The barman nodded and moved off to fix their drinks.

‘Keep talking,’ said Dreyfuss. ‘It might take my mind off the bleeding.’

Parfit needed no further prompting. ‘There’s not much more to tell. Stewart will watch Esterhazy like the proverbial hawk.’ He smiled again. ‘It’s a bit like the old days, special relationship and all that.’ The smile faded. ‘Of course, we can’t trust the NSA too far, maybe not very far at all, but Stewart … well, I’ve got a feeling about Frank Stewart.’

The drinks had arrived, and with them the ice bucket. Dreyfuss reached his left hand into the chill centre of the white plastic basin and pulled out a cluster of cubes, which he dropped into his right-hand jacket pocket, packing them around his fingers and his palm. The barman was watching him but had seen worse behaviour in Departures.

‘Cheers,’ said Parfit, glancing towards the toilets. ‘Here’s to absent friends.’

‘Cheers,’ said Dreyfuss, before downing his drink in two hungry gulps.

Three musical notes preceded an address over the tannoy, announcing that their flight was boarding. Parfit patted Dreyfuss’ back.

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘In-flight drinks are gratis, I believe. The first one’s on me.’

Dreyfuss grimaced. ‘Plenty of ice with mine,’ he said, feeling the damp in his pocket and not knowing whether it was evidence of melting ice or of his warm blood soaking through the compress.

‘Plenty of ice it is,’ said Parfit.

27

Hepton had the idea that everyone knew more than they were telling. Fair enough, he thought: probably he knew more than he was telling, too. And it was with this in mind that he asked Jilly if she knew of any restaurants where the public telephone was out of sight of the dining area, and preferably close to the toilets. They were sitting in the Curzon Street building, drinking tea and waiting for Sanders to come and pick them up. The spy chiefs had thanked them for attending the meeting, and had hoped there would be no need to meet again.

‘I’ll second that,’ Jilly had said.

‘I suppose I can think of a few,’ she said now. ‘Why do you want to know?’

‘I want to make a telephone call, but I don’t want Sanders knowing about it. For one thing, I don’t trust him. For another, I don’t want him to know who I’m telephoning. Everyone who gets involved in this thing seems to be in danger.’

‘Who are you going to telephone?’

‘Nick Christopher.’

‘Your friend at the base?’

‘Yes. Don’t ask why, not yet. Are any of these restaurants close to here?’

‘One’s fairly close.’ She was rising to the challenge. ‘It’s Italian. There’s a wall phone downstairs, just next to the kitchen and the toilets. All the tables are upstairs. Would that do?’

‘Perfect. All I’d need you to do is keep Sanders occupied while I’m downstairs.’