajectory of the shuttle to the pressurisation of the cabin and the heartbeats of the men inside it.
Cam, too, had a striped shirt and a crew cut. He also had a smile. God, that assured smile, a fortune in dental work. Even the mechanics in this country smiled like movie stars. But he had a weak handshake, and would melt like wax if a hand grabbed at his smooth lapel or threatened to tweak his WASP nose. However, there was every chance that he would know something about what had gone wrong, or at least would have his suspicions.
I shouldn’t have been up there in the first place, Dreyfuss said to himself now. He had been chosen over younger men and better men, men more computer-literate, men fitter, more intelligent. He had told the selection panel at his third and final interview: ‘I’m just an airman who wants to be an astronaut.’ Hoping that candour would stand up where his credentials had faltered. It had: the Americans wanted him. Everyone had wondered why...