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“Nope,” said McCready flatly. He did not like to lie to Roth, but orders were orders. In fact, the CIA always received Keepsake’s product, but disguised and attributed to seven different sources.
“I just want to push him hard. I think he’s holding something back. You’re no fool, Joe. I believe that in your deepest heart, you have the same impression.”
That shaft went home. In his secret heart, that was exactly what Roth still thought. He nodded.
“All right. We’ll ride him hard. He hasn’t come here for a vacation, after all. And he’s tough. Let’s go back.”
They resumed at a quarter to twelve. McCready returned to the question of Soviet agents in Britain.
“One I have already given you,” said Orlov. “If you can detect him. The man they called Agent Juno. The one who banked in Croydon, at the Midland.”
“We have traced him,” said McCready evenly. “His name is, or rather was, Anthony Milton-Rice.”
“So there you are,” said Orlov.
“What do you mean, was?” queried Roth.
“He’s dead.”
“I didn’t know,” said Orlov. “It has been several years.”
“That’s another of my problems,” said McCready sadly. “He didn’t die several years ago. He died yesterday morning. Murdered, liquidated, just an hour before we could get the surveillance team around him.”
There was a stunned silence. Then Roth was on his feet again, absolutely outraged. They were back outside the building again in two minutes.
“What the fuck do you think you’re playing at, Sam?” he shouted. “You could have told me.”
“I wanted to see Orlov’s reaction,” said Sam bluntly. “I thought if I told you, you might break the news yourself. Did you see his reaction?”
“No, I was watching you.”
“There wasn’t one,” said McCready. “I would have thought he’d be pretty stunned. Worried, even. Bearing in mind the implications.”
“He’s got nerves of steel,” said Roth. “He’s a total pro. If he doesn’t want to show anything, he doesn’t. Is it true, by the way? Is the man dead? Or was it a ploy?”
“Oh, he’s dead all right, Joe. Knifed by one of a gang of teenagers on his way to work. We call it ‘steaming’; you call it ‘wilding.’ Which gives us a problem, doesn’t it?”
“It could have leaked at the British end.”
McCready shook his head. “No time. It took time to set up a killing like that. We only had the man’s real identity the night before last, after twenty-four hours of detective work. They got him yesterday morning. No time. Tell me, what happens to Minstrel’s product?”
“First to Calvin Bailey,
direct, by hand. Then the analysts. Then the customers.”
“When did Orlov produce the product about the spy in our Defense Ministry?”
Roth told him.
“Five days,” mused McCready. “Before it reached us. Time enough. ...”
“Now just hang in there a minute,” protested Roth.
“Which gives us three choices,” McCready continued. “Either it was a remarkable coincidence, and in our job we can’t afford to believe too many of them. Or someone between you and the teletype operator leaked. Or it was set up in advance. I mean, the killing was prepared for a specific hour on a specific day. A certain number of hours before that time, Orlov had a rush of memory. Before the good guys could get their act together, the denounced agent was dead.”
“I don’t believe we have a leak in the Agency,” said Roth tightly. “And I don’t believe Orlov is a phony.”
“Then why isn’t he coming clean? Let’s go back to him,” suggested Sam gently.
