Now Parfit went to the back of the van, reappearing less than two minutes later dressed in similar garb to Dreyfuss and looking more comfortable now that he had shed his workman’s clothes. The driver saw him, folded his newspaper and got out of the car, moving to the van and climbing into the driver’s side. Parfit meantime slid behind the steering wheel of the car. He watched as the driver moved off in the van, then looked left and right. Appearing satisfied, he touched Dreyfuss on the shoulder. Dreyfuss felt the touch like an electric spark, and flinched.

‘Stay calm,’ Parfit advised, ‘for the next hour or so at least. Right, we’re going in now.’ He checked his watch. ‘We’ll go straight to Departures. Okay?’

Dreyfuss nodded and opened his door again. The car had a central-locking mechanism, and he watched as Parfit locked the driver’s door and all four door locks engaged with a silent movement. Then Parfit opened the boot and brought out two small suitcases and two attaché cases. He handed one of each to Dreyfuss.

‘Just some clothes, a few magazines, the usual stuff a businessman would take on a trip. Remember, we’re only going to London for a couple of days. We’re based in Washington—’

‘At an international law firm. I remember.’

Parfit nodded. He seemed preoccupied now: perhaps he was growing just a little bit nervous himself. ‘Oh,’ he said, remembering something. He dug a hand into his jacket and brought out two passports, one of which he handed to Dreyfuss. ‘There you go, Stephen.’

Dreyfuss opened the passport. It was a brilliant fake; in fact, it was more: it was for real. A real passport, bearing a real name: Stephen Jackson. Occupation: solicitor. Stamped with American visas, and with evidence of holidays spent in Greece, Canada, Tunisia. Next of kin: a father, Bernard Jackson, who lived in Dundee.

‘There aren’t too many Bernards in Dundee,’ Dreyfuss commented. Parfit seemed to take this criticism seriously.

‘Good point,’ he said. ‘I’ll have a word with the chaps who make these up.’

The photograph was of Dreyfuss: of course it was. They’d had it taken only yesterday, at the embassy. But a make-up artist had erased a few lines from his face, and given more hair to his forehead. The result was that the man in the picture looked a few years younger; as young as he would have been when the passport was supposedly validated.

‘I’ll hang on to our tickets,’ said Parfit. ‘Okay?’

‘Fine,’ said Dreyfuss, slipping the passport into his jacket pocket. There was something else in there. He brought out a wallet. Opening it, he found money in dollars and sterling, a UK driving licence and three credit cards. ‘Christ,’ he whispered, amazed.

Parfit tapped the cards.