Jury said, “Thanks so much, George. What? Green Park? Afraid I can’t … but, surely you’ve told me everything I need to know … You don’t want anyone else to hear? … Look, George, maybe next week we can get together.” As the rattle kept up, Jury kept inching the receiver towards the cradle and making noises of departure: “I’ve got to go, George. Thanks. Bye.” He locked the receiver down. At least he felt he was locking it. Never to be picked up again.

“You got that, Wiggins?” Jury asked.

“Unfortunately, yes. All I have to do is comb through it for highlights and make sense out of them.”

“He wanted me to meet him in Green Park so that he could tell me the rest. Sometimes I wish Le Carré had never written The Spy Who Came in from the Cold. But well done, Wiggins. You deserve a reward: how about a meal at Ruika?”

Wiggins sat up brightly.

“I got nothing on my end from that call,” said Jury, “except there was a bit in some column of the Telegraph about a legal suit … no, I’m not sure it was legal … about Summerston being sued.”

“His estate, sir. I’ll tell you at Ruika.”

Information held hostage while they made their way to a car and the restaurant.

Ruika was Wiggins’s favorite place, second only to the Starrdust in Covent Garden. He loved studying a menu from which he always ordered the same thing. He loved bypassing the long line of frustrated customers waiting for tables to empty and who regarded these two interlopers as breaking some ancient law of patronage.

Their tea was brought. They ordered crispy fish and shrimp tempura.

“OK, Wiggins, get out that notebook and tell me if there’s anything of interest.”

Wiggins’s eyes moved back and forth along the pages of his notebook. “Man named Ernest Temple. His father, Luther, was in Korea—this was in ’57 or ’58—in a platoon led by Summerston. It looks like …” Wiggins frowned over the notes. “In the Battle of the Imjin River Summerston went behind lines to take out machine-gunners, saving the lives of his men. It’s this the Temple guy is disputing. ‘That medal was rightfully me dad’s’ is what Martin says he said.”

Jury set down his tiny tea cup without drinking. “That doesn’t sound good.”

Wiggins shrugged.

Jury nodded toward the notebook. “There must be something else in there to explain this.”

Wiggins shook his head. “Something about challenging the Queen’s awards.”

“Meaning this Ernest Temple.”

Wiggins went on plowing up words.

“Where’s George Martin getting this?”

“I think he rang him up, sir. Temple.”

Their fish and shrimp were set before them and the little server went off. She was probably Danny Wu’s aunt or great-aunt or cousin. The restaurant was definitely family run.

Jury’s mobile did its Tweety Bird ringtone and he yanked it out. It was Macalvie.