‘Sign it, please,’ he ordered, and Hepton accepted the proffered pen. ‘Best stick to calling yourself Harris,’ Sanders advised. ‘That way it doesn’t get complicated when you’ve handed back both passes and somebody tries to collate the day’s visitors in and out.’
‘Right.’ Hepton signed himself as Martin Harris and followed Sanders towards one of the doors. This led into a smaller reception, where a young black secretary tapped away at a computer.
‘Morning, Sarah,’ said Sanders, passing her and pausing at yet another door. Sarah smiled at Hepton, and he smiled back. He was thinking now that everything was going to be all right.
Sanders had knocked at the door. There was a command from within, and he opened it, ushering Hepton into the room before him.
It was a decent-sized office, its furniture a mixture of the antique and the up-to-date. Books lined one wall, while another contained paintings and prints. The fourth and last was taken up for the most part by a large window, again net-curtained. At the window stood a middle-aged man, an important-looking man. The cut of his clothes was expensive, and where his cheeks had been shaved there was a bright ruddiness that bespoke health and wealth. Hepton had the feeling that he had seen this man before somewhere, on television perhaps.
‘Ah, Mr Hepton. Do come in, please. I’m George Villiers.’
Villiers! Hepton’s heart shrank to the size of a peach stone. But he kept his face neutral, betraying no emotion, and finally shook the proffered hand. It struck him that Villiers wouldn’t — couldn’t — know that Hepton knew about him. He had to stay calm, not give anything away. He breathed deeply to stop himself from hyperventilating. His heart was racing, but he kept his posture stiff.
Villiers motioned for him to sit, and Hepton did so. Then Villiers seated himself and drew his chair in towards the table. Something about his actions — a clipped, rehearsed quality, a feeling that each movement of the body possessed its own cause and effect — told Hepton that he was ex-military. And not all that ex either.
Villiers lifted a sheet of paper from his desk. It was a typed sheet, not the one Sanders had taken with him from that first room. ‘Can you tell us why you wish to contact Major Dreyfuss?’
‘No,’ said Hepton briskly. ‘If you could just pass a message on to him that I’m trying to reach him, perhaps—’
‘You’re on holiday at the moment, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, but how could you—’
‘These things aren’t difficult. All right, Mr Hepton. We’ll see what we can do. Where will you be staying while you’re here?’
‘I haven’t decided yet.’
‘With Miss Watson, perhaps?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Oh?’ Villiers stared past Hepton’s shoulder, towards where Sanders stood. ‘I was under the impression the two of you were friends?’
‘We are. That is, we were.’ Hepton’s thoughts were quicksilver now. This was a man he’d been told to avoid, told by Paul Vincent, who was now dead. He couldn’t afford to let Villiers know anything, and already the man knew too much... ‘We broke up. We haven’t seen one another in months.’ Hepton sounded bitter, and made his face look the same. They had to be made to think that he wouldn’t be contacting Jilly.
‘Ah.’ Villiers went back to studying the typed sheet of paper. Hepton noticed that there was a buff-coloured file on the desk, down the edge of which was written a name: Dreyfuss, Major M. The paper had undoubtedly come from the file. Villiers seemed to know who Hepton was, and didn’t seem overcurious about Jilly. Therefore he already knew as much as he needed to know. Had he gleaned the information from the typed sheet? Hepton doubted it. No, there was another reason why Villiers knew about him.
Villiers looked up suddenly and caught Hepton staring at him. He smiled, as if to say: I know what you’re thinking. Then he read through the sheet again, and Hepton relaxed. Villiers couldn’t know he knew.
‘So how will we contact you, Mr Hepton, should we get through to Major Dreyfuss?’
‘As soon as I know where I’m going to be, I’ll let you know.’
‘Yes.’ Villiers sounded sceptical. ‘That would probably be best.’ He seemed preoccupied.
‘Is there anything wrong?’
‘Wrong?’ Villiers looked up.
‘I mean, wrong with Major Dreyfuss. Any reason why I shouldn’t be allowed to speak to him.’
Villiers smiled. ‘Oh no, nothing like that. Nothing like that at all. But procedures, you know...’
‘Red tape?’
‘Exactly. A bore, but it’s what we’re paid for.’ He smiled again, and Sanders laughed quietly.
‘Is there someone from our embassy with Major Dreyfuss?’
Villiers’ smile vanished. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Well, I would have thought it usual to have someone there beside him. To make sure everything’s all right.’
‘There’s someone with him,’ Villiers said in a cool voice. ‘Don’t worry on that score, Mr Hepton. Now, if you’ll excuse me...’
‘Of course.’ Hepton stood up.
Villiers reached out a dry, cold hand for Hepton to shake.
‘Just tell us when you get settled in somewhere, and then when we get through to Major Dreyfuss, well, we’ll take it from there. All right?’
Not really. Hepton felt that he had failed badly. But at least the mood in this office had alerted him to the fact that something was going on out in the States. Perhaps Dreyfuss was in danger from the rednecks who had nicknamed him ‘Jonah’ after the crash. Perhaps, though, there was another kind of danger altogether. On the other hand, he had walked into the lion’s den, and here he was walking out again. He decided to classify this fact a minor victory.
‘Thank you,’ he said, following Sanders out of the door.
As soon as Hepton had gone, Villiers took a fountain pen from his pocket and scribbled down a brief summary of the meeting. Then he amended the information about Hepton and Miss Watson on the typed sheet of paper, initialled the summary and slipped it into the Dreyfuss file. From the top drawer of his desk, he took out another folder. This one was unlabelled, and into it he slipped the single typed sheet to which he had been referring throughout the meeting. This was the file on Martin Hepton.
He locked his drawer and picked up one of the two telephones on his desk, punching in three digits.
‘Sanders is seeing someone to the front door,’ he said in a monotone. ‘Have them followed. But keep it low-key. A one-man job, if you can.’ He listened for a moment. ‘No, no forms to fill in on this one. I want it kept strictly off the books.’ He listened again, his cheekbones showing red with suppressed anger. ‘Yes, I know,’ he hissed. ‘I’ll assume full responsibility, just bloody well do it!’ Then he slammed down the receiver and stared at it, thinking hard. Hepton wanted to speak to Major Dreyfuss. If he did so in Villiers’ presence, then Villiers would find out all he needed about what both men knew. So why keep two old acquaintances apart? He picked up the other receiver.
‘Sarah?’ he said. ‘Put through a call to Washington, will you? I want to speak to Johnnie Gilchrist.’
17
The city was swarming, and there was no shade to be found. Hepton tried to keep to the backstreets, the narrower passages that neither sun nor tourists could penetrate. The tourists were predominantly European and Japanese. The Americans were staying closer to home this summer. He went into a café for a cold drink, but found the heat indoors unbearable, so came away thirsty. The man who had been a dozen paces behind him walking in was still a dozen paces behind him when he walked out. Hepton smiled.