“Not to pull rank, Claude, but there’s a gap between ‘your’ and ‘our.’ You haven’t been behind a desk in this building for some while.”
“And yet Nash has the authority to, what was your word? Reactivate me.”
“Don’t get carried away. That’s a visitor’s badge, not a sheriff’s star. Look, whatever’s going on, it’ll turn out to be dirty politics. That’s how these people operate. De Greer’s a troublemaker. I don’t know what it says on her website, but that’s what she specialises in. Making trouble.”
“Superforecaster is the technical term.”
“Does that sound like a job title to you? Last time we had one of those in Number Ten, they turned out to be even weirder than the advert asked for. Some Nazi-leaning incel pipsqueak. You’d think their vetting procedures would have tightened up.”
Whelan could see this conversation getting away from him, and decided to reel it in. He said, “The word waterproof has been mentioned.”
“. . . Waterproof?”
“I’m sure you recall the protocol.”
Diana affected to pretend to remember. So many protocols, so long behind the wheel. “That’s ancient history.”
“A lot of things are fairly old, but that doesn’t mean they’re not still in use. Clocks? Kettles?”
“Retirement has made you skittish. Who on earth raised that rabbit? You’re not telling me it was Oliver?”
Whelan gave her his best poker face.
“No, you’re not telling me it was anyone. But we both know Oliver has loose lips, whether he’s stuffing things past them or blurting things out. So it all comes down to whoever he’s been talking to recently, doesn’t it?”
He thought: He could just sit here without saying another word. There was every chance the conversation would continue without him.
The first time he’d heard of the protocol had been in this room, several years ago. Diana had been his guide to the underworld in those days, his first as First Desk. His ascent to the role had taken an unconventional route, and he was almost as much a stranger to the Park as any of those gentle souls who took the visitors’ trip round the upstairs regions, where they were shown the acceptable side of the Service: its hallways and hatracks; the discreet busts in their nooks; the display cases of Cold War knick-knackery—radio transmitters in bootheels and the like. Oohs and Aahs were the appropriate response. A thin-lipped nod was the best Claude could muster as Diana had revealed the darker aspects to the role he’d been assigned; if not actually handing him the chalice—that had been a decision taken over her head—at least pointing out how battered and stained it was; how he should take care drinking from it if he didn’t want a cut lip. His induction into the dangerous edge of things. His teacher among the dangers awaiting him, though he hadn’t known that then.
Waterproof, he learned, had been briefly in use years earlier, in the wake of various events whose anniversaries were still marked by minutes of public silence. During that period, the Service had acquired a broad remit for dealing with those suspected of involvement in terrorist attacks. Public trials—“You won’t need me to tell you,” she’d told him—were preferred for those likely to be found guilty, while the more circumstantially involved received more circumspect treatment. Waterproof, in a word. A form of anonymised rendition. This wasn’t about returning bad actors to the wings; it was about removing them from the cast list altogether. Records were sealed. Names erased. And the subjects never saw daylight again. Even today they’d be alive somewhere, some of them, living out what was left of their span in unwindowed cells in black prisons in eastern Europe. Cells the size of phone booths.
“A gateway drug to capitalism,” Diana had told him. “All those former Soviet states leasing out their gulags to the west. A handy dumping ground for our undesirables.”
And this wasn’t still in use—not something he’d be expected to implement? Or defend, god help him?
No, the protocol had been consigned to the NH file. Never Happened. The most Whelan had to do was launch an inquiry that would ensure that no current Upper Desk need fear this particular chicken coming to roost in any of their drawers.
This much at least Whelan had recognised. London Rules. Cover your arse.
All of which was long in the past, but he had no doubt Diana’s recollection was as sharp as his own, an intuition she now confirmed. “Well, whoever he’s been talking to, he’s barking at the wrong dog. There was a commission, remember? Your doing. ‘No evidence that such protocol was ever utilised.’ Not a finding likely to be overturned, not while the report itself is still in heavy wrappers.”
Meaning, Whelan knew, that it was subject to the thirty-year rule.
He said, and was self-consciously mild of tone in doing so: “But we both know that Waterproof was used.”
“Not during my tenure. But are you about to make a confession? Josie’s somewhere about, if we need a witness.”
The idea that he might have implemented something like Waterproof without Diana having been aware of it was almost amusing.
His poker face clearly wasn’t doing its job. Diana shook her head. “Claude, whatever Oliver’s playing at, or whatever he’s been instructed to look like he’s playing at, it’s mischief-making, that’s all. Waterproof’s history, it’s less than history. Remember the NH file? And before that, before it never happened, it was Charles Partner’s brainchild, and only Dame Ingrid ever made full use of it. Charles, of course, is unavailable for comment. Ingrid’s in North Carolina. Rumour has it she’s taken up quilting. So if you’re planning on hauling her before a truth and reconciliation committee, you’d better get a wiggle on, because I assume she’s at death’s door. No one would take up quilting if they expected to be doing it for long.”
“I’m not sure the budget will sustain a long-distance trip.”
“Welcome to my world. I have to go on bended knee if I want the shredder serviced.” She mock-grimaced. “You should be thankful you didn’t need coffee. We’re buying a supermarket-brand, in bulk.”
Whelan said, “None of which gets us nearer the point at issue, which is the whereabouts of Dr. de Greer. I’m operating on goodwill, obviously, but bear in mind it’s a goodwill requested by Oliver. And one of the suggestions he’s made is that I verify there’s been no contact between the Service and Dr. de Greer during the time she’s been stationed in London.”
“Of course. Perhaps we could find you an office? You could hold court while I have my staff wade through half a year’s worth of comms data on the off-chance we’ll turn up something that helps. It might get in the way of any actual work, but listen, what’s national security compared to your convenience?”
“Diana—”
“Or I could simply reiterate what I’ve already said. Wherever the woman’s got to, it has nothing to do with us. Think about it. Why would the Service be involved? She’s a Swiss citizen, haven’t they got their own way of dealing with their misshapes? Dip her in chocolate and wrap her in foil or whatever. Because all this, this favour Oliver’s got you doing, it’s pretty clear he’s having his leash tugged by Number Ten, by which I mean Anthony Sparrow. Who presumably has de Greer hidden in his basement while he sets the dogs on us. Waterproof’s his way in, that’s all. The leverage he hopes to bring the walls down with, so he can walk in and take charge. But not while I’m First Desk, Claude. Maybe you could let Oliver know? And I think that brings this meeting to a close.”
She could, he knew, breathe fire, and there was a moment there when she came pretty close. But not while I’m First Desk, Claude. There was a reason she’d always considered herself right for this job, and watching her seethe in her office, it was hard to deny she made a convincing argument. But Whelan, even while marking this, was noticing something else: that he didn’t much care. He had his own problems. While watching Diana Taverner work her way towards fury might once have had him checking the exits, right now, he felt little more than an interested detachment. And the continuing resolve to do what he’d come here to do.