“So who’s going to give me a rundown of the playlist?”
Louisa said, “Taverner’s had Sid recruit an old network.”
“CC Stamoran,” River said. “Who found something in my grandfather’s library.”
“And his crew.”
“The Brains Trust.” River read their names from the palm of his hand.
Lech said, “They probably worked in Ulster with CC. So they’re not desk drones.”
“Ulster’s in Ireland,” said Roddy.
“And that was a brainstorm, was it? If brains were actual weather, none of you’d get wet.”
“Just bringing you up to speed,” River said.
“Yeah, right. You realise I have to decelerate when you do that?” Lamb looked round sourly. “Yes, Taverner, or this Stamoran creature, or both, found something somewhere that David Cartwright squirrelled away, possibly before but maybe after he developed runny brain, as a result of which a bunch of past-their-sell-by spooks may well be doing cartwheels at Taverner’s bidding. Just another day at the spy factory. And yes, we’re maybe early doors for another monumental balls-in-a-mousetrap situation courtesy of First Desk’s never-ending desire to prove herself queen of fucking everywhere, but you know what? I don’t care. Which means, in case you’re all too hopped up, dumbed down or just plain thick to notice, that you don’t care either. So back to work. Except you.” He pointed at River. “You can fuck off home. Your plug’s been pulled.”
River said, “Taverner used Sid as a sock puppet. Me too.”
“Well that’s better than using you as a toilet brush, which would have been my choice. And guess what? Baker’s fine and you’re—I don’t care what you are. But nobody got hurt, which means I don’t have to listen to Standish moaning about staff shortages or stay late while she finds forms for me to sign. That’s a positive outcome, which, if you’d ever had managerial experience, you’d know is like a wet dream after a free beer. Doesn’t happen often, but when it does, you don’t spend time worrying who’s doing the laundry.”
“Taverner’s up to something,” Louisa said.
“Have recent years taught you nothing? She’s always up to something.”
“Right,” said River, “and whatever she’s found to use as a weapon, who do you think she’s aiming it at?”
“Taylor Swift?”
“You’ve been a thorn in her side forever.”
Lamb looked sideways at Ash. “It’s young Baker I feel sorry for. This one doesn’t know foreplay when he sees it.”
“You know what?” River said. “I’m not bothered either. If Lady Di’s primed a geriatric hit squad to clean your clock, I think I’ll just buy a big bag of popcorn and find a comfortable chair.”
Catherine said, “Let’s everyone cool down, shall we?”
“Don’t look at me,” said Shirley. “I lost track five minutes ago.”
“We just wanted to know about Louisa’s new job,” Ash explained.
“Since when did my life become everyone’s business?”
“They wanted me to crash your inbox,” Roddy said. “I told them private’s private, ya feel me?”
“. . . Thank you.”
“Also, I blocked that randomer who’s sending you dick pics.”
“Taverner isn’t coming after me,” Lamb said. “If she wanted to do that, she’d make damn sure not to involve you lot. Even tangentially.”
“You’re pretty sure we’d have your back,” muttered Lech.
“No, I’m pretty sure you’d fuck things up,” said Lamb. “She’d use someone efficient. Is Ronnie Corbett still alive?”
“So who’s her target?” River asked.
“Christ,” said Lamb, turning to leave. “It’s days like this I miss that psycho we used to have. At least he could think straight.”
“Shoot straight too,” Shirley said, remembering.
Lamb had gone. River shook his head. “I’ve had enough of this. I’m going to find Sid.”
“Not sure you’ll have to,” Catherine said, as the door downstairs groaned another welcome.
After Stamoran’s departure Diana Taverner studied the disk he’d brought her. Dynamite came in all shapes and sizes, and Stamoran had obviously thought this had the potential to blow a big enough hole in her desk that she’d dig into the reptile fund to defuse it. But then, he’d been a handler, not a weasel. A good handler thought in straight lines, at the end of which a joe came safely home. The weasels were the Service’s planners and strategists; they could take a scenario and bend it in any direction, at the end of which a joe might be strung out in pieces by the side of a road, and the op still branded a success. If not by handlers, obviously. This particular scenario had more curves than Stamoran could see round. It was possible it had more than she’d yet identified herself.
It was true what she’d told him, that a brave government might decide that the mess in question was best dragged into daylight. But it was more true that brave governments were rare, and for most, no time was better than the one that occurred on another party’s watch. To have the contents of the tape made public would involve fallout, even if it did no more than confirm what had long been rumoured. The Prime Minister at the time was beyond damage, true, his reputation long since soiled by his brokering of an illegal war, and his self-esteem bomb-proof, but still, this dirt would not easily be swept away. A psychopath had been used and protected, paid and pensioned off, despite possibly being responsible for ending more lives than he’d saved. Owning up to the state’s sanctioning of such crimes might ultimately be a step towards national redemption, but it was a step most politicians would prefer someone else take, lest in the process they tangle their feet, and smash their teeth on an unforgiving pavement.
For her own part, she thought seeking forgiveness unnecessary, but then, she was First Desk. The luxury of a conscience was for those without the responsibilities she bore.
And she’d imagined David Cartwright had felt the same way, until she’d discovered his habit of annotating the files he consulted in Molly Doran’s archive; obsessively juggling the secret histories he’d helped write, tracing endings never part of the official record. Jottings among which she’d found an oddity: a copied-out sentence from that classified meeting that had discussed Pitchfork’s pay-off, words included in the extract Stamoran had sent her; anodyne in themselves, but with the power to come bouncing down the years as wildly as a rubber ball hurled into a concrete cell.
There’s one further matter we need to cover, I think, sir. The question of inflation-proofing the pension arrangement.
As carefully as that sentence had been written, Diana had torn it from its margin and destroyed it. The fact that Stamoran had made no reference to it was proof he hadn’t understood what he’d had. He might have recognised that it was dynamite, but had failed to appreciate that dynamite wasn’t designed to be a cause of indiscriminate havoc. Handled correctly, it was a precision instrument.
There’s one further matter we need to cover.
There always was.
Locking the door behind her, Taverner walked down the stairs and emerged into sunshine, satisfied she’d primed her own explosive charge.
The nearest pub was a heartless space, catering for those who wanted to drink but were disinclined to put effort into it. For Catherine, being here was like stepping back inside one of her own blackouts. This is where the magic happens, she thought, but even within the confines of her head the joke fell flat: Nothing here offered welcome, or whispered sweet come-ons. The magical place—like a children’s playground, its edges smoothed with soft-impact material—lay on the far side of her next drink, and she’d have to be alone to turn that key. If she ever did.