Old Flames by John Lawton Read Free Book Online Page A

wanted news, the ambiguities of ignorance appealed. Supposing Clark knew everything? He had surely seen her sit down with Troy that night? Supposing she had been exposed or purged
in one of those countless show trials rigged up by Beria under Stalin’s regime? Did he want to know, and if he wanted to know, did he want to know the worst?
    Clark was looking across Troy’s shoulder. He turned. Beynon appeared above him.
    ‘Excuse us, sir. We was wondering like. It’s past ten and not a sign of Mr Cobb. He dropped us here more than an hour ago. You don’t suppose there’s anything we should be
doing? We was wondering. You being the senior man an’ all.’
    Troy was about to point out his raw recruit’s status on the operation when the door banged open and Cobb bustled in, red-faced and sweating. He slapped his case onto the trestle table,
jerking Milligan once more to life. He looked around him, gasping and out of breath, taking in the room in a sweeping glance. As Troy had expected, that glance came to rest on Milligan.
    ‘You,’ he barked. ‘Shave and haircut the minute you’re off duty!’
    He turned his gaze on Troy.
    ‘Good of you to join us, Mr Troy!’
    ‘You didn’t get my message?’ Troy said softly.
    ‘Yes—I got your message. But if you don’t mind, for the future, once a plan’s been agreed I’d be obliged if you’d stick to it.’
    Troy slowly turned his left wrist around. Looked at his watch and looked at Cobb, making his point silently. Cobb ignored the hint. Whatever it was that had made him late, it had severely taxed
his physique. The man was streaming sweat, as though he had just won first prize in the sack race.
    ‘Right,’ he began. ‘Rosters!’
    Cobb tore off his blue mackintosh and scattered the schedule for the next ten days across the table. Troy glanced down it. It was chock-a-block. Not a day out of the next ten seemed to have as
much as a tea-break built in to it. Bulganin and Khrushchev were about to be bounced the length and breadth of the British Isles by all known means of transport, and to be wined and dined by every
dignitary London could unearth, in a punishing round of sociability that would strain a man half their age. For the evening of the twenty-third they were to be the guests of the Labour Party at the
House of Commons. Suddenly Troy spotted trouble, but if the Branch and Her Majesty’s Government couldn’t see it, it was, he thought, scarcely his job to point it out to them.
    ‘First off. For those of you who’ve already spent good money at Moss Bros, there’ll be no evening dress. Our guests appear not to have brought theirs, so we’re all, to
avoid embarrassment, to wear plain dark suits for the evening dos.’
    Cobb looked briefly but pointedly at Troy. The follow-up to yesterday’s wisecrack.
    ‘Now—there’s a few rules and regulations. A few dos and don’ts. Cock up and you’ll have me to answer to. We all know why we’re here, and we all know what the
front is. Each of you will log on and off shift with me. I want to know when you pick up the nobs and when you drop ’em, and when you drop ’em I want a full verbal report. I’ll be
the one to decide what needs to be in writing. You won’t have time to take notes and even if you have, I don’t want anyone caught by the Russians jotting things down. For the purposes
of clear communications, Khrushchev is codenamed Red Pig, Bulganin is Black Bear. Nobody uses their real names over the phone. Got it?’
    He looked at them all in turn. For no reason Troy could see, he let his gaze rest on Clark.
    ‘Got it?’ he said again.
    Troy heard Clark gulp and manage a faint ‘yessir’.
    ‘Right. Next on the agenda. Guarding Red Pig and Black Bear.’
    He paused. Troy assumed he was straining for the pause to look meaningful.
    ‘Not your job. Repeat. Not your job. My boys will be everywhere and highly visible.’
    ‘What? Trench coats and bowler hats?’ said a voice from the back. Troy