On the other hand, what Sparrow had been doing cosying up to Vassily Rasnokov on a mini-break in Moscow would bear investigation. At the very least, a direct question or two.
She’d had time to call back at the Park before heading to Number Ten, and there had verified that no report had been filed by Sparrow regarding an encounter with Rasnokov the previous month. He had, though, been in Moscow: the occasion had been a “fact-finding mission,” its duration three days, and the official calendar indicating twenty-seven meetings, their subject—and presumably their object—trade. But what rattled her more than the possibility of a covert encounter being buried between appointments was that Rasnokov had let her know about it. That he was making mischief was evident, but whether the plaything was herself or Sparrow had yet to be determined. What other mischief he might have orchestrated while in London remained as yet unknown.
Speaking of mischief, her phone rang en route—her secondary phone; the one only her caller knew about.
“Is this important? Only I’m heading for Downing Street.”
“I remember the feeling,” said Peter Judd. “But best-laid plans and all that.”
“Save the lost-leader lament for your fan club. Those of us who know you well are still thanking our lucky stars.”
To the country at large, Judd’s tilt at Number Ten had ended in an inexplicable withdrawal from centre stage some years previously. To the better informed, the inexplicable element was Judd’s continued existence.
“Now now,” he said. “Let’s not forget our common cause.”
Diana spent several hours a day trying to forget precisely that.
Because a while back she had broken one of her own rules, stepping into a web without being certain she was the spider, and had accepted financial backing from a cabal led by Judd, thus untying herself from official, unsympathetic oversight. In her defence, the Service had needed the support. The case for the prosecution was more succinct: holy shit. Because as things stood, deep behind a Service op that had seen a Russian assassin murdered on Russian soil lay Chinese money, and most nights Diana lay awake for hours, counting how many different shitstorms might rain down if the story leaked. Her only comfort was that it was no more in Judd’s interests to conjur up such an apocalypse than it was in her own. But she remained in Judd’s tar-baby embrace, and judgment, she knew, was waiting down the tracks.
For the moment, though, his demands were specific to the day. “I was hoping for a little support. In the form of an endorsement.”
“An endorsement,” she repeated. “For your man Flint? One of us has clearly lost their mind.”
“Just a few words about how the capital needs a firm hand on the tiller. That sort of thing. And you’d be backing a winner, which gives one a nice warm glow, I find.”
“You seriously expect your straw man to take the mayor’s job?”
“Someone has to.”
“While using the fact that he didn’t catch the virus as a character issue?”
“Well, his opponent did.”
“It was a virus, Peter. Anyone could get it.”
“And as I’ve just pointed out, his opponent did.” His tone was the familiar one of a patient bully explaining the obvious. “I’m not saying it’s a sign of moral probity. But if it was, Desmond won.”
“And if it had been the other way round . . .”
“I’d be pointing out what a survivor he is. And not a pampered, scaredy, mask-wearing chicken.”
“You realise some idiots believe the pandemic was caused by gay marriage? This is no better than that.”
“Yes, well, once we established we’ve no time for experts, it’s open season, isn’t it?”
“Not really, no. Let me be quite clear. No way in hell am I supporting your candidate for mayor. And if he stands for anything else, I won’t support him for that, either. Not for worst-dressed rabblerouser. Not for seediest looking sockpuppet. All understood?”
“I’ll put you down as an undecided. Meanwhile, how’s business your end? Any more special operations planned?”
“The Service currently has its hands full maintaining equilibrium. Like most other organisations. So your cabal—”
“Our cabal.”
“—will have to content itself with the quiet life.”
“I do hope you’re not expecting us to fade into the background. You’ve opened a door that won’t easily shut. You can’t pretend you didn’t know what you were doing.”
“I don’t have to pretend I wasn’t aware of your dark passengers, Peter. You’re the one brought them on board.”
“We both know how much protection that will offer you should our arrangement become public. Which there’s no need for, obviously. As things stand.” The implicit threat hovered a while, underlined by Judd’s leavetaking: “What was it Fu Manchu used to say? ‘The world shall hear from me again.’”
She dropped her phone into her bag as the car arrived at Downing Street.
Where the small, irregularly shaped room she was shown to was a drab brown chamber, its walls bare save for various versions of the queen’s portrait, ageing in ten-year jumps. These were spaced at uniform intervals, making it hard not to notice there was no room for another, unless it was to be hung on the door. In the centre of the room, two long-backed chairs sat either side of a coffee table, on which was a cafetiere, freshly made, and two cups. Diana filled one, knowing she’d be waiting a while yet, the PM being one of those who believed that punctuality shows weakness. On the mantelpiece, a carriage clock ticked, its noise curiously elongated between the not-quite parallel walls. Downing Street was more than the warren it was labelled; there was a physics-bending aspect to it. Take it apart, room by room, and there’d be no way of putting it together again: you’d have spaces left unfilled, leftover rooms too big to fill them. Though those empty spaces would be handy for sealing up unwanted occupants . . . When the door opened to admit Anthony Sparrow, Diana thought, for a blurred moment, that she’d summoned the devil.
He grunted a greeting. “The PM’s got something on. You can brief me on his behalf.”
“‘Something on’?”
“It happens. He’s running a country.”
“This isn’t party business. Are you sure you’re an appropriate stand-in?”
“A petty distinction,” he said, pulling a chair back and flinging himself into it. “I’m taking this meeting, end of. Start talking.”
Sparrow was a scruffy dresser, and this evening wore jeans and a red T-shirt under a sandy-brown combat jacket. He carried satchel rather than briefcase, and as with many aspects of his behaviour seemed to dare anyone to comment on it. While Diana ran through the weekly business—the threat-level checklist; budgeting issues; whispers of a hushed-up cyber-attack on a German bank; more budgeting issues—he stared at the nearest portrait of ER, the tenor of his thoughts suggested by the curl of his lip. He had, as an unkind sketch writer once commented, a face only Wayne Rooney’s mother could love: faintly squashed, as if he’d spent years pressing it against a window. On the other side of the glass now, he was making up for lost time. Anyone who thought power was about anything other than settling scores hadn’t been paying attention.
When she’d finished, he said, “That it?”
“As much as you’re allowed to hear. The PM might delegate his duties, but I’m not about to breach confidentiality issues.”
“We’ll be taking a look at those guidelines.” He stood. “It’s a timewaste, having him fill me in after every briefing.”
She said, “Since we’re both here, I’ve a few issues.”
“Make them quick.” He was already reaching for his satchel.