“What I think is, you’re not like I’d pictured,” she said.
“Yeah, they photoshopped a thigh-gap in my publicity stills,” said Lamb. “Imagine my distress.” He clicked his lighter, then did it again. When it failed to respond with more than a dry scratch, he tossed it over his shoulder. It took a nick from the wall and dropped to the carpet. “Got a light?”
“Smoking’s a disgusting habit.”
“Spying’s pretty gross too. But I try not to be judgemental.” He found another pocket to rummage in. “So where was I? Oh yeah. Your boss. He was well aware of Sparrow’s general approach. The man calls himself a disruptor, right? Tossing imaginary hand grenades around, and thinking that makes him Action Man. So my first thought was, in planting you, Rasnokov was playing him at his own game. Simply causing chaos. Put you in place, then cause maximum embarrassment by burning you.”
If the words startled her, it was only for a moment.
“Join in any time you like,” Lamb said.
“Are you recording this?”
“Fuck, no. I’m barely paying attention. I mean, you might think you’re the hottest property since Anthony Blunt was keeping Her Maj’s nudes well hung, but I’ve better things to do than debrief entry-level spooks. My lunch won’t eat itself.” From a pocket he extracted a second lighter, which sparked encouragingly, but didn’t hold its flame, and he was about to send it the way of its twin when de Greer relieved him of it. After shaking it vigorously she clicked once, and Lamb leaned forwards, the tip of his cigarette touching the flame.
“Don’t mention it,” she said.
He breathed out smoke. “But when your boss burned you, he did so to the one person guaranteed to keep it under wraps. Sparrow himself. So it’s not like he was running some half-arsed honey trap. Unless you’re about to tell me you’ve a sex-tape ready to leak.”
De Greer tucked the lighter into his breast pocket and stepped back. “Sorry to disappoint you.”
“Just as well. I leak a bit myself these days, tell you the truth.” Lamb removed his cigarette from his mouth and studied the lit end for a moment. “Even so, your boss’s little bombshell must have had Sparrow shitting himself, which sounds like a good day’s work to me, and we’re not even on the same side. But look what he did next. Came all the way to Blighty to whisper similar sweet nothings in Diana Taverner’s ear.”
“Perhaps he fancies her.”
“Stranger things have happened. For instance, I got a phone call on my way back to the office just now. Want to guess what it told me?”
“You’ve been mis-sold PPI?”
“That someone’s pulled the emergency cord at Regent’s Park. Not many able to do that, but I’m guessing the PM’s number one bitch-slapper is among them.” Lamb took a long drag, then flicked the still burning cigarette the length of the room. It bounced off the curtain with a shower of sparks. “And that’s what this is really all about. Rasnokov wasn’t trying to embarrass Sparrow out of his job. No, he wanted Sparrow declaring full-on war with the Service, before the Service realised he’d invited a Kremlin pointy-head into Downing Street. And just to make sure things really kicked off, he followed that up by priming First Desk, letting her know that he’d had a private hobnob with Sparrow back in Moscow. Like lighting the blue touch paper at both ends. Because he doesn’t care who wins, he just wants to see both sides taking lumps out of each other while he carries on with his own scheme.”
De Greer, nodding thoughtfully, crossed the room to stamp on the sparks smouldering on the carpet.
“So congratulations seem to be in order. You were slotted into place to stoke up a little not-so-friendly rivalry.” Lamb slid a hand between two buttons of his shirt, and began to scratch. “And it looks like you’ve managed to ease Diana Taverner out of her job.”
Rashford’s was open to the public, but liked to give the impression it wasn’t. Occupying the third and fourth floors of a building on Cheapside, its sole entrance was sandwiched between plate-glass windows whose mannequins’ blank stares were aimed at the well-heeled passerby: winter coats their current garb. The door was propped open, but the red-carpeted staircase, with its polished brass handrail, seemed less an invitation than a glimpse of forbidden pleasure. Diana, who kept herself informed of who was drinking where, knew it had enjoyed a brief vogue between lockdowns, its speakeasy vibe chiming with the panicked pleasure-seeking of the times. This afternoon, it seemed deserted. The carpet swallowed any sound her heels might have made, but the staircase seemed full of empty echoes nonetheless.
At the top of the fourth half-flight were a pair of glass doors, and behind them a wide room, lit by dusty daylight and the one or two tassel-shaded tablelamps. A lone man sat in a red-leathered booth, absorbed in his phone. It wasn’t too late to turn and run. Judd was barely trustworthy, and might have decided to play a joker. The Dogs could be heading here even now. But she pushed through the doors regardless and found herself standing by a long, curved bar. Its tender moved sleekly towards her, dropping the cloth he’d been holding onto a tap. “Good afternoon, and how can I help you?” Though the way he said it, the look he gave her, he already knew.
“I’m looking for.” The name escaped her. Her memory was a series of corridors, lined with lockers; keys hung in each, with labels attached. Nathan. “Nathan.”
“Ms. Huntress?”
That sounded right.
He’d done this before, she could tell. Had an envelope prepared, tucked under the till. She wondered, briefly, what strands tied this man, or this bar, to Peter Judd; bound them tightly enough that it only took a phone call and there was cash to hand. “Thank you.”
“No problem. And let Sir know we look forward to his company again soon.”
Feeling more like a joe than ever she went back through the glass doors, envelope in hand, and stopped on the landing to make a quick count: five hundred, in tens and twenties. Had she not done that, she’d have met them on their way up: three of them, by the sound of it; their tread muffled on the staircase carpet. Friends or colleagues, out-of-towners or local wetheads: any of these would be making noise. Would be laughing with each other, already picturing that first glass being passed across the polished bar.
Diana turned and headed up the next flight.
At the top of which was a second bar, shrouded in darkness, its doors locked. There was no more red carpet; a sign reading staff only was taped to the wall beside the next flight of stairs. Someone had made a sad face out of the O. The crew of three—face it, they were Dogs—went into the lower bar; she could hear Nathan greeting them over-enthusiastically as she moved quietly upwards. There were two doors at the top. The first warned about unauthorised admittance, and was locked. The second opened, but was a cupboard. She saw brooms, a pail, a ziggurat of cleaning fluid bottles, and a plastic-wrapped palette of light bulbs, their ghostly faces Munch-like in the gloom. A metal box on the wall probably shielded fuses. If it did, and she pulled wires about, she might set off an alarm, and in the ensuing confusion grow wings, or become invisible. But it was padlocked: a flimsy piece of hardware, maybe two quids’ worth. She looked in her bag, found a pen, slid it into the closed hoop of the flimsy padlock and pushed hard. The padlock broke. Dropping its parts into her bag, she opened the box to find, instead of fuses, several rows of keys, which, like those in her memory, were labelled; one read Roof. She took it, closed the cupboard, and paused before slipping the key into the first door’s lock. Voices. Nothing of clarity, though if Nathan were cooperating, the Dogs would already be standing next to her. The Roof key opened the first door, and she stepped through it onto another staircase, then locked it behind her. The noise as the tumblers fell was louder than a stolen goose.