He came to in the back of a police car in front of the Marokkanergasse Police Station. There was vomit down his coat and trousers.
Inside, they sat him down, took his coat and jacket.
A police surgeon examined the lump on the back of his head and said he would be fine.
“No need hospital. Verstehen Sie?”
Troy nodded.
“Wasser,” he said simply, wanting to rinse the taste of vomit away.
Instead, two uniforms escorted him backstage, and he found himself locked in a cell. It was the same faecal colour scheme, but it was warm. He put his head down and slept. At least they hadn’t taken his tie and shoe laces.
Nor had they taken his watch, and when the flic reappeared he looked at it. They’d taken an hour and a half to get around to this.
Behind the flic was a uniform, clutching a tray. On it were a glass of water, a sandwich, Troy’s passport, warrant card, and the gun. He set it down and left. The flic pulled up a chair.
“You want to tell me about it?”
“What haven’t you figured out?”
“In your own words—please.”
“We were on our way … Mr. Blaine and myself … from the Hotel Imperial to the British embassy. Mr. Blaine is a guest there. As we reached the fountain there were shots. Four, I think, if there were more I was out cold and didn’t hear them. I’d say they came from the direction of the war memorial, perhaps a man behind one of the columns, but I could be wrong … it sounded to me like a rifle … a rifle with a decent telescopic sight, and the gunman could have been in a building on the Rennweg. Blaine was hit twice. The second shot probably killed him.”
“Or,” the flic said. “Perhaps this did.”
He held up Blaine’s automatic pistol.
“No. That hasn’t been fired.”
The flic held the gun up to his nose, close enough to smell.
“Perhaps, perhaps not, but until we get a ballistics report you may appreciate … you were found with a gun in your hand.”
Troy thought back to the moment when he handed over the gun.
“Have you fingerprinted Blaine?”
“Of course.”
“Then you should fingerprint me. My fingerprints will overlap Blaine’s, not his mine.”
“And what would that prove?”