They wrapped wads of toilet paper around each finger, then Parfit’s handkerchief around the whole hand.

‘We’ll get some sticking plasters at the sky shop,’ he said. ‘The hand will keep bleeding, but you probably won’t die before we land. If we get ice with our drinks, we’ll make up a pack with the cubes and you can press that against it. Okay?’

‘Never better,’ said Dreyfuss, his voice laryngitic. ‘Who are we going to telephone?’

‘There’s only one person I can think of right now. Frank Stewart.’

The telephone was one of a row of four. Parfit brought a paper napkin from his pocket. The napkin was from the café, and on it Stewart had scrawled a telephone number.

‘He’s going to be a bit surprised to get a call so quickly,’ said Dreyfuss.

‘He’s going to be absolutely furious,’ Parfit said, having pressed home the digits, awaiting a response at the other end.

Dreyfuss was intrigued. But he was also full of pain, and couldn’t separate the two. They’d used a packet of cotton wool and a whole box of plasters on his hand, but he could feel the blood soaking through already. They’d also bought aspirin, and he’d swallowed half a dozen. He needed a drink.

‘Stewart? It’s Parfit. Listen, I need some help. No questions, just help. I’ll explain later. What?’ Parfit listened. ‘No, we’re at the airport. Yes, flying out.’ He held the receiver away from his ear as Stewart’s stream of invective flew out. Then, as briskly as it had started, it ended. Parfit returned the receiver to his ear. ‘I couldn’t tell you, Stewart. It would have meant too many other people knowing about it. Anyway, the point is, we’ve encountered a slight problem. That problem has been dealt with in the short term, but some cleaning-up needs to be done.’ He listened again. ‘In the gents’ toilets,’ he said at last. ‘International departures. Last cubicle along.’ There was another pause. ‘How long will it take?’ He nodded and smiled. ‘That’s great, Stewart. What? No, he’s fine. I will. Goodbye.’

He slipped the receiver back into its cradle. ‘Stewart sends his love,’ he said to Dreyfuss.

‘But can we really trust him?’ Dreyfuss asked, his throat raw like sunburn.

‘From the way he was questioning you in that hospital in Sacramento, it was quite obvious he hadn’t a clue what was going on.’ Parfit had started walking, and Dreyfuss walked with him, his whole arm throbbing. They were nearing the long, gleaming bar of the departures lounge. Parfit kept talking as they walked. ‘We’re up against generals, not spooks,’ he said. The barman was ready to serve them. ‘Scotch on its own,’ Parfit ordered. ‘But bring over the ice bucket, will you?’ He turned to Dreyfuss. ‘What’ll you have?’

‘Whisky,’ croaked Dreyfuss. ‘A double.’