Normal service, as the BBC always termed it, was resumed on January 2. Another Friday.
Troy had been in his office less than an hour when Eddie put through a call from Vienna.
“Freddie?”
“I have a few words from our friend. ‘Absolutely not. Straight as a die, and queer as a coot.’ Does that answer your question?”
It did. It lent a certain purity to what he knew. A singularity to his purpose.
Eddie, clearly, had listened in.
He stood before Troy now.
“You can’t do it.”
“Do what?”
“You can’t just kill an MI5 section head.”