‘Jackson Lamb,’ Smith murmured aloud, for no obvious reason. Then went to find someone new to talk to.
Judd sat next to Diana, satisfaction oozing from every pore, and she put a hand on his elbow. ‘I’m not too proud to admit it,’ she said. ‘I nearly got an erection there.’
‘Me too.’
‘And thank you for those kind words.’
‘Every syllable deserved.’
She was unused to praise from Peter Judd. Achievement, in other people, was not something he admired: it was like watching somebody walk around in shoes he’d planned to buy. On the other hand, he’d been running a PR company since leaving the political limelight. Perhaps he’d learned something, if only which lies to tell.
‘And it achieved the required response,’ he went on. ‘Rage and fury from the Kremlin, I gather. He’ll do such things, he knows not what they are, or something like that. King Lear, yes?’
‘Quite possibly.’
‘Did it for A level. You think he’ll start a war?’
‘If I’d thought that,’ Diana said, ‘I’d not have green-lit the operation.’
‘Oh, come on. What’s life without a little risk?’
‘Longer?’
‘You never disappoint me, Diana.’
She said, ‘He won’t start a war. Because he broke the rules. Sanctioning a hit on a swapped spy, that’s not done. He should have known that.’
‘And now you’ve carried out a hit on the hitter we’re all square, or should be. But as you’ve already pointed out, he’s not playing by the rules.’
‘You’re aware that it wasn’t actually an agent who consigned the target to, as you put it, the dunghill?’
‘Heap,’ said Judd. Then: ‘No, I’d rather assumed you acquired the services of a soldier of fortune of some sort.’
She nodded.
‘But we’re here to inspire national pride, and if that means blurring the odd detail, so be it.’ He reached for his glass. ‘Besides, the underlying point remains. The good chaps here, they provided the wherewithal. Whether to a salaried operative or a freelance journeyman hardly matters. Our political overlords, so-called, fell at every available hurdle, but these good men and true stepped up. National pride was at stake. They heard the call, and opened their chequebooks.’
‘Now that’s a stirring image.’
‘Behave. You took their money. Don’t look down your nose.’
In other company she might have tried to look contrite, but Judd had as little time for social pieties as she did.
‘And you have to admit, it’s working nicely so far.’
It was. Or seemed to be.
It had been the tail end of winter when Judd had approached her with, as he’d termed it, an opportunity. These had felt few and far between at the time. An agent had died, in the snow, in Wales; one of Jackson Lamb’s crew – a slow horse – but it all went down on the books. A recently departed Park operative had been killed in the same debacle. The way it spun, no blame was laid at Diana’s door, but an odour had lingered; worse, this had happened shortly after her application for a root-and-branch overhaul of operational practices – effectively a plea for a major increase in spend – had been rejected. And that had been before the budgetary fallout from You-Know-What kicked in. The last full-scale retreat from Europe, by way of amateur armada, had seen defeat dressed up as victory; this latest version, a supposed triumph, might as well have been made on the Titanic. No wonder Peter Judd’s siren song had fallen sweetly on her ears.
Suppose the Service were able to achieve, let’s call it a self-sufficient status … What if she had the resources to operate as required, in situations of critical need, without requiring government approval?
We’re not talking about privatisation. Simply an injection of necessary funds from sources with a vested interest in national security …
Funds well spent, though for now the dossier on the Kazan operation remained a miracle of invisible expenses. This was an easier ask than the more familiar inverse. Those holding the purse strings were happy not to wonder, for example, at how cheaply extra-territorial surveillance had been undertaken. And it turned out that the actual cost of having someone whacked remained one of those subjects too embarrassing to discuss in public, so that wasn’t subjected to intense scrutiny either.
Judd became embroiled in something humorous to his right. Meanwhile, the man to Diana’s left required her attention.
‘What you said afterwards,’ he said. ‘Smiert spionam. It made me laugh.’
‘How did you come to hear about that?’
‘Oh, come on. You said it to spark a legend. You knew it would get around.’
She had a long-standing aversion to being told what she knew, though it had been a long while since anyone had dared. And this particular man – Damien Cantor – had probably still been in school then. He was mid-thirties now, treading that line between being a noise in the business world and still hip to the streets: three-day stubble and trainers. When they went on about sixty being the new forty, they forgot to add that that made thirty-something the new twelve.
‘So anyway,’ he went on. ‘You must be pleased with the way things are going.’
‘Must I?’
‘All those years of being tethered to the rule book.’ He was dismantling a bread roll as he spoke, though the meal was effectively over. ‘And now you’re a free agent. More or less.’
‘I have no plans to tear up any rule books, Mr Cantor.’
‘Please – Damien.’ He reached for a napkin. ‘I’m happy to have been of assistance. And we’re all looking forward to the next adventure.’
‘And I’m grateful for the backing. But the next adventure, as you put it, will more than likely consist of improved administrative processes. It’s astonishing how expensive a firewall upgrade can be.’
‘I’m sure. But I think we’d all prefer something a little more technicolour. I mean, after a start like this, it would be a shame to go lo-fi, wouldn’t it?’
Diana stared, causing him no great discomfiture. He was easily the youngest of the assembled company; one of the new-breed media magicians, who’d started as a YouTube impresario and now owned a rolling news channel, mostly fed by citizen input. ‘Make it, don’t fake it’ was Channel Go’s mission statement, unless it was its mantra, or its logo. But its general thrust was to encourage choleric rage in its viewers, so, if nothing else, Cantor had tapped into the spirit of the times.
Judd had returned his attention her way.
‘Mr Cantor was just providing me with consumer feedback,’ she told him. ‘Apparently I’m to work my way up to a series finale.’
‘Damien has a well-polished sense of humour. Nobody here is steering your aim, Diana. We’re all very much behind the scenes.’
‘Of course,’ Cantor agreed. ‘Pay no attention to me.’
Plates were being cleared, and people starting to mill about. A group broke away, heading for the smoking area outside: ‘Won’t have to put up with this nonsense much longer,’ one could be heard saying.
‘In fact,’ Cantor continued, ‘I was hoping for very much the opposite. That we all pay more attention to you.’
‘Now now,’ Judd said.
‘Oh come on, Peter. It’s the obvious next move.’ He met Diana’s gaze. ‘Channel Go have a seven o’clock bulletin. It would be a tremendous coup for us if you were to appear. A quick rundown of, ah, recent developments. No need to go into operational details. Keep it as cloak-and-dagger as you like. But a general statement to the effect that our national pride has been reasserted, that the lion has roared – well. You hardly need me to write your script.’