It was here that Min decided he’d wallowed in enough self-pity.
Because Louisa was in a snit but she’d get over it, and Slough House might be a cul-de-sac, but Spider Webb had dropped a rope ladder, and Min was grabbing it with both hands. The question was, would it hold the pair of them? Min considered the pyramid of shredded cardboard he’d constructed. It was best to regard everything as a test. He’d learned that during training, and had yet to be told to stop. So: Spider Webb. On scant acquaintance Min neither liked nor trusted Webb, and could easily believe he was playing a double game. But if that game involved a prize, it would be foolish not to attempt to win it, and equally foolish not to imagine this hadn’t occurred to Louisa too. Hell, it wasn’t out of the question that her snit was because Min had shown he could play the big game this morning, while she was mostly showing her prowess at admin, at paper shuffling. The kind of activity Slough House was built on.
He checked his phone again. Still no message. But let’s be clear about this, he told himself; he wasn’t trying to pull a fast one over Louisa. In fact he’d call and apologise and head over there later. All of that. He’d do all of that, but first he called up Google Earth on his iPhone and examined the stretch of the Edgware Road where Piotr and Kyril’s taxi had stopped. Then he left the pub and collected his bike from round back of Slough House. It was nearly nine, and growing dark.
Diana Taverner’s office had a glass wall so she could keep an eye on the kids on the hub. There was nothing overbearing about this; it was a protective instinct, a form of nurturing. The old guys would tell you ops were where it counted, but Taverner knew the stresses that mounted up backstage, as sleeplessly as rust. Across all those desks on the hub beamed intel, 24/7: most of it useless, some of it deadly; all of it to be weighed in a balance that needed recalibrating daily, according to how the wind blew. There were watch-lists to monitor, snatched footage to interpret, stolen conversations to translate, and underneath all the data-processing lay the knowledge that a momentary lapse of concentration, and you’d see bodies pulled from the wreckage on the evening news. It could splinter you, such pressure; it could rob you of sleep, cheat you of dreams, and surprise you into tears at your desk. So no, keeping an eye on the kids was because she had their welfare at heart, though it also allowed her to check that none of the bastards were playing funny games. Not all of Taverner’s foes lay abroad.
And to make sure the surveillance was one-way, there were ceiling-to-floor blinds she could pull when needed. They were down now, and the overhead lights were dimmed, mimicking the fading daylight outside. And standing in front of her, because she hadn’t invited him to sit, was James Webb, who didn’t live on the hub but had an office in the bowels of the building—‘office’ sounded good, but what it meant was, he was outside the circle of power.
And thus out of her line of sight.
Time to discover what he’d been up to.
“I’ve been hearing stories,” she said. “Seems you’ve seconded a pair of slow horses.”
“Slow …?”
“Don’t even think about it.”
Webb said, “It’s nothing important. I didn’t think you’d want to be bothered by it.”
“When there’s something I don’t want to be bothered by, I like to know what it is first. So I can be sure it’s not something I’d rather be bothered by.”
There was a moment’s silence while they both picked a path through that one. Then Webb said, “Arkady Pashkin.”
“Pashkin …”
“Sole owner of Arkos.”
“Arkos.”
“Russia’s fourth largest oil company.”
“Oh. That Arkady Pashkin.”
“I’ve been … having talks with him.”
Lady Di leaned back, and her chair adjusted its position with a whisper of springs. She stared at Webb, who’d been useful once. The office in the bowels had been a reward for services, and should have been enough to keep him quiet. But that was the thing about the Spider Webbs of the world: shut them out of anywhere for long, and they fog its windowpanes with their breath.
“You’re having … talks with a Russian industrialist?”
“I think he prefers ‘oligarch’.”
“I don’t care if he prefers ‘Czar’. What the hell gave you the idea you could open up diplomatic channels with a foreign national?”
Webb said, “It occurred to me we could do with some good news round here.”
After a pause, Taverner said, “Well if that’s your notion of ‘diplomatic’, we can no doubt expect war with Russia any day. What kind of good news did you have in mind? And do make this … convincing.”
“He’s a potential asset,” said Webb.
And now Lady Di leaned forward. “He’s a potential asset,” she repeated slowly.
“He’s unhappy with the way things are over there. He finds the swing towards old-era antagonism regressive, and regrets the Mafia State image. He has political ambitions, and if we could help him in any way … Well, that would make him quite amenable, wouldn’t it?”
“Is this a joke?”
Webb said, “I know it sounds like shooting for the moon. But think about it. The man’s a player. It’s not out of question he could take the reins.” He was growing visibly more excited. Taverner carefully avoided looking at his trousers. “And if we’re with him, if we smooth his path—I mean, really. It’s the Holy Grail.”
The sensible thing would be to torch him here and now, she thought. Thirty seconds of verbal creosote, and he’d leave sooty footprints all the way back to his office, and never have an idea again. That was the sensible thing, and she was mentally turning her flame up high when she heard herself say, “Who else knows about this?”
“Nobody.”
“What about the Slough House pair?”
“They think they’re running security on oil talks.”
“How did it start?”
“He made contact. Personally.”
“With you? How come?”
“There was that thing last year …”
That thing. Right. ‘That thing last year’ had been one of Ingrid Tearney’s brainwaves; a charm offensive to counter the recent tsunami of PR disasters: illegal wars, accidental slayings, torturing suspects; stuff like that. Tearney had made a string of public appearances, explaining how counter-terrorist measures were safeguarding the country, even if it appeared to the uninformed that they were merely creating huge delays at airports. Webb—a spiffy dresser—had carried her bags, and provided an ear into which she could whisper when she wanted to look like she was conferring. He’d been mentioned by name in the press coverage, which he’d doubtless have been insufferable about if the term ‘arm-candy’ hadn’t been used.
She could still torch him. Bring this to a halt before its inevitable flaws came screaming into view. Instead, she said, “And this you call unimportant? Something I wouldn’t want to be bothered with?”
“Plausible deniability,” Webb said. “If it all goes pear-shaped … Well, it’s one of your underlings on a frolic of his own, isn’t it?” He gave a short sharp chuckle. “That happens, I’ll probably end up with the slow horses myself.”
And if you give that particular answer a shake, the picture changes completely. If it all goes according to plan, Webb finds himself dropping a big juicy bone at Ingrid Tearney’s feet. The first Taverner would know about it, she’d be standing outside a closed door, wondering what the briefing was about.
But bigger men than Spider Webb had made the mistake of underestimating Diana Taverner.
She said, “And how the hell are you slipping all this past the Barrowboy?”