‘Ham and eggs,’ she said, removing the cover from the plate. Dreyfuss nodded hungrily and started to tuck in. Three or four chews later, he remembered about Parfit, and the hunger left him. He sipped at the coffee, still chewing the food in his mouth, desperate to swallow it but somehow unable to. Eventually he spat it back into his paper serviette.

The nurse returned after twenty minutes and took the tray away. She didn’t say anything about the untouched food.

‘How are we this morning?’ the doctor asked brightly, pushing open the door.

‘We’re fine,’ said Dreyfuss glumly. ‘When can we get up?’

‘I did hear,’ the doctor said mock-conspiratorially, checking Dreyfuss’ pulse at the same time, ‘that we had been getting up. Pacing the floor at all hours of the night.’ He stared at Dreyfuss with soulful eyes. ‘Hmm?’

‘I’d like to leave today.’

‘Fine.’ The doctor had stopped checking the pulse. He now peered into Dreyfuss’ eyes. ‘Where will you go?’

‘I don’t know; a bit of sightseeing, maybe. Book into a hotel, see a few shows …’

‘In Sacramento?’ The doctor laughed. ‘No, I think you’d be better staying just here, Major Dreyfuss.’

And that was what he did. Though he willed himself to move, to just open the door, walk down the corridor and leave by the hospital’s front door, he had no idea what he might be stepping out into. A demonstration, perhaps; an angry mob; some lone gunman looking to make the news?

He sat tight, his gut quivering whenever someone walked noisily past the door of his room. But Parfit didn’t come. Someone else came instead.

Frank Stewart.

‘Can I speak to you for a minute?’

‘Can I stop you?’ Dreyfuss’ voice had bite, but he waved for Stewart to sit down. Secretly he was glad of some company.

‘How do you feel?’

How did he feel? He felt strange, staring into Spencer Tracy’s eyes like this.

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Stewart continued.

Dreyfuss doubted it. ‘Go on,’ he prompted.

‘You’re thinking that somehow you’re to blame for what happened to Argos. Forget it; you couldn’t have done anything.’

‘I couldn’t?’

‘Well, could you?’

Dreyfuss thought about this. What was Stewart trying to get him to say? ‘I don’t know,’ he said at last.

Stewart seemed pleased with this reply and drew his chair closer to the bed.

‘I know there’s something wrong,’ he said, his voice almost a whisper. ‘I know there’s something cooking.’

‘Are you CIA or NSA?’

Stewart seemed surprised by the question. ‘I’m State Department,’ he said.

‘Right,’ Dreyfuss said, sounding as unconvinced as he felt.

‘Okay, okay. I’m on secondment to the NSA.’

Dreyfuss nodded. ‘And what,’ he said, ‘makes you so sure something’s “cooking”, as you put it?’

‘Just a feeling. When you reach my age, you get a nose for these sorts of things.’