“I know.”
Lech said, “It’s like talking to an oracle. Or a teenager.”
“Or your boss. You know, according to yesterday’s business section, a good team should predict its leader’s needs and act accordingly. So why haven’t you both fucked off yet?”
When they’d done so, Catherine said, “So Taverner’s playing games again.”
“Games are where no one gets hurt. The way Taverner plays, you wouldn’t want to be sitting in the front three rows.” The lighters she’d given him earlier were in a pile next to the takeaway, and he reached for one.
“You’re not really going to smoke that?”
“Well I’m going to need something to anaesthetise my taste buds.” He looked at the tinfoil container sourly.
Catherine said, “What are you going to do about River?”
“It’s a bit late to have him neutered. Baker’ll have to take her chances.”
“Would you be serious for one minute? If Taverner’s putting pressure on him and Sid, then whatever she’s up to is off the books. River’s barely back to health as it is, and you know what he’s like. If his career’s at stake, he’ll do anything to save it. Things could get nasty.”
“They usually do. But Cartwright’s not the issue. Nor is Baker. Taverner was using her to get to someone else, name of Charles Cornell Stamoran. Heard of him?”
“Rings a vague bell.”
“Me too. But he’s ancient history, and that’s a worry.”
“That Taverner’s looking at ancient history?”
“That Taverner’s looking for someone expendable.”
Catherine said, “That’s what you meant by a cutout.”
Lamb was still toying with the lighter. With the squashed-end butt in his mouth, he looked like some clown had just fed him an exploding cigarette. He said, “Uh-huh. Baker’s still on medical leave after a bullet bounced off her brain. What you’d call a deniable asset. I’m guessing Taverner’s scrubbed any record of their having had a recent conversation.”
“And Stamoran’s expendable.”
“Find out what you can.”
“I’ll talk to Molly.” She hesitated. “You don’t think . . .”
“What?”
“If Taverner’s looking for someone for an under-the-bridge assignment, well. Who’s the likeliest target, would you say?”
“You’re asking me who’s the biggest thorn in Taverner’s side?” He shook his head. “Nah. She wouldn’t dare. Besides. I haven’t done anything lately.”
“Strange as it might seem,” Catherine said, “it wasn’t you I was thinking about.”
At King’s Cross traffic flowed in all directions, while on the concourse in front of the station crowds milled busily: There were coffee stands, street-food stalls and souvenir merchants peddling junk, and pedestrians who weren’t heading into the station wheeling luggage were wandering with coffee cups in hand or perched on available seating, forking food from cardboard containers. The station served the north, and Al, Avril and Daisy could all catch trains from here. CC parked illegally and they got out and fetched the bags from the boot.
Daisy said, “So you’re dumping us. What will you do now?”
“Lie low for a few days. Do quiet penance. Then head back to Oxford with my tail between my legs and pick up where I left off.”
“Eating your single-serving meals in front of a two-bar fire,” Avril said.
“Yes, well, I might have exaggerated a touch. Besides, no need for heating yet. It’s set to be a glorious summer.”
“We should talk more about the weather,” Al agreed. “You’re full of shit, CC. And if we’re not doing anything about it, that reflects how pissed off we are, not that we’ve been taken in.”
“I’m sorry.”
“So you should be. I mean, involving Daisy—”
“I never meant to—”
“It’s okay,” said Daisy. “She pulled my triggers, that’s all. Turning up like that. At a safe house.”
“It was over long before you jumped on her. The fact that she was there at all meant we were finished.”
“Well, I know that. I might lose my shit now and again, but I’m not stupid.”
CC said, “Well, Taverner’s granted absolution. I mean, I’m not her favourite bunny, and I can probably kiss the housekeeping job goodbye, but she won’t be unleashing the Dogs, and I’m not expecting a knock on the door. So, you know. Compared to some places we’ve found ourselves, we’re on Sunny Street.”
Avril, Al and Daisy shared a look. It was Avril who spoke. “You’re a hundred per cent on that?”
He put a hand to his heart, noticed what he was doing, and let it drop. But said, “Sincerely. It’s all fine. You’re unsullied and I’m forgiven.”
“Okay, then.”
“Fly, my little ones. Fly.” He made an ushering motion with both hands. There were people nearby, total strangers, who thought they were watching a rep company go its separate ways.
Daisy gave CC a hug, and Avril did the same, and then Al, and the fact that he muttered “You mad bastard” while doing so didn’t make it less genuine. Then the three of them watched while CC got back in the car, sounded the horn twice, and pulled out into traffic. To stand watching until he was gone from sight would have swallowed what was left of the afternoon, so they turned and walked towards the station entrance, bags in hand.
“And that’s that,” said Al.
Avril gave him a look.
“Yes, I know. Of course it bloody isn’t. What did you use?”
“My watch.”
“And that has a tracker on it?”
She rolled her eyes. “No, Al. Every five minutes it launches a barrage balloon. Yes it has a tracker on it. Like everyone else who ever worked at the Park, I pinched a few toys before they showed me the door.”
“Wish I had.”
“At least you have your gun.”
“Bought that with my own money.” He was flexing his arm as he spoke, raising his bag, gauging its weight. “And I’ll tell you what. CC’s taken it. When he put this in the boot.”
“Figures.” Avril had put her own case down and was checking her phone. “Wouldn’t have minded hearing that chat he had with First Desk.”
Daisy said, “You think he plans to shoot her?” She might have been asking about CC’s dining plans.
“That’d be extreme,” said Al. “It’s never a good idea to jump straight to the endgame before considering all possibilities.”
“You think?” said Avril. “And here’s me imagining that’s been our signature move all these years.”
They stood in a huddle while she began tracking the watch she’d left in CC’s car.
Molly Doran said: “Name a weed and you find it growing everywhere.”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“Charles Cornell Stamoran. You asking about him, that’s not the first time his name’s come up this week. Can’t tell you how often that happens.”
About as often as any other coincidence, Catherine thought.
Calling the Park’s archivist had required mental prep. Catherine’s relationship with Molly was not uncomplicated. She knew—suspected—no, knew—that the woman had shared secret hours with Jackson Lamb, a history neither would speak of. But that there was a bond was clear, and if its existence meant that they couldn’t quite be friends, it also meant that when Catherine needed a favour, Molly was prepared to supply it.
At a price.
“He was the handler on Pitchfork. That was the IRA operation, remember?”
Catherine did. Every so often the story cropped up in the Sundays, only for the Service to deny it had made an asset of a murdering sadist.
She said, “Pitchfork, that’s surely in the digital archive.”
Which covered anything that had happened in the last several decades. Molly’s domain stretched back further, and there were those who’d like to see it reactivated. Its digital counterpart was available to anyone with Service ID and the sign-in code, which didn’t always limit access to Park operatives in good standing. Molly’s archive, on the other hand, was the real thing: shelves of paperwork, vulnerable to any number of threats—fire and water damage, termites, mould—but to steal from it, you had to make an effort. Slackers with laptops from Moscow to Miami might troll the world’s virtual corridors at will, but Molly Doran’s fortress was outside their reach.