Meanwhile, Diana Taverner, having somehow caught wind of her predicament, had disappeared into London’s brilliant parade. Her last phone call put her on City Road; her last card payment had her stepping onto a bus. But she hadn’t been on that same bus three stops down the road, when the first Dog on the scene boarded it. “So where is she now?”
“I’m told we’re working on it,” said Nash.
The Park was in a flurry, though you wouldn’t have guessed with a casual glance. The boys and girls of the hub were at their workstations, and there was hush, or what passed for it in an office environment. The usual suspects had shucked their footwear, and were padding around in stockinged feet; the local hardware issued its ambient hum. But Nash, a familiar here, recognised a fractured normality. The figures by the doorways were Dogs, officers of the Service’s internal security division; their presence on the hub spoke of the potential for heads to be thrust upon spikes. An edge had opened up the full length of the building, and all who worked there were balanced upon it. And Nash was acutely conscious of having wielded the shovel that broke the ground.
Malahide continued to harumph. As was common with the breed, he retained a certain bafflement that the position of First Desk had been allotted to a woman; the current complications could have been averted had anyone noticed this earlier and put a stop to it. “Because what the devil does she think she’s playing at? It’s admin, that’s all. A temporary suspension, as laid down in Service Regs, and applied with haste—admittedly—but in absolute accordance with procedure.” He spoke with the confidence of one who’d been in possession of the finer detail for five minutes, and without appearing to remember that Nash himself had supplied this. “What’s called for next is a hearing, at which she’ll be asked to stand down—that’s what the reg demands, that she be ‘asked’—while an investigation is carried out.” He shook his head. “And she decides to play hide and seek. She might as well have signed a confession.”
“That’s jumping the gun,” Nash said. They were in the office adjoining First Desk’s: occupying Diana’s territory would have felt an act of lèse-majesté, or at any rate premature. “Diana is innocent of wrongdoing until proved otherwise. Rather what our justice system is based on.”
“Well, if we’re talking about the justice system, old man, she might argue that one cryptic reference in the Times is hardly enough to base a prosecution on in the first place. Yes, yes. I know.” He waved away Nash’s rejoinder: that the word “waterproof,” in that context, was tantamount to an air-raid siren. “Point is, this might be hush-hush”—and here he made an expansive gesture, taking in the office, the hub, the Park, the secret world—“but it’s still government-issue. Which means appearances matter.”
“It’s not even certain she’s taken flight. Her diary’s clear for the next few hours. For all we know, she’s taking personal time.”
“Which would presume she’s ignorant that Candlestub’s been implemented.” Malahide waggled his eyebrows. “But she dumped a perfectly good phone in a bin on City Road, which is hardly the action of an unflustered woman. No, she’s aware of what’s going on. Which isn’t to say there’s not a hokey-cokey being danced down the usual corridors. And we don’t need a little birdie to tell us”—and here, the eyebrows saw action again—“who’s calling the steps. Mark me, this is Number Ten’s gnome-in-residence ploughing on with his land grab. No, if Taverner wants to fight her corner, she’d better turn up to do it. Otherwise, she’ll find all that’s left of her empire is a six-foot plot by a drainage ditch. Do they do table service here, by the way? Generally take a stiffener round about now.”
Nash said, “We should formulate a plan of action. Clearly, an investigation into Waterproof has to begin even in Diana’s absence.”
“Top of the list is this de Greer woman, I suppose. There a file on her or anything?” Malahide, who’d taken the chair on the operational side of the desk, opened a drawer, glanced into it and slammed it shut again. “If she has been rendered waterproof, I don’t suppose there’ll be much in the way of paperwork. But there’ll have been instructions. Somebody must know something.” First rule of the Civil Service, his tone implied. “We need to speak to everyone Taverner’s spoken to since the woman disappeared. Before then, in fact. In the days leading up to.”
Nash’s instructions on that score had been specific. When he’d relayed Whelan’s belief that Sophie de Greer had been quietly bagged and delivered to the San, Sparrow had said, “And that’s the spit we’ll roast Taverner on. Meanwhile, forget about it. Because if Taverner finds out we know, she’ll have de Greer disappeared again, probably for good.”
Now, Nash said, “We have access to her calendar, and her staff. We can start interviewing right away.” Standing by the open door, he surveyed the hub again. He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen it without Diana present, and it was hard to believe he’d never do so again. But in time, if Sparrow’s promises meant anything, all of this would fall under his own purview, and whoever rose to First Desk status in Diana’s wake would have all the governance of a ship’s figurehead: proudly leading the way, but wholly directed by other hands. Long used to the spoils and spills of political life, what surprised him most was not that it was Sparrow who’d brought Diana low—he was familiar with the Whitehall edict that it’s those you have most contempt for who do the most damage—it was more that, gazing out at his kingdom-to-be, he felt, for the first time in what might have been forever, a lack of appetite.
“Right time to be woolgathering?”
“Steeling myself for what’s to come.”
“Just the usual day’s work,” said Malahide. “Seeing who’ll be first to chuck their boss under a locomotive.” He ran a hand over his balding head. “Ever felt this was something you’d fancy for yourself? First Desk, I mean? Head of the whole shebang?”
“Lord, no,” said Nash. “I’ve always done my best work behind the scenes.”
When Taverner’s phone rang, it could only be one caller.
It had struck her, threading through the maze of alleys round Bank, that it had been years since she’d worked the streets. As First Desk, her view was usually sci-fi: the city seen via CCTV, or from satellite footage or thermal imaging; as a moving backdrop through tinted windows, from a back seat. Easy to forget the pavements sticky with gum, the air thick with street-food smells; the sickly sweet aroma of burnt caramel drifting from the parks . . . London’s signature perfumes, signs that the city was hauling itself upright again. Breathing them in, she felt her own spook identity reassert itself too, now she was alone and hunted. Red Queen. Someone was hoping to chop off her head.
Meanwhile, her phone was ringing, her secret phone; the one only her caller knew about.
“I hear you’re having a little local difficulty,” said Peter Judd.