‘You said something about the girl.’
‘The girl knew nothing either. That is all I was going to say.’
Danny said, ‘The girl is dead.’
‘Yes,’ said Shin.
‘So why do you say she knew nothing?’
Shin said, ‘Because even if she were alive, it would not help them. That is all I meant.’
‘You said you killed her.’
‘I did.’
‘When you came out of her house, you told us she was dead, that you had ended her.’
‘Yes.’
‘But nobody else saw her body.’
‘I saw her body,’ said Shin.
Danny looked at An, waiting for him to reach the obvious conclusion: that Shin was lying. That Shin had betrayed them.
But An said nothing.
Shin said, ‘Why are you asking me these questions? Have you forgotten who is in charge?’
Nobody had forgotten who was in charge.
The heat in the van increased as sunlight took hold. In here for hours now, for days, and their old lives as lost as a snake’s sloughed skin. It was true, though, that they were no longer working in darkness; somewhere there would be doors being knocked upon, computer records shuffled, names and descriptions gathered in. But they only had one more thing to do, and all that mattered was that they do it.
Because they were soldiers. As a student in this strange world, Danny had been amazed at the words and antics of those who imagined their lives their own to do with what they would, never realising that everything they thought they desired had been imposed on them by forces greater than themselves. It was only in accepting those forces that true freedom could be found. Example: when he learned that the Supreme Leader had had his own uncle executed with an anti-aircraft gun, Danny understood that such a thing had been necessary to punish dissent. When he further learned that this story had been concocted by the Western media, Danny understood that the Supreme Leader was a gentle soul, vilified by his enemies. In neither of those different worlds was his faith in the Supreme Leader shaken.
As if he were reading Danny’s mind, An spoke. ‘It does not matter,’ he said. ‘They are expecting us, they are not. It makes no difference. We will fulfil this destiny.’
Then he reached up for the transistor radio that hung by a strap from a hook; a small, cheap, apparently indestructible device, that didn’t mind being slapped against the panel every time they took a corner or hit a bump. When he turned the knob, a news broadcast chirruped into life. The subject under discussion was the service that afternoon at Westminster Abbey, where there would be princes and politicians, the PM among them, and all of it taking place under the eyes of the world’s cameras.
Shin said, ‘I am not afraid. I am simply saying we should be careful. That is all.’
Danny said nothing. Shin had let the girl go free. Shin had endangered all of them. He was a traitor and a coward, and this should not go unpunished. And he tried to communicate all this to An, but An’s eyes were closed, and the look Danny gave passed harmlessly by him.
And on they drove through the lengthening day.
14
TO STEP OUT INTO morning air – to leave the dentist’s surgery, or a job interview – to find one’s feet on firm pavement again, with the day stretching out bared and steady as a racetrack – is to know oneself alive, thought Zafar Jaffrey. He emerged from the warren of alleyways to catch a glimpse of St Paul’s, a moment of purity he felt to his toes. In his jacket pocket nestled the package he’d just collected. Everything might still be worth it. Even the mess Tyson had stepped into, the death of Dennis Gimball – there was no law that said things couldn’t work out right.
Dancer Blaine, as Tyson had said, was a funny-looking fellow, with grey-streaked hair folded into a rope, and squirrelly brown eyes behind thick round glasses. Even during their short conversation, he’d allowed Jaffrey to understand that his nickname was honestly earned; that he was nimble as a flea. Jaffrey had nodded politely. Oddly, he had no trouble picturing this creature floating an inch or two above a dance floor; no difficulty imagining him executing balletic movements. What he couldn’t see was the woman who would partner him. Beneath his dirty rope of hair, his pocked and greasy skin, lurked an odour of rot. Blaine smelled the way Jaffrey’s toenails did, if left too long between clippings.
But this didn’t matter. Dancer Blaine was a crook, an underworld fixer, and he had done what fixers do and fixed Jaffrey’s problem. So despite the pitch he’d had to breathe – because of the pitch – Jaffrey was now light and free, and believed in possibility again. He was tethered to the earth by habit, nothing more. He was suddenly ravenous. He was deeply relieved.
There was a coffee shop with tables outside, despite the narrow pavement. He sat and ordered coffee and two croissants, and stretched his legs as far as they would go. The weight in his pocket was that of his own heart. He rang his mother and spoke to her of nothing much; listened to her talking until the coffee arrived, and then told her he had to go, that he had a meeting. He was starving; he was empty. He didn’t so much eat as inhale the first of his pastries, and ordered a refill of coffee before he’d finished the cup.
He closed his eyes. Dancer Blaine saying, A pleasure doing business with you. He hadn’t been able to reply. The pleasure lay in it being over.
A shadow fell.
Zafar Jaffrey did not open his eyes. Until he did so it could be ignored, this new reality. It was the waitress, to refill his cup; it was the manager, eager to know all was satisfactory. As long as he kept his eyes shut, this could easily be the truth: everything was satisfactory, everything shone.
‘Mr Jaffrey?’
This happened too. He was recognised; his was a known face. Even here, in large London, where different rules applied.
‘Mr Zafar Jaffrey?’
‘I’m resting,’ he said.
‘My name’s Claude Whelan,’ the shadow said, and Zafar knew that soon he’d have to pretend to wake up.
‘Emma Flyte.’
‘Ma’am.’
‘You look rough. Bad night?’
‘I’ve had better.’
She’d have worse.
The pair had met in the lift lobby: Flyte having just arrived back at the Park; Diana Taverner taking a break from the hub. Flyte did seem tired, it was true. Taverner herself had been awake for more hours than she could remember, and could have given Flyte a decade and still come out ahead. But there was something within her that thrived on emergency, and she was glowing at the core. That said, she wasn’t deluded enough to think she outshone Flyte, for whom looking rough was on a par with Trump looking presidentiaclass="underline" all the wishful thinking in the world wasn’t going to make it happen. But Taverner was Second Desk, and outranked any mirror in the building. And Flyte wasn’t likely to take it to HR.
‘Well, you’ve certainly been busy.’
‘I’m sure we all have.’
‘Though in your case, it’s kept you from following instructions. You were supposed to be at Slough House.’
‘Yes.’
‘Which was supposed to be in lockdown. Any special reason that didn’t happen?’
‘Things got out of hand,’ said Flyte.
‘That happens when Jackson Lamb’s involved,’ Taverner conceded. ‘Which is why I put you on it. Aren’t you the expert on crowd control?’
‘He’s not so much a crowd, though, is he? More a road traffic accident.’
‘Nice. Doesn’t explain why you came back here and interrogated Roderick Ho, though.’
‘It seemed important to find out what he knows.’
‘What he knows is, he passed a classified document to his girlfriend. He’s going down for a long time.’