“That had nothing to do with me!”
“Well, we’re going to have to agree you’re wrong about that. By the way, sit down? If I do use this, I’d sooner you were stationary.” He waggled the gun. “I’m not the world’s greatest marksman. I could go for a warning shot and end up having your eye out. I’d look a right tit then, wouldn’t I?”
Judd stared, but Lamb’s expression gave nothing away. The gun might have been cake, come to that. Taverner might be behind the curtain, about to jump out and sing “Happy Birthday.”
He sank onto the sofa again.
Lamb said, “Entertain me. You funded Taverner’s jolly last year, didn’t you? When she went off-book and had a Moscow hood whacked for committing murder on home soil.”
“I couldn’t comment on that.”
“Wasn’t looking for a comment so much as a straightforward yes or no.”
“No.”
“Yeah, wrong answer. We both know you did. And it was Chinese money you slipped her, though she didn’t know that at the time.”
“Money doesn’t actually have a—”
“And you’ve been holding that over her head ever since, like the sword of Dominic Cummings.”
“I think you mean Damocles.”
“Any two-faced creep with the ethics of a syphilitic stoat will do.” The gun swapped hands. With his right, Lamb caressed the cigarette behind his ear. “So, she’s spent the last year being backed into a corner, with you passing on, what’ll we call them, suggestions? Nah, instructions. With you passing on instructions from your Beijing paymasters as to which direction she should be steering the Park. Which, long story short, is why she tried to have you cancelled last night. In fact, if she hadn’t relied on a Dad’s Army dropout with a spark plug where his brain used to be, you wouldn’t be here now. Any thoughts?”
“Well, you’re a little unfair on Damocles.”
“Probably. I never had the classical education you’ve based your public persona on.”
“I think I can safely say it would have been wasted on you.” Judd leaned back and spread his arms out. It would be an overstatement to say he was starting to relax, but he didn’t feel the fear he’d felt last night, when it had been Charles Stamoran waving a gun around. This was different—Lamb was a tricky bastard, but one who’d been around long enough that Judd knew he could deal with him. Because if Lamb wasn’t in the market for deals, he’d not have survived as long as he had. “Thoughts, though. Yes. I have a few. But before we get to those, I have to ask. Are you recording this?”
“Recording it?”
“Hoping for a confession.”
“I look like a priest? I need a word with my tailor.”
“If I thought for one moment you actually had one, I’d want a word with him myself. I’ve never made a citizen’s arrest. So.” Judd crossed his legs. “Not a confession, then. I didn’t really think so.” He smiled: It looked quite genuine. “No, I know what you’re after.”
“Oh, this’ll be good,” said Lamb. “Tell me what I’m after.”
“Same thing anyone in your position is.”
“One of those chairs you can lean back in till it’s nearly horizontal?”
“Recognition.”
“Ah, right. Recognition. Thing is, you’ve forgotten what it is I do. I’m a spy, Judd. Recognition, it’s not the ideal result in my line of work. More of a drawback, if you want to get technical.”
“We both know that’s not what I meant.” And here it came, the comfort zone. This was where he lived; he had something to sell and someone to sell it to. “Recognition can make itself felt in a more practical manner.”
He waited. Truth be told, Judd could barely remember a conversation that hadn’t ended the way he wanted it to. People called politics the art of the compromise, but only people who had no fucking clue. Politics was the art of trampling opposition into the dust and convincing them they liked it there. It wasn’t that different from sport or sex. Not that he had much time for sport.
Lamb, stroking the cigarette behind his ear as if it were a pet mouse, said, “What, the way a happy ending can be really specific, in the right sort of massage parlour?”
“Close enough. Let’s not say recognition, let’s say compensation. Compensation for your long slide out of the mainstream.”
“Not sure the mainstream was ever my paddling pool. But keep talking. That’s clearly what you’re happiest doing.”
And that was the moment, right there; like the one where the floating voter admits he saw you on a panel show, or the girl tells you she never does that. It was the moment where you knew the deal was done, and you were just haggling over the fine detail.
“Well, I’m not just saying this to get on your good side, but spy or not, I’ve heard a lot about you down the years. Mostly from Diana. And clearly you’ve led a useful life and done the Service proud. They’ll be telling tales about you long after you’re taking up space at St. Len’s, and you might not be a hero in all of them, but you’ll be the one commanding the attention. The one who uses up the oxygen in the room. And I admire that. You know why?” He leaned forward ever so slightly. A lot of what’s said is unspoken. You telegraph your meaning with your movement. “Because there can only be one of them in any given space. See what I mean?”
Lamb said, “Don’t worry. If you go too fast for me, I’ll think of some way of slowing you down.”
Judd said, “Quite. But being a legend’s not the same as being the hero, you know? And in the usual stories, it’s the hero gets the spoils. What spoils are you enjoying, Lamb, at this stage in your career? Way past your glory days, and still riding a desk on Aldersgate Street? While Diana—well. Take a look around. This furniture didn’t come from a fire sale. This postcode, you don’t get to live here on the gig economy. No, Diana’s like me. She enjoys rewards commensurate, not to her achievements, but to her expectations. Because she and I, we’re insiders. Always have been. Brought up to it, dined out on it, slept in all of its bedrooms. While you, put simply—are not.”
“Careful. You’re in danger of making me feel inadequate.”
“Not inadequate. You’re more than up to your role. Because you’re one of the engine room lot. You know how it works, and you can make it go, but you don’t get to decide the direction of travel because that’s not how things are done. The big decisions are made up in the wheelhouse. The only time you get up there is when you’re invited. When you’re being given a bollocking or maybe an employee of the month plaque. Then they kick you up the arse or pat you on the head, but either way, they send you back to your oily rag.”
“I have to say, you’re making me view my career in a whole different light,” said Lamb. “It’s like the snails are dropping from my eyes.”
“. . . Scales?”
“Whichever it is leaves trails of slime. You have much contact with those of us who work below decks?”
“On and off. You met my man Sebastian, didn’t you?”
“Briefly.”
“You’d have found common ground if you’d taken the time to get to know him. But that’s hardly relevant now. No, the truth is, like everyone else, I’m more comfortable among my own kind, but that doesn’t mean I don’t pay attention to what goes on below. Don’t get me wrong, I can’t do anything to change the way things are. That’s not why I went into politics, to make changes for the better for people like you. I went into politics to make sure things stay the same for people like me. But sometimes, in order to keep everything upright, accommodations are made. Which is what we’re working towards here.”