‘The papers are full of it, after all,’ Wintrincham went on. ‘First Secerterry Khrushchev and … ’ave I pronounced that right, d’ye reckon?’
He was looking to Troy for an answer. Troy was almost at a loss for words.
‘Perfect, sir,’ he muttered.
‘Anyway. First Secerterry Krushchev and Marshal Bulganin will be docking at Portsmouth in the morning and disembarking tomorrow a.m. I’ve been asked to provide the bodyguard, and I
gather it’s a matter of principle that the bodyguard should consist entirely of serving police officers. There’ll be the usual security arrangements—motorcycle escorts made up by
the Met divisions—but the personal bodyguard will be Special Branch. Boyle and Briggs were on their way to Portsmouth when they were killed. It leaves me two men short. It would seem that you
are the only available officer who meets the necessary requirements. You’ve good Russian, I’m told.’
‘Perfect, sir,’ Troy said again.
‘I know it’s unusual to ask to second an officer of your rank, and I appreciate you’ve a squad of your own to run, but under the circumstances I’d be very grateful if
you’d agree to help us out in this matter.’
‘A week’s secondment, I take it?’
‘More like ten days. Mr Onions is willing. If you’d like a little time to … er …’
‘No, no,’ said Troy. ‘I’m sure Mr Onions has already said all he needs to on the matter.’
Troy shot Stan a sideways glance, but he refused the bait and stared at the end of his boot.
‘But I’d like the opportunity to put a few questions to you if I may. Who, for instance, is in charge of the operation?’
Cobb’s voice cut in from the corner. ‘I am.’ It was guttural, flat and Midlands, and he coughed into his hand as soon as he had spoken, as though reluctant to exercise his
voice more than the minimum.
‘I see,’ said Troy. ‘How many men do we have?’
‘Five,’ he grunted again. ‘Six with you. Working in double shifts. Four with Khrushchev. Two on two off. Two with Bulganin. Same method. You’d be with the Marshal, and
you could have the night shift. Less for you to do. Leave the important stuff to my lads. They’re trained for it, after all.’
This irritated Troy. He knew damn well that Special Branch training amounted to no more than matriculation in steaming open envelopes and kicking down doors. Any fool could do that.
‘It doesn’t sound as though I’ll be needing much Russian,’ he said.
‘A precaution,’ said Wintrincham. ‘Of course, they’ll bring their own translators. But it’s been decided in another place that perhaps it would be better if
everyone in regular contact with them spoke the language. That way nothing slips by.’
Another place. If the man meant MI6, why didn’t he say so? Good God, could no one call a spook a spook any more?
‘Slips by?’ Troy said softly.
‘Anything … shall we say … anything of importance. Anything you hear that might be important would be reported back to Inspector Cobb. And I need hardly add that as far as the
Russians are concerned we’re all coppers, and they’ve no reason to think we speak their language.’
‘Other than their natural suspicion,’ Troy said.
‘Can’t bargain for that. All I’m saying is if you keep your mouth shut and your ears open, the job should be no trouble to anyone.’
Troy looked again at Onions to find him looking back. In for a penny, he thought.
‘Let me see if I understand you, sir,’ he began, using a well-tried opening of understated, deferential defiance. ‘You want me to spy on Marshal Bulganin?’
‘Not exactly …’
‘Ted,’ Onions cut in. ‘What else would you call it?’
‘I don’t know whether you’re aware of this, sir,’ Troy went on, ‘but less than ten years ago when I arrested an agent of the American Government on four counts of
murder—four counts on which he was subsequently convicted—officers of this department sent me to Coventry. The sole exception was the late Inspector Boyle, who called me a traitor to my
face. I wonder also, sir, if you’re aware that when we, every man jack of us, were vetted during the war, my vetting was, as Chief Inspector Walsh put it, marginal. A condition of which this
department has felt it necessary to remind me from time to time when it’s suited its own purposes to portray me as less than wholly loyal to the interests of the force. Am I to take it that
my credit with this department has risen? Am I now, after so much water under a dozen bridges, being asked to spy on a Marshal of the Soviet Union?’
Wintrincham was stunned to silence. It occurred to Troy that he could scarcely be accustomed to being addressed in this fashion—the daily routine of Onions and Troy—by his own men.
He was almost sorry. Wintrincham was behaving decently and giving him a choice, but the game was too rich to resist.
‘Because,’ Troy concluded, ‘I won’t do it.’
