‘Exactly what you should have done. Taken them off the board.’
Catherine cleared her throat.
‘Well,’ said Lamb, ‘delegation. It’s the art of good management. So it’s possible Rasnokov’ll call your deal off, but don’t worry about Cantor. That’s in hand.’
‘Are you out of your fucking mind?’
‘Again, a good manager would call it initiative.’
‘Initiative … I’m First Desk, you stupid fat bastard! You answer to me!’
‘I’ll do that when you do your job. Which means not selling out your joes.’
‘Joes? Did you forget what Slough House is? It’s a punishment posting. No, screw that. It’s not even a punishment, it’s what we do when we don’t care any more. It’s where we send those we can’t be bothered to deal with, because that’ll just mess up the system. Your job’s to keep them from seeing daylight again, and that is all. End of story.’
‘Not quite,’ said Lamb. ‘You missed a bit out.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘It’s a department of the Security Service. Whose team, like it or not, work for you. Past or present. And when they die, that’s on your watch.’
‘Jackson—’
‘And mine.’
Catherine was clutching Lamb’s phone so tightly, it hurt her hand.
Diana opened her mouth to continue. Closed it again.
Lamb said, ‘You wanted Cantor’s wheels removed. Consider it done. And now you don’t have to deal with Rasnokov, either. Just tell him the next wet team he sends’ll come home the same way. Because you don’t build bridges over the corpses of your own crew.’
For a while, nobody spoke. The only sound was Lamb clicking his lighter again. But he didn’t have a cigarette to hand; he was simply making flames.
At last Diana said, ‘You plan to kill him too? Cantor?’
‘No,’ said Catherine.
‘Buzzkill,’ said Lamb.
‘We’re not going to kill him,’ said Catherine.
‘But he won’t come sniffing round the Park again,’ said Lamb. ‘You can take that as read.’
‘You’d better be right.’ Diana’s voice was taut as a cheese wire. ‘Now give me the keys to this place. And get back where you belong.’
‘Sure. And I’ll be taking my team with me.’
‘Now.’
‘Including Wicinski and Dander.’
‘Just give me the fucking keys.’
Lamb tossed her the fucking keys.
‘And close the fucking door on your way out.’
‘Forgive her bad manners,’ said Lamb, once they were on the street. ‘She still has those pirates to worry about.’
‘That little outburst, bad manners? She should take professional advice.’
Lamb had found a cigarette, but his lighter had disappeared again. He patted his pockets and said, ‘What does Sid being back in the picture have to do with it?’
‘I’d explain, Jackson,’ Catherine said, raising her arm for a taxi. ‘But I genuinely think I’d be wasting my time.’
The second conversation had worried him more than the first.
‘I’m calling from Regent’s Park, Mr Cantor. I presume you’re aware of the significance of that locale?’
‘The significance of … Yes. Yes, I’m aware.’
‘Good. Ms Taverner would like to see you here this morning.’
‘… This morning?’
‘Immediately. And in case you have difficulty finding us, there’s a team on its way to escort you.’
‘I—’
‘Oh, and Mr Cantor? Bring your passport.’
And the woman had disconnected.
(‘Passport?’ Lech had said.
Louisa said, ‘That’ll freak him, don’t you think?’
‘It would me,’ Lech admitted.)
Cantor was back in his apartment, having left the studio in a hurry. Call Peter Judd was his first thought. Judd was an ally – except he was Taverner’s ally too, or rather, he was an ally of whoever seemed most useful at any given moment, and as likely to offer succour to those in need as a poisonous snake. So no, don’t call Peter Judd. Pack a bag and think things through.
The marital home was a no-go; the first place they’d come looking.
Staying put was out of the question.
A hotel? But this was London, a city with more cameras than pigeons, and the Service had access to any CCTV system they chose. Showing his face in a hotel lobby would be as discreet as popping up on The X Factor. Leaving town was a better bet, but he couldn’t use his car …
He called upstairs. ‘I need a car, nothing fancy. On your own card, not the company’s. And I need it downstairs three minutes ago.’
‘Damien? Is there something going on I should know about?’
‘What you should know is, I need a car three minutes ago.’
He packed a two-day bag. How long could this take to sort out? Taverner was throwing a scare, that was all. The dwarf had been part of it – his story about the dead British agents? Hashtag didn’t happen. Taverner was punishing him for having flexed his muscles, that was all. Which meant the Russian voice, I’m calling to let you know how much shit you’re in, that was fake too, and Cantor was being made to jump at shadows.
What he jumped at next was his phone, again.
‘Damien? Your car’s on its way.’
‘When?’
‘It will be there before you’re downstairs. Damien, are you sure everything’s all right? Because you have a meeting scheduled—’
‘Cancel it. And get hold of Tommo. Have him call.’
Was he running? No. This was a strategic withdrawal, no more.
As he took the lift down, he thought of last night’s news footage being played right now, on screens all over London. The capital’s agenda, set by him. Taverner didn’t know what she was getting into.
Ground floor. There were people milling about, queuing for the tourist lift, and he had to push through them to get to Clyde – Claude? – who was holding a set of keys on a BMW fob. It’s round back, sir. Thanks. This taking seconds: he was starting to feel like he worked for the Park himself. He’d grabbed his baseball cap on his way out, and twisted it now so the peak faced backward. Street smarts.
The car was waiting as promised, and winked its lights when he clicked the fob. But before he could reach it a man was up close behind him, breathing into his ear.
‘You don’t want to get in that car.’
It was the voice from the first phone call, guttural, throaty, and its owner had a face to match: like he’d lost a fight with a kitchen blender.
‘Trust me. I’m on your side.’
Across the road a woman stepped out of the shadows and started towards them.
There was a traffic jam, because there were always traffic jams, because this was London. Perhaps there were cities whose streets flowed freely, but they’d belong to the world’s more repressive regimes, where state control extended to the driving seat, and you’d need permission to venture onto the roads. So the price you paid for freedom of movement was sometimes lack of movement; an aphorism she might find a use for one day, but meanwhile: screw this. Diana Taverner abandoned the cab and walked the rest of the way. She could use the thinking space.
She’d been ready to melt glass when she left the mews house, but there was no sense picking over what should have been. And there was always an upside, if you knew which angle to take. What Lamb did best was sit in his office, drinking himself into a waiting grave, but what he did second best, when he could be bothered, was cut his enemies off at the knees. In this instance that was only incidentally Diana herself, was principally Damien Cantor, so if nothing else Lamb’s meddling had saved her the effort. Because one way or the other, Cantor was a blown fuse, and whether that was because she had Rasnokov’s evidence of his wrongdoing, or because he’d had the fear of Lamb thrown into him, made no difference in the long run.