Though Parfit had the devil of a job convincing Hepton, Dreyfuss and Jilly Watson of this. They were gathered around Dreyfuss’ bed, a good old-fashioned English hospital bed in a good old-fashioned (albeit private) English hospital. Dreyfuss was recovering slowly, but convincingly, though it seemed to him he’d been through all this one time too many.
‘So what did we accomplish?’ he asked.
Parfit shrugged. ‘What we set out to achieve,’ he answered.
‘So it just gets hushed up?’ yelled Jilly.
Parfit knew of her fiery reputation and was at pains not to test it too far.
‘The guilty will be punished,’ he said.
‘But not publicly!’
‘Does it matter?’
‘Yes, I think it does.’ She was out of her chair now, stalking towards the window.
‘I could remind you...’ Parfit began.
‘... That we’ve signed the Official Secrets Act,’ Jilly finished for him. ‘I know.’ She sighed. ‘But it’s so bloody unfair, after what we’ve been through.’
‘Jilly.’ The voice of reason was Dreyfuss’. ‘As Parfit says, does it matter? We’ve won.’
Jilly’s arm snapped out towards Parfit. ‘They’ve won,’ she said. ‘He’s won. Not us, Mickey. Not any of us.’ Her eyes went to Hepton, silent still in his chair, thoughtful, looking tired and numbed. ‘Martin?’ she coaxed.
He seemed to come awake. ‘What?’
‘What do you think?’
‘I think satellite TV’ll never be the same again.’ Then he laughed, the others joining in. ‘And I think I need a holiday.’
‘That shouldn’t present a problem,’ said Parfit, checking his watch. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve really got to go now. I have an appointment in London.’
‘Getting your back slapped?’ Jilly couldn’t resist asking.
‘Not quite,’ he said. ‘Can I offer anyone a lift?’
‘Yes please,’ said Hepton. He looked over towards Jilly, who paused, but finally shook her head.
‘I think I’ll stick around here for a little while,’ she said. She gave a hint of a smile in Dreyfuss’ direction, and he returned it.
‘Fine,’ said Hepton, meaning it. Parfit glanced at him.
‘Shall we go?’
‘Yes,’ said Hepton, ‘let’s go.’
As the car — yet another black Ford Sierra — sped towards London, Parfit revealed the nature of his appointment.
‘I’m seeing our friend Vitalis,’ he said. ‘Having dinner with him, actually, just to let him know what happened. He did the same for me after the Polish thing.’
‘Will you tell him everything?’ Hepton asked, staring at the passing scenery.
Parfit thought this over. ‘Probably not,’ he said. ‘Almost certainly not. It doesn’t matter, so long as he’s told a little of it and doesn’t have to find out for himself.’
‘The special relationship,’ Hepton said quietly to himself, musing. Then he asked the question that had been bothering him for days. ‘How come COFFIN always knew where to find us?’
The question seemed to surprise Parfit. He raised his eyebrows and puckered his mouth. Then he shook his head with slow deliberation.
‘It could have just been Villiers, I suppose,’ he said casually.
‘Or it could have been someone in your organisation. It could even have been you, Parfit, couldn’t it?’
Parfit’s eyes were on the road ahead.
‘It could have been you,’ Hepton repeated, enjoying this deliberate train of thought, ‘because you wanted to get Harry. And because you wanted Harry, you were only too willing to set us up as bait. Catchable bait.’
Now Parfit barked out a laugh, though with a slight, noticeable edge to the sound.
‘It’s an intriguing thought,’ he said. He was on the point of adding something, but he had already given away enough confidences. It would reflect badly on the Service if people found out that Blake Farquharson was in COFFIN up to his mottled neck. There had to be a quiet demise for Farquharson. An accident, perhaps, or heart failure. These things could be arranged. Parfit was, after all, an expert in damage limitation. He couldn’t tell Hepton and he couldn’t tell Vitalis. He couldn’t even tell Frank Stewart, who was so looking forward to being there when Ben Esterhazy was arrested. No, it had to be the Department’s secret... for the moment. The Department’s secret that Blake Farquharson, head of the Secret Intelligence Service, had been a traitor at the highest level; a traitor not to his country so much as, in Parfit’s mind, to his calling. He hadn’t visited the PM that day; he had called from a public telephone kiosk and made his apologies. And he had been ever ready to slip information to George Villiers — his protégé of sorts — and to Harry; as much information as was necessary. God might know why he’d done it; Parfit didn’t.
He squinted ahead into the sunshine. The sky was blue, peppered with tiny high-level clouds. If the sky was blue, how come space was black? He could always ask Hepton. There was a lot he should ask Hepton, but this probably wasn’t the time.
Blake Farquharson carried only one case as he left his home. A small case, the kind one might use on an overnight trip. Not that he was going on an overnight trip. He was fleeing for ever. He had some money in a confidential account, tucked away on a Caribbean island. They would find him eventually. But that didn’t matter. All that mattered was that it shouldn’t happen here, at home, in England.
The streets seemed quiet. He looked up and down for a taxi, and was elated to see one turn the corner in his direction. Its orange light was on, too, proclaiming it for hire. He waved an arm, and the taxi signalled, pulled into the kerb and stopped.
‘Heathrow,’ Farquharson ordered, getting in.
‘Of course,’ said the driver, his voice oddly inflected.
The taxi started off, and Farquharson stared at the driver. He looked familiar. In the rear-view mirror, the man’s dark eyes wrinkled with pleasure.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘you do know me, Mr Farquharson. At least, I think you do. My name is Vitalis. You are about to leave the country. Probably for some warm climate. But might I suggest a slightly cooler one? Somewhere your old friends won’t find you? At any rate, let us talk.’
Farquharson stared out of the window. The taxi was not travelling fast. He wrapped his fingers around the door handle and tried it, but it was locked. Vitalis was still smiling at him. Farquharson rested his back against the seat and closed his eyes. Slowly they filled with tears.