Rod had usurped Troy’s study. Fire lit, feet up. The look of a man happy to have escaped constituents and children.
He was a little the worse for wear, but hardly drunk.
“Were we expecting each other?” he said.
“No. I rang Hampstead first. Cid told me you were here.”
“Needed a bit of a break. You haven’t come to ruin it for me, have you?”
“I think I have. Pour yourself another drink.”
“Can’t it, whatever it is, wait?”
“If it could I wouldn’t be here.”
“Work thing, is it?”
“Yep.”
“Yours or mine?”
“Both.”
“Then I will have that drink.”
When Rod had settled again, poked the logs in the fire into life, Troy said, “Tell me about your meeting with Macmillan.”
“I thought I did. I’ve nothing to add and the old man hasn’t summoned me since.”
“Yes, but there’s emphasis. It’s how you say it.”
Rod, having made so many speeches in thirteen years in Parliament, had an excellent memory for the right words in the right order, and told Troy of his meeting with the Prime Minister almost exactly as he had before, ending, “Burgess to Iain? A bit of a non sequitur? Just one of those things. I don’t know why you’re making so much of it.”
Troy said, “Has it occurred to you that it wasn’t a non sequitur? That Uncle Harold had not changed the subject?”
“What, you mean the subject was the queer thing all along?”
“Guy is queer, Iain Stuart-Bell is queer.”
“But Iain isn’t a traitor.”
“And treason was not Macmillan’s subject. Being queer was.”
“Let me get this straight here, bro. You’re saying Macmillan didn’t want Burgess back because he’s queer?”
“Yes. And he wasn’t the only one.”
“So it had nothing to do with him being a traitor?”
“I wouldn’t go that far. But ask yourself this. What secrets has Guy been keeping all these years that might not be so secret once he’s back in the RAC or the Reform Club with too much Scotch inside him?”
“Such as who fucked who in the blackout?”
“Or who fucks who in cabinet and who in the cabinet is also in the closet.”
Rod got up, reached for the decanter of Scotch.
“I don’t fucking believe this. Or to be exact, I do.”
He necked one neat, then, with a twinge of conscience, squirted a dash of soda into his second.
“He wasn’t the only one, you said. So tell me. Who else wants dear old Guy to stay in dear old Russia?”
“Denzil Kearney.”
“Do I know him?”
“Section Head, MI5. Jordan’s boss. His boss, but not his equal.”
“And am I to conclude that this Kearney bloke is, as you so succinctly put it, ‘in the closet’?”
“Yep.”
“You’re certain?”
“And how does this tie in with Bill Blaine and your brush with the Vienna coppers?”
“The KGB didn’t shoot Blaine, our people did. Kearney had Blaine killed to make damn sure Guy’s attempt to come home failed.”
“It wasn’t the Russians? It’s always the bloody Russians!”
“No, it was our lot. And it worked. Guy will be there for ever now.”
“Clutching on to his secrets?”
“Dreaming of England.”
“Drowning in vodka?”
“No, I think he’s learnt to swim in it.”
“Cursing man and God and fate?”
“Pretty much.”
Rod leaned his head back, the Scotch and soda warming in his grip, eyes closed.
“What a mess, what a fucking mess.”
“Quite.”
“It reminds me of where we came in.”
“Eh?”
“You know when we used to go to the flicks as kids. You could buy a ticket at any time, walk in half an hour through the Jean Harlows or the Clark Gables and watch until the film came full circle. Made a bollocks of the plot but we did it often enough. This reminds me of our first encounter with Mr. B. Do you remember what Dad said when he told us Guy was a spy?”
“‘Fraid not.”
“I said, ‘who do we tell?’ and he replied, ‘we tell no one.’”
“Ah … yes, of course he did.”
“He said it because there was no one to tell. And I say it to you now, Freddie, we can tell no one.”
The eyes flicked open, the gaze locked on to his, far from pissed and deadly serious.
Just as seriously Troy looked back and said, “Rod, it isn’t going to be that way.”
“Yes,” said Rod. “I was afraid of that. Why don’t you pour a drink for yourself and tell me what you’re not telling me. You’ve already ruined the weekend and I’ve got all night.”