Wintrincham was looking to Onions to bale him out, but it was Cobb who spoke.
‘Excuse me, sir, we don’t have to take this shit. We can do very well without Mr Troy.’
‘Hear the man out, Inspector,’ Onions said.
‘I rather thought Mr Troy had said his piece and shot his bolt, sir.’
‘Shut your gob, lad. He’s not through. Are you, Freddie?’
Troy was silently in awe of the timing. It amounted almost to telepathy. And the use of his Christian name amounted to sanction for anything he might now say.
‘No, sir. I did have one more point to make.’
Cobb rolled his eyes at the ceiling. Troy thought he heard a whispered ‘Jesus’.
‘I won’t spy on Marshal Bulganin.’
‘I told yer,’ muttered Cobb.
‘But I will spy on Khrushchev.’
Cobb and Wintrincham looked at each other blankly. Troy looked at Onions, sitting there with his arms folded and smirking. Troy had often thought that he had no more liking for the Branch than
he did himself. That the Branch was now under his command was simply a result of running C Division of the Yard. Troy could not believe this aspect of the command gave him any pleasure.
Wintrincham spoke at last. ‘Who,’ he asked Cobb, ‘have you assigned to Khrushchev?’
‘It was Inspector Boyle. As things are, I was going to take him myself, sir. It’s my operation.’
‘I don’t want the operation. I just want Khrushchev. Preferably while he’s awake. You’d be wasting me on Bulganin,’ said Troy.
‘What makes you think that?’ Cobb snapped back at him.
‘Where did you learn your Russian, Mr Cobb?’
‘In the army. 1946.’
‘I’ve spoken Russian all my life. It’s my first language. Besides, compared to Khrushchev, Bulganin is taciturn. If you have to think what Khrushchev says once he gets on a
roll he’ll leave you standing. He’s quick and he’s bad-tempered. And when he loses it, he talks nineteen to the dozen. Can you honestly tell me that you have anyone else as fluent
as me?’
Cobb stared back at him silently.
‘Are those your terms, Mr Troy?’ Wintrincham asked.
‘Not terms, sir. I wouldn’t dream of setting conditions on my service. I’m simply trying to be practical.’
‘I don’t think I believe you, Mr Troy. But it remains nevertheless that what suits your vanity is probably what suits the operation best. I’ll assign you to First Secerterry
Khrushchev.’
Cobb opened his mouth to speak, but Wintrincham got in first.
‘Whatever your objection is, Norman, I don’t want to hear it. I’ve made my decision. It’s still your command. You’ve enough decisions of your own without wasting
time questioning mine. If you’ve any orders for Chief Inspector Troy, issue them now and I can bugger off home to bed. It’s been a long day.’
Cobb coughed into his fist. He looked up at Troy with undisguised contempt.
‘Report to the garage at 6 a.m. We drive to Portsmouth for a briefing in the dockyard and weapons issue at nine-thirty. I’ll pair people off then and issue rosters. We wait for the
Russian ship and meet the visitors at disembarkation. Back up to London by train. Formal meeting at Waterloo by HMG. And the evenings are mostly black tie—you do have evening dress
don’t you, Mr Troy?’
Well, thought Troy, he had to have his little dig one way or another, didn’t he?
Back on their own landing, out in the corridor, Troy could not resist the cat-that-got-the-cream grin. Onions responded. A cheery display of nicotined teeth. For a moment he
thought they’d both corpse. Onions was right, it was rich; it was irresistible, it was funny.
‘What was the gag?’ Onions said.
‘Eh?’
‘Jimmy Wheeler and the rice pudding.’
‘I only meant it’s not funny. Everybody’s heard it. Wheeler cracks it every time he appears. Like Jack Benny playing the violin.’
‘Funny?’ Onions mused. ‘I don’t think I’ve heard it.’
Troy thought that Onions must be the only man in Britain who hadn’t, but then he probably did not go out much, never went to the cinema or the variety and had probably never seen
television in his life. For all Onions knew, Charlie Chaplin still wore a bowler hat and baggy pants, and Martin and Lewis was a department store.
‘Tramp calls at the door of the big house. Toff opens the door. Tramp says, “Evenin’ guvnor. Could you spare a tanner or a bite to eat?” “Well,” says the
toff, “d’you like cold rice pudding?” “Great,” says the tramp, and the toff says, “Well come back tamorrer, it’s hot now.”’
