‘Where the hell’s the soda?’ he muttered. The streets of Bonn were in a mid-evening hiatus. Nobody seemed much bothered about the official car or its cargo – there had been so many such cars in Bonn of late – and this suited Esterhazy fine. The last thing he needed was either cheers or jeers. If they cheered, were they cheering because they were glad to see the back of the American forces? Or because they were glad of those forces and wanted them to stay? God alone knew. Ben Esterhazy didn’t. The talks had dragged today. The interpreters seemed to be in some kind of stupor, and the delegates likewise. It was winding down, the pull-out already being implemented. All they were really talking about now was the dotting of a few i’s. That had never been Esterhazy’s way.

But now his part in the comedy was over, and tonight he was flying back to the States. He relaxed, sipped his drink, rested his head on the seat-back. He was going home. The work was done. He’d put in an appearance for the sake of appearances, he’d signed this and that piece of paper. Now he could go back to the men in Washington and tell them it was done. Not that they really cared. If Europe wanted to go it alone, let them. That was democracy’s attitude. But if there were to be a war, the men in suits would be the first to take cover, and the first to order the troops straight back into the kill zone.

‘Well, fuck them.’

‘Sir?’

‘Never mind.’

‘Sir …’

Esterhazy realised that the aide’s hand had reached into an attaché case and come out with an envelope, towards which he was trying to attract the general’s attention.

‘What the hell is it?’ said Esterhazy, snatching at the paper.

‘Message came through for you, sir,’ said Bosio. ‘Sorry, I forgot to give it to you earlier.’

‘Idiot.’ Esterhazy tore open the envelope and unfolded the note inside.

SORRY YOU COULDN’T MAKE IT TO THE BURIAL.

For the first time that day, General Ben Esterhazy smiled.

4

Martin Hepton put down the telephone. At the third attempt, he had found out something concrete about Paul Vincent. He had found out that Paul was no longer in the hospital. He had been sent on to a rest home for a period of ‘recovery’, as the hospital doctor had termed it. Exhaustion, that was all it was. That was all.

Hepton walked along the corridor, paused outside the gym, then pushed open the door. It was a well-equipped gym. Healthy bodies meant healthy minds. Not that anyone ever used the gym. No one except Paul Vincent. Hepton went to the multi-gym, the so-called ‘torture machine’, and hoisted himself up on the arm-lift bar. He brought his chin up to touch the bar, then relaxed his arms until his toes touched the floor.