“He knew it was a long-term investment,” Diana said.
“And then you vanished like a woodland sprite. Down on the hub, they don’t know whether to build you a crucifix or find you a crown. Coffee?”
“Please.”
“And there’s a rather good seeded sourdough. I could run us up some toast?”
“Who’s been parachuted into the Park?”
“Home Office man, bit of a donkey. Name of Malahide.”
Diana pursed her lips.
“Needless to say, he takes your disappearing act as a sign of guilt.”
“If I’d shown up, it would have been game over. You know that.”
“Indeed I do, but you know what that department’s like. They’ve got so used to pretending they’re not as smart as their boss, some of them have actually got that way.” With an economy of motion belying his size, Nash dropped four slices of bread into the toaster and attended to the Nespresso machine. “And he hasn’t learned from you how to think round corners.”
“What did Sparrow offer?”
“What you’d expect.” Nash opened a cupboard, and began excavating little tubs of jam, the size that come with hotel breakfasts. “The Park’s to be, what shall we call it, streamlined? More oversight, less, ah initiative. Committee-led. With Yours Truly at the helm.”
“I hadn’t realised your ambitions lay in that direction.”
“Upwards? Everyone’s ambitions lie in that direction. Law of physics. Besides, once he’d played the waterproof card, the next step was inevitable. Either I went along, or I’d be squashed against the tiles. Though, as you’ll remember, I did give you advance warning.”
Red Queen, Red Queen, he’d whispered down her phone.
“Playing both ends against the middle.”
“Oh, please. I’d never turn against the middle. Black, yes?” He placed a coffee cup in front of her. “Sparrow doesn’t know you like I do. He thought activating Candlestub would render you harmless. Whereas I knew that putting you in a corner would get your dander up.” He barked, unexpectedly. “Which, come to think of it . . .” Reaching into his dressing gown pocket, he produced his iPhone. A few taps later he passed it to her. “That came in an hour ago. Woke me, as it happens.”
Diana read the activity report he’d opened. “An attack on the San? This was Sparrow?”
“He seemed to think de Greer was being held there. On your instructions.”
“I approved a placement there a few days ago. For one of Lamb’s misshapes.”
“Shirley Dander.”
“Who Sparrow thought was de Greer, right? Because Whelan steered him that way.”
“Claude put two and two together and made five.” He held out his hand, and she returned the phone. “Though I can’t help wondering if your Lamb didn’t nudge him in that direction. Bit of a disruptor, that man.”
“He’s been called worse. But either way, where did Sparrow find a wrecking crew?”
The toast popped up, as if it too were eager to hear this part.
Nash used wooden tongs to place the slices in a rack. “He appears to have allied himself with, I believe they call themselves Ultras? A collective of over-enthusiastic football fans.”
Diana had pulled a chair out. “And where did this information come from?”
“Field work. My own, actually.”
“You’re a joe now?”
“I appreciate that you find that amusing. Though you might care to ask yourself which of us is seeking help.”
“Help? I’m not yet holding your feet to the fire, Oliver. But the moment might come.”
Nash, seated, carefully buttered his toast. “There’s a restaurant called La Spezia, off Wardour Street. Sparrow has been seen—by me—visiting its premises, and it’s not somewhere you’d expect to find him. So after a little, ah, surveillance, I asked the very able Josie to do some digging, and she informs me that the under-manager there, one Alessandro Botigliani, is what I believe they call a capo of a branch of these so-called Ultras, affiliated in his case to Lazio.” Nash applied jam, and ferried the result to his mouth. The resulting expression was one frequently sought by Renaissance artists, reaching for tokens of religious ecstasy. Then: “They’re of a far-right persuasion, though there’s grounds for suspecting that ideology, and indeed the beautiful game, is of less concern to them than kicking many kinds of carrots out of opposing fans. A ready-made wrecking crew, as you put it.”
“And Sparrow persuaded them to do his dirty work?”
“Persuaded, paid, blackmailed. Nobody ever accused Sparrow of being unable to get others to grubby their hands on his behalf.”
“I’m sure ten minutes in a basement will have any number of them clarifying the situation.”
“Careful. It was whispers of strongarm tactics that started all this in the first place. Besides, you’re in no position to dictate events. When you failed to surrender yourself, Sparrow pulled strings at the Met. There’s a warrant out for your arrest, Diana. Not to mention an emergency meeting of Limitations scheduled for ten a.m., where your suspension will be ratified and Malahide confirmed as pro tem First Desk. He will, of course, be taking instruction from the Home Secretary, which is to say that Sparrow himself will be effectively controlling the Park by coffee time. And I somehow doubt that an investigation into his own guilt will be top of his to-do list.”
“On the other hand,” Diana said, “should I arrive in person at the Limitations meeting with Dr. de Greer in tow, where she can testify not only to the absence of anything resembling Waterproof having been instigated, but to her own status as an agent of the GRU, hired wittingly or otherwise by Anthony Sparrow in order to influence national policymaking—well. How do you think that would play?”
Nash helped himself to another slice of toast, and seemed to be addressing the array of jam jars rather than Diana when he replied.
“I imagine you could sell tickets,” he said.
Even given his status as quondam First Desk, it had been hours before Claude Whelan had managed to extricate himself from the chaos at the San, and such release only came with the promise of a thorough debriefing once the Park had its ducks in a row. Though judging by the calls the senior agent at the scene had been getting, those ducks were currently in a flap, causing Whelan to suspect that the hostilities he’d divined between Taverner and Sparrow had ignited. Reason enough to keep his head down. He’d had cause to regret becoming involved in dirty politics before.
Driving his own car was out of the question, so after cleaning himself up as best he could in a San bathroom, he squeezed what was left from his former rank and commandeered one of the enemy vehicles, which was grubby but unscathed by combat. As he pootled up the drive towards the broken gates, manouvering round various vans into which cuffed figures were being bundled, he could see torches flickering in the woods beyond the stables as the last marauders were hunted down, and it was as much to the runners as the chasers that he sounded his horn in farewell, a thoroughly uncharacteristic action. On the other hand, everything he’d done in the last few hours had been out of character, as if, having been badly miscast, he’d thrown himself into the part regardless, and was now coming offstage expecting acclaim. He’d received precious little so far. Some things, you had to organise for yourself.
He adjusted the rearview mirror and glanced into it. “So. How did I do?”
In reply, all he heard was the noise of the engine, and the dark road unravelling beneath the tyres.