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“It’s just routine, for Christ’s sake. Something about his having too many girlfriends.”
“My arse,” said McCready. “Calvin may be many things, but a philanderer he ain’t. Try another one.”
“Don’t push me, Sam. Don’t push our friendship too far. I told you before—this is Company business now. Back off.”
“Joe, for God’s sake. It’s already gone too far. It’s got out of hand. Orlov’s lying to you, and I fear you are going to do something terrible.”
Joe Roth lost his temper. “Stop the car,” he shouted. “Stop the goddamned car!”
McCready swerved the Jaguar into the curb. Roth reached into the back for his suitcase and unlatched his door. McCready grabbed his arm.
“Joe, tomorrow, two-thirty. I have something to show you. Pick you up outside your apartment block at two-thirty.”
“Get lost,” said the American.
“A few minutes of your time. Is that too much to ask? For the old times, Joe—for all the old times.”
Roth stepped out of the car and swung away down the pavement looking for a cab.
But he was there, on the pavement outside his apartment block, at half-past two the next day. McCready waited in the Jaguar until Roth climbed in and drove without saying a word. His friend was still angry and suspicious. The journey was less than half a mile. Roth thought he was being driven to his own embassy, so close did they come to Grosvenor Square, but McCready stopped in Mount Street, a block away.
Halfway down Mount Street is one of London’s finest fish restaurants, Scott’s. At three precisely, a trim man in a pale gray suit stepped out of the doors and paused just clear of the portico. A black limousine from the Soviet Embassy eased down the street to pick him up.
“You asked me twice if we had an asset in the KGB in Moscow,” said McCready quietly. “I denied it. I was not entirely lying. He’s not in Moscow—he’s here in London. You’re looking at him.”
“I don’t believe what I’m seeing,” whispered Roth. “That’s Nikolai Gorodov. He’s the head of the whole goddam KGB Rezidentura in Britain.”
“In the flesh. And he works for us, has done for four years. You’ve had all his product, source disguised, but pure. And he says Orlov is lying.”
“Prove it,” said Roth. “You’re always telling Orlov to prove it. Now you prove it. Prove he’s really yours.”
“If Gorodov scratches his left ear with his right hand before he gets into the car, he’s our man,” said McCready.
The black limousine was abreast of the portico. Gorodov never glanced toward the Jaguar. He just raised his right hand, reached across his chest, tugged at his left earlobe, and climbed in. The embassy car purred away.
Roth leaned forward and buried his face in his hands. He breathed deeply several times, then raised his face.
“I have to tell the DCI,” he said. “Personally. I can fly back.”
“No deal,” said McCready. “I have given Gorodov my word, and ten minutes ago you gave me yours.”
“I have to tell the DCI. Otherwise, the die is cast. There’s no going back now.”
“Then delay. You can get other proof, or at least grounds for delay. I want to tell you about the ashtray theory.”
He told Roth what Keepsake had told him on the river steamer two days earlier.
“Ask Orlov for the name of the Fifth Man. He knows, but he will not tell you. But Keepsake will get it and bring it with him when he comes over.”
“When is that to be?”
“Soon now. A few weeks at most. Moscow is suspicious. The net is closing.”
“One week,” said Roth. “Bailey leaves for Salzburg and Vienna in one week. He must not reach Vienna. The DCI thinks he’s going to slip into Hungary.”
“Have him recalled as a matter of urgency. Have him recalled to Washington. If he obeys, that merits a further delay. If he refuses, I’ll throw in the towel.”
Roth considered the proposition. “I’ll try it,” he said. “First I’m going to Alconbury. Tomorrow, when I get back, if Orlov has refused to name the Fifth Man, I’ll send a cable to the DCI saying the Brits have produced fresh evidence that Orlov may be lying and asking for Bailey’s instant recall to Langley. As a test. I think the DCI will grant that, at least. It will cause a delay of several weeks.”