“Political correctness gone mad,” Catherine agreed. “What’s this morning’s meeting in aid of?”
“Just general morale boosting.”
Oh God. She headed back to her own office and collected printouts—progress reports on the various projects Lamb had instigated—and returned to his room with them.
“More recycling?” he said. He was holding a disposable plastic lighter now, as if fighting a rearguard action against her eco-activism, but hadn’t yet put it to use. “What’s the matter?”
“What makes you think anything’s the matter?”
“I can read you like a . . .”
“Book?”
“Newspaper. They get thrown away afterwards.”
“Silly me. Nothing’s the matter. Barring the usual, that is.”
“Ah,” he said wisely. “You’d be referring to what I’m supposed to call my ‘team.’ The silly custards.”
“Coming from you, that’s suspiciously benign.”
“Well, ‘bastunts’ doesn’t really work. And here they come.”
They trooped in, Lech leading the way, then Shirley, Roddy, Ash. Louisa hung back on the landing, muttering into her phone. Lamb raised an eyebrow, but all avoided his gaze, preferring to concentrate on the surroundings—the corkboard with its display of tattered clippings; the dismal picture of some dismal bridge some dismal where; the desk lamp teetering on a calcified pile of telephone directories, a concept which Ashley, for one, had difficulty getting her head round; the blinds pulled over the skylight, muting the daylight to a drab shroud. Stuffing her phone into her pocket, Louisa attempted to enter the room without being noticed. She did not succeed.
“I’m sure that must have been a nuisance call, from someone who just wouldn’t let you go,” Lamb said. “Because otherwise, you’d have been deliberately wasting your colleagues’ time. And that would be really fucking rude.”
And you hate fucking rudeness, she silently offered. “Sorry, yes,” she lied. “Cold caller.”
“You know how I get rid of them?” Lamb said.
“Pretty sure we don’t want to,” said Lech.
“I pretend to come.”
“Not sure that would work for me,” said Louisa.
“Or me,” said Ash.
“Or me,” said Shirley.
“Or me,” said Roddy. “. . . What?”
“Valuable as this no doubt is,” said Catherine, “perhaps we could skip the preliminaries? I’m sure there are things we could more usefully be doing.”
Shirley snorted; Ash rolled her eyes. Lech said, “Like what, throwing ourselves out of a window?”
Lamb tutted. “Let’s not lose hope. Remember, you’re only ever one spiked drink away from a happy ending.”
“Is there an agenda for this meeting?” Ash asked. “Because I’ve got, like, an office full of boring stuff I could be boring myself to death with.”
“There, see?” Lamb’s beaming face included them all in its benediction. “Our newest recruit, and already she’s as welcome as a banjo on a soundtrack. Now, group huddle. No, not literally, it’s not an excuse for a wank. Let’s just take a moment to be grateful for what we’ve got here.”
The shared incomprehension of everyone else in the room might have powered the whole of Aldersgate Street, had the appropriate technology been available.
“If my years on this planet have taught me anything, it’s that we’re in it together. All for one, one for all. So, a few small things. First, I don’t want anyone hassling Louisa, because she has a big decision to make. She jumps the right way, the rest of you are going to be feeling even more fucking sorry for yourselves than usual, so give her some breathing space. And second, leave Ho alone too. He’s going to be doing an important job for me while the rest of you are busy with the usual crap, because that’s all you’re good for. Everything clear? Grand.” He clapped his hands, then rubbed them together like a vicar. “And they say I don’t know how to inspire the troops. Now, I’ve been told to make sure to use inclusive language when addressing staff. So fuck off, all of you. Not you.”
This meant Ho.
The rest of them fucked off, Ash asking, “We went upstairs for that?”
“Yep. Today’s been a good day,” said Lech. He glanced at Louisa. “Mysterious phone calls, cryptic comments. What’s your big decision about?”
“He’s yanking your chain,” Louisa said, disappearing into her office and kicking the door shut.
“One for all, all for one,” Lech muttered.
“Don’t you start,” Shirley said, and clumped off down the stairs.
First visit or not, River knew an interesting fact about the college, and specifically the centre of Russian studies it housed. This had come, of course, from his grandfather.
“The centre’s first director was the man who recruited Guy Burgess.”
“For which side?” River had asked.
“A good question, but do be careful in whose company you ask it. Skins are still thin in some areas. Burgess and his pals left scars that will never heal.”
Spies lie. They betray. It’s what they do.
Now, to Erin, River said, “So Stan—”
“Stam. With an M.”
“. . . Okay. This Stam, he’s a fellow of the college?”
“Well, he’s a fixture. He has dining rights and uses the library, though whether that’s because he has official status or because the librarian doesn’t want to bar the door to him, I’ve no idea. He’s writing a book I expect. And he was very interested in this project, your grandfather’s library. They worked together, back in the day.”
“So he was in the Service.”
“Yes. That is, he’s never actually come out and said so. They don’t, do they? But he worked with David, he made that clear. Not as a contemporary—I mean, he’s old, but . . .”
But not that old. Fair enough. “Was anyone else helping?”
“If there were, I’d not have been so quick to point the finger. I mean James, the librarian, he has oversight, obviously. But all the work, the organisation, has been left to me, and Stam’s been my only help. Sorting through books, finding the right place on the shelves. Believe it or not, it wasn’t all straightforward.”
“No, I didn’t—”
“There was the crew who delivered the boxes, of course, but they arrived sealed up. And nobody could have known what was in each box. Even if they knew what they were looking for.”
River said, “Yes, but. Presumably they were the same crew who packed the boxes at the other end. It’s possible that the missing book—”
“The Secret Voices.”
“—never got as far as your library in the first place.”
“That would be my preferred outcome,” Erin said.
“Don’t worry. Nobody’s going to be blaming you.”
“You’ve probably forgotten I mentioned this,” she said. “But I used to work at the Park. Trust me, if anything happened, someone’s going to get blamed.”
An interesting thought occurred to River: that the person who had supervised the packing of the books in the first place was his mother. “What kind of name is Stam, anyway?”
“Short for Stamoran. Charles Stamoran. But nobody calls him Charles.”
“I’d better meet him,” he said.
“Which is why we’re heading to the dining hall.”
For lunch, which sounded like a treat—lunch at an Oxford college—but turned out not that different from lunch at a department store. John Lewis, say. A spacious dining area, modern, with long tables and matching chairs. The walls boasted big windows, offering views of the rest of the college: buildings arranged around a small area which, because this was Oxford, was a quadrangle, though anywhere else would be a lawn, some flower beds, a few trees, a litterbin. The buildings weren’t terribly old, but then the college wasn’t one of the ancient institutions; a latecomer, it had the tact not to try too hard, and not to pretend to hallowed customs, or traditions steeped in time. As for the food, you helped yourself from a buffet: lasagna, vegetarian moussaka, baked potatoes, roast meats, salads. Individual trifles in plastic pots. Water, fruit juices, Coke. Then you processed past a till, collecting cutlery from plastic troughs. He offered to pay, but Erin was already proffering a card to the woman totting up their choices. “He’s here,” she said, as she hoisted her tray. “Far end of the room. Sitting by himself.”