“Yes. No!”
“Min? Shut up now, okay?”
He shut up.
There was still the same promise of spring outside, but the atmosphere inside the office had unaccountably reverted to winter.
“It’s a good job I’ve got you then, isn’t it?” Lamb said. “What with your inability to refuse me anything.”
A crooked yellow smile accompanied this, in case Taverner had forgotten what good friends they were.
“Jackson—”
“I need a workable cover, Diana. I could put one together myself, but it’d take a week or two, and I need it now.”
“So you want to run an op and you want to do it in a hurry? Does any part of that sound like a good idea?”
“I also need an operating fund. Couple of K at least. And I might need to borrow a pair of shoulders. I’m under strength at the House, what with your boy Spider’s recruitment drive.”
“Webb?”
“I prefer Spider. Every time I see him, I want to swat him with a newspaper.” He gave her a sly glance. “You know about his poaching, right?”
“Webb doesn’t rearrange his desk without my permission. Of course I know.” There was a sudden clatter as the duck launched itself out of the canal and headed downwater. “And there’s no way you’re using anyone from the Park. We’ve got Roger Barrowby counting teaspoons. Trust me, he’ll notice if a warm body goes missing.”
Lamb said nothing. The wheel had turned. Any moment now, Taverner would notice she’d gone from saying the door was shut to negotiating about how far it would open.
“Oh Christ,” she muttered.
There you go.
Silently, he offered his cigarettes again, and this time she took one. When she leant in to be lit he caught a wave of her perfume. Then his lighter flared and it was gone.
Taverner leaned back, past caring about any marks the bench might leave. She closed her eyes to inhale. “Tearney doesn’t like undercover,” she said. He had the feeling she was continuing a conversation she’d had in her head many times. “Given the chance, she’d scrap Ops and double the size of GCHQ. Distance intel-gathering. Just the way Health and Safety likes it.”
“There’d be fewer joes in body bags,” Lamb said.
“There’d be fewer joes full stop. And don’t pretend to defend her. She’d parade your generation before a truth and reconciliation committee. Apologising for every black-ribbon adventure you ever set up, then hugging your oppo for the cameras.”
“Cameras,” Lamb repeated. Then said, “God, you’re not even joking, are you?”
“Know what her latest memo said? That those in line for Third Desk grade should sign up for an in-house PR course. Make sure they’re fully prepared for a ‘customer-facing’ role.”
“ ‘Customer-facing’?”
“ ‘Customer-facing’.”
Lamb shook his head. “I know some people. We could have her whacked.”
She touched his knee briefly. “You’re kind. Let’s make that Plan B.”
After that they sat in silence while she finished her cigarette. Then she ground it beneath her heel and said, “Okay. Enough fun and games. Unless you’re ready to tell me you’re kidding about this?” But a quick glance told her she wasn’t getting off that easy. She checked her watch. “Lay it out.”
Lamb told her what he had in mind.
When he’d finished, she said, “The Cotswolds?”
“I said an op. I didn’t say al Qa’eda.”
“You’re going to do this anyway. Why bother even telling me about it?”
Lamb looked at her solemnly. “I know you think I’m a loose cannon. But even I’m not stupid enough to run an op on home ground without clearing it with the Park.”
“I meant really.”
“Because you’ll find out about it anyway.”
“Damn right I will. You worked out which one of your newbies is reporting back to me yet?”
His expression betrayed nothing.
She said, “This better not turn into a circus.”
“A circus? This guy planted one of ours. If we let that happen without, what would you call it, due diligence? We let that happen without checking out who, what and why, then we’re not only not doing our job, we’re letting down our people.”
“Bow wasn’t our people any more.”
“It doesn’t work that way, and you know it.”
She sighed. “Yes, I know it. Didn’t know you did speeches, though.” She thought a moment. “Okay. We can probably rustle up a pre-used ID without ringing bells. It won’t be watertight, but it’s not as if you’re sending anyone into Indian country. And if you fill out a 22-F, I’ll pass it through Resources. We’ll lay it off as some kind of archive expense. I mean, face it, you’re exploring ancient history. If that’s not an archive matter, I don’t know what is.”
Lamb said, “You can nick it from petty cash for all I care. No skin off my arse.”
To verify this assertion, he gave the area in question a scratch.
“Jesus wept,” said Diana Taverner. Then said, “I do this, we’re free and clear, right?”
“Sure.”
“You’d better not be pissing about on company time, Jackson.”
In a rare moment of tact, Lamb recognised when someone needed the last word, and said nothing. Instead, he watched her out of sight, then rewarded himself with a slow grin. He had Service cover. He even had an operating fund.
Neither of which he’d have got, if he’d told her the truth.
Retrieving his phone from his pocket, he called Slough House.
“You still there?”
“Yes, that’s why I’m answering the—”
“Get your arse to Whitecross. And bring your wallet.”
Snapping the phone shut, he watched as the wayward duck returned, coming to a skidding halt on the canal’s glassy surface, shattering the reflected sky, but only for a moment. Then it all shivered back into shape: sky, rooftops and overhead cables, all in their proper place.
Ho would have been happy about that.
“You took your time,” Lamb said.
River, who’d arrived first, knew a Lamb tactic when he heard one. “What did I need my wallet for?”
“You can buy me a late lunch.”
Because it had been a while since his early lunch, River surmised.
The market was packing up, but there were still stalls where you could buy enough curry and rice to feed an army, then stuff it so full of cake it couldn’t march. River paid for a Thai chicken with naan, and the pair walked to St Luke’s and found a bench. Pigeons clustered hopefully, but soon gave up. Possibly they recognised Lamb.
“How well did you know Dickie Bow?” River asked.
Through a mouthful of chicken, Lamb said, “Not well.”
“But enough to light a candle.”
Lamb looked at him, chewing. He kept chewing so long it became sarcastic. When he’d at last swallowed, he said, “You’re a fuck up, Cartwright. We both know that. You wouldn’t be a slow horse otherwise. But—”
“I was screwed over. There’s a difference.”
“Only fuck ups get screwed over,” Lamb explained. “May I finish?”
“Please.”
“You’re a fuck up, but you’re still in the game. So if you turn up dead one day, and I’m not busy, I’ll probably ask around. Check for suspicious circumstances.”
“I can hardly contain my emotion.”
“Yeah, I said probably.” He belched. “But Dickie was a Berlin hand. When you’ve fought a war with someone, you make sure they’re buried in the right grave. One that doesn’t read Clapped Out when it should say Enemy Action. Grandad never teach you that?”
River remembered a moment last year when he’d had a glimpse of the Lamb who’d fought that war. So despite Lamb now being a fat lazy bastard, he was inclined to believe him.