Onions thought about this for a moment or two, as though puzzled.
‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘It’s not funny.’
There was scarcely enough of the evening left to do anything but go home, pack and go to bed. It was a short walk from Scotland Yard to his town house in Goodwin’s Court.
Over the years Troy had worked out and walked every possible route home. Along the Embankment, under Hungerford Bridge, up Villiers Street, across the Strand and in the back way via Chandos Place
and Bedfordbury—which was rivery and, on the whole, quiet. Or straight along Whitehall, across Trafalgar Square, miss Nelson, pass St Martin-in-the-Fields, up St Martin’s Lane and in
the front way—which was far from quiet and for when he was in the mood to play the tourist. Or, as tonight, in mood perverse, over Whitehall, down Downing Street, where the lights still
burned in the Prime Minister’s offices—last-minute alterations to the agenda allowing Mr K to visit a pickle-bottling factory in Middlesbrough or morris dancing in Middle
Wallop?—where the duty copper gave him an unexpected salute, out into Horse Guards’ Parade, up the steps at Carlton House, up the Haymarket, and left into Orange Street—there to
pause, to gaze quickly up at the top floor of an old, narrow house, and walk on, out into Charing Cross Road, through Cecil Court and in the front way.
When he got in the telephone was ringing.
‘Freddie? Come out and have a jar.’
Why Charlie? Why now?
‘Bad timing, Charlie, I’m off somewhere at first light. I have to pack.’
‘I’m only in the Salisbury. I saw you pass by. Come on. Just half an hour.’
‘Charlie, it’s half past—’
‘Since when did we give a toss about the time?’
The Salisbury stood on the far side of St Martin’s Lane, opposite the entrance to Goodwin’s Court. In the heart of the West End, all but sandwiched between theatres, it was a popular
watering hole of actors. And, of a kind, Charlie was an actor.
Troy found him in the tap room, swirling a brandy and soda, a thousand trivial questions on his lips, his glistening, tangled web stretched out for Troy to settle into. Troy had known Charlie
for thirty years. He was a matter of days older than Troy. They had started at school the same day, in the same dormitory, and had lived side by side for nearly eight years through the vicissitudes
of an education that Troy had hated. Charlie had more tolerance of it, more understanding, Troy had assumed, of what it all meant. He had steered Troy through the course of it, around social and
formal obstacles that left Troy baffled and wondering vaguely if the English were not a race of lunatics. All the same, each summer Troy asked his father if he could leave now, and each summer the
elder Troy replied that he would never come to terms with the new country any other way and so must stay. ‘Do you want,’ he said, ‘to be an Englishman or not? I recommend it
wholeheartedly. They can be so unforgiving to wogs of any kind. If the club has opened its doors, I suggest you join. You don’t have to believe. That is, after all, un-English. Remember
Conrad—
Under Western Eyes.
They made their compromise with history long ago, and so believe nothing. And you don’t have to like them either.’
Charlie led. Whatever the situation, Charlie led and Troy was an NCO. The benefits to Troy were great. At first he had wondered why Charlie had picked him, since more often than not he needed
protecting from the perils of a closed society that he scarcely understood. And the price to Charlie had been great. He had stood up to bullies, with whom he personally had had no quarrel but for
whom Troy, foreign in his looks and short in stature, was a natural target. And on more than one occasion had taken a beating meant for Troy.
‘I don’t feel it as you would,’ he had said when Troy asked why he had owned up to whatever it was Troy had done. Troy did not for a moment believe this, and said as much.
Charlie replied, ‘Well, let’s put it another way. They hit me a damn sight less hard than they would have hit you. They know you’re not one of them; they think I probably am. But
they’re wrong.
Contra mundum,
Fred. You and me against the world.’
Troy had not understood this. All the same, Charlie had gone on saying it.
In its way their education had shaped each of them into what they were now. Each found a home outside the norms of English high society. Charlie had gone up to Cambridge in 1933, from there
straight into the Guards, in which he spent the war. In theory at least he was still in the Guards, but this was all part of the colossal bluff that Troy thought went back to the war and perhaps to
before the war. Guards meant spook, reserve meant active spook, attachment to our embassy in Helsinki meant important spook, attachment to our embassy in Moscow meant very important spook. All this
went without saying. Charlie and Troy did not discuss it, had never discussed it. There was little need. Few men alive had Charlie’s gift for small talk.