He told Bailey the debriefing of Orlov was progressing well but at a slower pace. Naturally, the product Orlov remembered most clearly had already been divulged. Now it was a question of dragging smaller and smaller details from his memory. He was cooperating well, and the British were happy with him. Areas already covered were now being gone over again and again. It took time, but each recovering of an area of product brought a few more tiny details—tiny but valuable.
As Roth sipped his drink, Sam McCready turned up at the door. He had Denis Gaunt with him, and introductions were made again. Roth had to admire his British colleague’s performance. McCready was flawless, congratulating Bailey on a remarkable success with Orlov, and producing a menu of proposals the SIS had come up with to enhance Bailey’s visit to Britain.
Bailey was delighted with the tickets to the operas at Covent Garden and Glyndebourne. They would form the high point of the family’s twelve-day visit to London.
“And then back to the States?” asked McCready.
“No. A quick visit to Paris, Salzburg, and Vienna, then home,” said Bailey. McCready nodded. Salzburg and Vienna both had operas that were among the pinnacles of that art form anywhere in the world.
It turned into quite a jolly evening. The overweight Mrs. Bailey lumbered around dispensing drinks; Clara came to be presented before bed. She was introduced to Roth, Gaunt, and McCready, who gave her his lopsided grin. She smiled shyly. Within ten minutes he was delighting her with conjuring tricks. He took a coin from his pocket, flicked it in the air, and caught it, but when Clara forced open his clenched fist, it was gone. Then he produced the coin from her left ear. The child shrieked with delight. Mrs. Bailey beamed.
“Where did you learn that sort of thing?” asked Bailey.
“Just one of my more presentable talents,” said McCready.
Roth had watched in silence. Privately the troubled CIA agent wondered if McCready could make the allegations made by Orlov disappear with the same ease as the coin. He doubted it.
McCready caught his eye, reading his thoughts. Gently, he shook his head. Not now, Joe. Not yet. He turned his attention back to the now-devoted little girl.
The three visitors left after nine o’clock. On the pavement McCready murmured to Roth, “How goes the investigation, Joe?”
“You’re full of crap,” said Roth.
“Do be careful,” said McCready. “You’re being led up the garden path. By the nose.”
“That’s what we believe of you, Sam.”
“Who’s he nailed, Joe?”
“Back off,” snapped Roth. “As of now, Minstrel is Company business. Nothing to do with you.”
He turned and walked quickly away toward Grosvenor Square.
Max Kellogg sat with the DCI in the latter’s library two nights later with his files and his notes, copies of bank drafts, and photographs, and he talked.
He was tired unto death, exhausted by a workload that would and should normally have taken a team of men double the time. Dark smudges ringed his eyes.
The DCI sat on the other side of the old oak refectory table he had caused to be placed between them to carry the paperwork. The old man seemed hunched into his velvet smoking jacket. The lights shone on his bald and wrinkled head, and beneath his brows his eyes watched Kellogg and flicked over the proffered documents like those of an aged lizard.
When Kellogg had finally finished, he asked, “There can be no doubt?”
Kellogg shook his head. “Minstrel provided twenty-seven points of evidence. Twenty-six check out.”
“All circumstantial?”
“Inevitably. Except the testimony of the three bank tellers. They have made positive ID—from photographs, of course.”
“Can a man be convicted on circumstantial evidence alone?”
“Yes, sir. It is well precedented and amply documented. You do not always need a body to convict of murder.”
“No confession needed?”
“Not necessary. And almost certainly not forthcoming. This is one shrewd, skilled, tough, and very experienced operator.”
The DCI sighed. “Go home, Max. Go home to your wife. Stay silent. I’ll send for you when I need you again. Do not return to the office until I give the word. Take a break. Rest.”
He waved a hand toward the door. Max Kellogg rose and left. The old man summoned an aide and ordered a coded telegram on an “eyes only” basis to be sent to Joe Roth in London. It said simply: “Return at once. Same route. Report to me. Same place.” It was signed with the code word that would tell Roth it came directly from the DCI.