Stewart dragged the nurse’s chair closer to the bed and sat down. He was a heavyset man in his early fifties. Dreyfuss thought his hair had probably been grey for quite a few years. In build, however, he was Joe Frazier to Esterhazy’s Ali. The general was tall, and as broad as Americans liked their heroes to be. Esterhazy had been publicly and vociferously opposed to the European pull-out, and had received a polite but stinging slap on the wrist from the White House as a result.

Which hadn’t stopped them sending him to Europe to negotiate the terms of the pull-out itself.

‘So,’ Frank Stewart was saying, ‘how are you doing?’

Stewart had slipped out of his jacket, which he was now hanging over the back of the chair. Dreyfuss noticed the gold armbands on his shirtsleeves. He had never seen anyone wear bands before, outside of old movies. Maybe a snooker player or two, but only of the old school. Perhaps they were there to cut off the supply of blood to Stewart’s fists, so he wouldn’t sling a punch at General Esterhazy. Stewart’s eyes were as murky as prunes swimming in semolina, and the cracks on his face weren’t there from laughing. He reached into his pocket for a crisp white handkerchief with which to mop his forehead. Dreyfuss knew who he was now: he was Spencer Tracy playing the tired, put-upon father in some film.

‘I’m doing okay,’ Dreyfuss answered, pouring himself a little water. He saw for the first time that the drip by his bed had been taken away. There was a fresh sticking plaster on his arm where the syringe had been removed.

‘Better than some,’ spat Esterhazy.

‘Ben, for Christ’s sake—’

‘Well, what do you want from me?’ Esterhazy exploded. ‘Tears and flowers?’ He slapped at the bunch of flowers nearest him and sent some petals spinning floorwards. ‘Five good men died up there.’

‘Do we know what happened yet?’ asked Dreyfuss.

‘We don’t, no,’ said Esterhazy. His eyes drilled into Dreyfuss’. ‘Do you?’

Dreyfuss took his time, sipping the water, thinking over his reply. But Stewart was ready with another question.

‘The doc says you’ve got a case of partial amnesia. Is that right?’

‘Yes.’

‘So what do you remember?’

Dreyfuss rested his head against the pillow. ‘I was chosen as the British member of the Argos mission. We were launching a communications satellite. Everything went fine …’ He stared at the ceiling, seeing the control panel again, the computer screen, the readouts, which had stopped making sense. Heinemann had been watching the screen, too, but hadn’t said anything. He didn’t seem to think there was anything wrong.

But there was.