‘Andy used to go there,’ he said. ‘Old Miles has gatherings, or did have. “Conferences,” he called them. Once a month or so. Andy used to go. Some of the old guys there, he used them as sources.’
‘For what?’
‘He was writing a book.’
‘About what?’
‘Putin. He was a journalist, Andy was. He had a lot of material, he’d done a lot of research, especially about Putin’s early days. He knew exactly the kind of man Putin is, what he’s capable of. And Chester Smith was right, he’ll be after payback if one of those assassins he sent here was killed. But Smith was wrong that it’s something he’s planning. It’s already happening. It’s already started.’
‘What are you talking about, little man?’
‘Putin had Andy murdered,’ said Reece Nesmith III. ‘He had him killed.’ And then – he couldn’t help it – he started to cry.
The taxi taking her home, which she was sharing with Peter Judd – though not as far as he probably hoped – became snarled in a Yellow Vest gathering. Men holding banners had overflowed the pavement, whether by accident or design was hard to say, though if the former, it added a layer of irony to the slogans about taking back control. When the driver sounded his horn, the backlash was immediate: fists were raised and obscenities unleashed. Someone thumped the bonnet, and the driver revved the engine, and the way was cleared, though the muttering from the front seat continued for some while. It might have become more than muttering if Judd hadn’t barked ‘Ladies present!’
‘Preserving me from a fit of the vapours?’ she asked. ‘What a gent.’
‘One of the many tragedies of feminism is that women can no longer suffer gallantry.’
‘I’d be grateful if you’d spare me the others. I’m due in the office at seven.’
Judd nodded in appreciation, then gestured towards the back windscreen. ‘Do you have people among them?’
‘People?’
‘People. Among our assembled brethren back there.’
‘I’m not sure they’re brethren of mine,’ Diana said. ‘Or of each other, come to that. A coalition of the furious is how I’d describe it.’
‘Which sidesteps my question, which is an answer in itself, isn’t it?’ His brow furrowed, a familiar harbinger of weighty opinion. ‘Are we sure that falls under your remit?’
‘You’re asking whether riotous assemblies are a threat to national security? Let me think about that. Yes.’
‘Because you’re falling into the common misapprehension that these folk are enemies of democracy. Whereas in fact they’re champions of the new democracy, that’s all. One that will ultimately see power being handed over to a wider spectrum of stakeholders.’
‘You’ve changed your tune,’ she said. ‘A few years ago, you’d have described them as a rabble. But of course, that was when your own ambition ran along more traditional lines.’
‘Things change,’ he said smoothly. ‘Conditions change. The old way of doing things no longer applies. There are new realities of power evolving in front of our eyes, and they’re part of it. Yellow, you might say, is the new black.’
‘A delicious irony if you happen to be black, I’m sure,’ said Diana. ‘Come to think of it, maybe irony is the new black. There’s no shortage.’ She glanced his way. ‘It used to be you had the hard right on one side, the hard left on the other. Nowadays, they meet round the back. I suppose racists and anti-Semites are always going to find common ground, but I wish they wouldn’t march up and down on it chanting.’
‘They’re disgruntled citizens.’
‘Who vent their disgruntlement in the traditional way, by finding weaker citizens to bully. Please don’t tell me you’re planning on figureheading their movement, Peter. That would leave us seriously at odds.’
‘Which would never do, would it?’ The absence of light in his eyes belied the tone of voice he’d adopted. ‘So let’s not fight. Though there is another possibly contentious topic I’m going to have to raise now.’
‘Damien Cantor.’
‘You never cease to amaze me. Yes, Damien Cantor.’
‘Who didn’t exactly endear himself to me. Or did you not notice that?’
‘I think even he noticed that, and he’s not overburdened with self-awareness. No, opinion is divided as to young Damien. Some think he’s a prick. Others that he’s a cunt. But all agree he’s a figure to be reckoned with. Because he has the ears of the public. Their eyes, too. And doubtless other parts of their anatomy, but for the time being it’s his media clout we should consider. I know you don’t want to look too closely at the books, and why should you – that’s my job – but you should know that he’s a major contributor to the cause, Diana. Major. And as such, it might be an idea to allow him a little access. A backstage pass, as it were.’
‘Is this meant to be funny?’
‘We both knew there’d be a certain amount of flexibility required alongside these new arrangements. This is part of that. You don’t have to like him, you just have to accept that he’s part of the grander scheme of things. And I’m certainly not suggesting you appear on his news show. We can all agree that’s not in our best interests.’
‘I’m so glad to hear you’re looking out for my best interests. Are you hearing yourself speak? I’m First Desk at Regent’s Park, you seriously think I’m going to be best pals with an internet chancer just because he was front of the queue when you were passing the hat? This falls on your side of the line, Peter. I agreed to turn up tonight and shake a few hands and smile a few smiles, but I am not taking part in the swimsuit round. If you want him entertained, waggle your own tail feathers. Are we clear on this?’
Apparently not.
He said, ‘All I’m saying is, show him he’s on the inside looking out. He’s not an actual journalist, he doesn’t care about breaking stories or finding scoops. He cares about being close to the levers of power. Let him think that, and he’ll be first in the queue next time I’m, how did you put it, passing the hat.’
Diana stared, but he wouldn’t meet her gaze; he was looking ahead, over the driver’s shoulder, at the streets unfurling in front of the car, at the gauzy reflections in puddles and windows that turned after-hours London into a kaleidoscope, made fast-food outlets and minicab offices brief flashes of wonder. Innocence became him like a wimple does a stripper.
She said, ‘What have you done?’
‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.’
‘You could use that phrase as your ringtone, but it doesn’t fool me. You’re telling me to loosen up for Damien Cantor because you’re covering your tracks. You’ve already let something out of your bag, haven’t you? What is it?’
‘Diana—’
‘I won’t ask twice.’
He said, ‘In order to establish the right sort of backing for our venture, by which I mean people who believe in what we’re trying to do, people of appropriate character, I have had to … allow a little light to shine here and there. Not on anything that might cause us embarrassment. You have nothing to worry about.’
‘Was there ever a more confidence-sapping expression?’
‘I’ve divulged nothing that could do us harm, Diana. You know me better than that. Just a little … shop gossip.’
‘You’re not in the shop, Peter. You’re not even a customer. You’re just hanging around in aisle three, hoping to nick a chocolate bar.’