Troy slept as badly as the night before. His dreams but variations on a theme, ending the same way in the same words— “Put the gun down, Herr Troy.”
He couldn’t understand why the Austrian detective’s words haunted him … he’d expect to hear Venetia’s habitual “I know everything,” as it had turned out to be her swan song. But he didn’t, just the prosaic, procedural phrasing of a Viennese flic.
He went into the Yard.
Bypassed all contact with Onions.
Brought Jack up to speed.
He was not in a mood to smile. Tolerant and disapproving.
“An MI5 section head? Good God, Freddie. One of these days you’ll get us all killed.”
Around noon Jordan called.
“Sorry about last night. Bad timing.”
“You remember what you said?”
“Yes, and I stick to it. Meet me in the park in an hour.”
Everyone met in the park. Troy doubted that there was a single innocent newspaper reader or duck feeder to be found anywhere in St. James’s Park. They were all running dead letter boxes, trading secrets, or looking for guardsmen to suck off.
He had no difficulty finding Jordan. They’d met at the same bench half a dozen times over the last ten years. Meeting here was the shabby side of a relationship that, by and large, remained social and affable. Troy had eaten dinner at Jordan’s and Jordan at Troy’s. Foxx adored him. They, as Jordan was wont to put it, propped up the same bars—usually the Criterion. If they met in the park, it was work and it was fractious. Troy never felt more distant from Jordan than when talking shop.
“I’m sorry I was pissed,” Jordan said. “Sorrier still to sound pissed off. But—I thought it over. I still can’t do what you ask. Too damn risky.”
“But?”
“But there’s another way to skin a duck …”
“Cat.”
“The phrase is ‘to skin a cat.’”
“If you say so … the cat-skinning is this. I can’t get you the service file on Denzil Kearney without alarm bells going off in Leconfield House. But you can get hold of the copy at the Yard.”
“Not wholly sure I’m with you, Jordan.”
“Special Branch have files on everyone. They have one on you.”
“Of course.”
“I know—I’ve read it. And they’ll have one on Kearney. Might be out of date. I’d doubt they’ve added to it since 1955, but up to that point it will be as fulsome as your own, which, by the bye, is a mass of innuendo, speculation, and resentment worthy of a cod-Regency novel in which you get to play Sir Jasper.”
“Which,” said Troy, “is why they wouldn’t show me Kearney’s file for love or money.”
“So. The Branch hate you. They’ve always hated you. But now you have Eddie. A man for all seasons. You’ve needed an Eddie for a long time. Jack is far too like you. Another tearaway toff. Quite the wrong class to click with the bowler-hat-and-beetle-crusher brigade. But—if Detective Sergeant Edwin Clark can’t wheedle the file out of Special Branch, I’ll eat my hat.”
Jordan was right, and Troy knew it.
“Of course,” Jordan added. “You may find bugger all. Kearney a Soviet agent? I think not. In fact, Freddie, let me ask—do you actually know what you’re looking for?”
“No. I don’t.”
“But … you think Kearney had an ulterior in sending Blaine out to Vienna.”
“Yes. I told you last night. You weren’t at risk. The target was always Blaine.”
“Kearney knew Blaine would be shot? That means he was dealing with the KGB. Something I won’t believe until you slap irrefutable proof in front of me. Freddie, it would make more sense, if you’re right about Blaine being a wrong’un, to have nicked him before he got on a plane to a neutral country. We don’t let the opposition wipe out their double agents when they’re done with them. We arrest them and we interrogate them and we prosecute them.”
“I never said it made sense,” Troy said. “But it’s what happened.”
It wasn’t what happened, but now was not the moment to say so. It was a puzzle to which Troy had the solution, but so many pieces of the puzzle were still missing. Without the missing pieces, Jordan would never believe him.