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in the arse. He hated Special
Branch even more than he hated spooks, but nothing on earth would now dissuade him from the prospect of spending a week in the company of Nikita Sergeyevich Khrushchev.
    ‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s OK. Honestly. I’ve told Wintrincham I’ll do it and I will.’
    ‘We don’t need you. Really we don’t.’
    ‘I rather think you do. Where else are you going to find a Russian speaker as good as me? Outside your own ranks, that is. And of course you’ve been told to stay out of it,
haven’t you?’
    ‘Do you really think Khrushchev is going to be indiscreet in front of a British bobby?’
    ‘I haven’t a clue. But you must think it’s worth the chance or you wouldn’t have surrounded him with paid ears, would you? Where will you be?’
    ‘Out of it. I’ll be in London. And if Cobb doesn’t keep me posted I’ll have his bollocks for conkers. If any of the Comrade First Secretary’s men spotted me there
would be a bit of a rumpus. How did you know we’d been warned off, by the way?’
    ‘It’s buzzing around the Commons. My brother remarked on it only a couple of days ago. Said the word had come from the top.’
    ‘He’s right. I got the works. Meeting with the PM himself. Five and Six to go nowhere near the old boy, or else.’
    Yet more admissions, thought Troy. Charlie would hardly be summoned to meet Eden if he himself were not somewhere near the top of the spook’s greasy pole.
    The barman appeared over Charlie’s left shoulder. Placed a brandy and soda in front of him, but spoke directly to Troy.
    ‘’Scuse me, Mr Troy. Friend o’ yours in the back room. Askin’ for you.’
    ‘Johnny?’ Troy asked.
    ‘’Fraid so.’
    ‘Drunk?’
    ‘Arseholed, Mr Troy. If you wouldn’t mind. He is askin’.’
    Troy got up. Charlie followed. The back room at the Salisbury was beautiful; a plush red box, a sumptuous crimson hole, a velvet glove in which to drink and dream. The man called Johnny was face
down on the table, moaning softly.
    ‘How did he know I was here?’ Troy said.
    ‘If you ask me, it’s second sight. Like how does he always know who’s just been to the bank, and how does he know which night the guvnor’ll be round askin’ to clear
’is slate.’
    The man pushed himself slowly upright, his hands against the edge of the table. His black cashmere coat and his matching red scarf—the nearest thing to a toff’s mufti—were
spattered with vomit. He reeked of whisky. Wafts of it floated across at them as he burbled.
    ‘Freddie, Freddie me old cocksparrer. Pissed again, eh?’
    Troy put a hand under his arm and jerked him to his feet. Charlie took the other arm, and the barman grabbed a brown trilby off the hatstand and rammed it down on Johnny’s head.
    ‘Home, Johnny,’ Troy said simply, and the two of them lugged him through the front bar to the street door.
    ‘Can’t,’ he was burbling. ‘Just can’t, can’t seem to get over it. D’y’knowwhatahmean?’
    Charlie looked questioningly at Troy, but Troy had no time for the unspoken question.
    ‘Flag a cab,’ he told him.
    ‘Freddie, me old mate,’ Johnny went on, ‘there are times when all you want …’ He paused to belch loudly. ‘When all you want is just to be, just to be …
dammit just to be able to talk to her. You know, you must know. For Christ’s sake you’re the only one who does.’
    Charlie had bagged a cab. The driver pulled over to the kerb, looking doubtfully at the way the drunken lord sprawled across Troy.
    Troy tipped Johnny into the back seat, prised his hands away and got the door shut on him.
    The cabbie was leaning out of his window, neck craning backwards, eyes full of suspicion.
    ‘Where to, guv?’ he asked.
    ‘Lowndes Square,’ said Troy.
    Then the back window came down and Johnny’s head lolled out.
    ‘Soon, old chap, soon, whaddya say?’
    Charlie pointed south towards Trafalgar Square with his thumb. A long wail of Troy’s name trailed after the