‘Given their track record, I rather doubt they will. But you still haven’t explained why you’re coming to me with this.’
‘Because we both know the tide’s turning. The decent people in this country are sick to death of being held hostage by mad liberals in Brussels, and the sooner we take control over our own future, our own borders—’
‘Are you seriously lecturing me?’
‘It’ll happen, and within the lifetime of your government. We both know that. Not this Parliament, but probably the next. By which time we both know where you expect to be living, and it won’t be Islington, will it?’ Hobden had grown alive again. Eyes bright. Breathing normal. ‘It’ll be Downing Street.’
‘Yes. Well.’ The effing and blinding PJ of ten minutes ago—the PJ who’d slapped Hobden—left the room; in his place was the bumbly figure familiar from countless broadcasts and not a few YouTube moments. ‘Obviously, if called upon to serve, I’ll leave my plough.’
‘And you’ll want to take your party further right, but what if that ground’s already staked out? And what if one of the occupying groups is mostly famous for attempting a prime-time execution?’
‘Now you’re being ridiculous. Not even the muckiest rakers of your former profession are going to equate Her Majesty’s Government with—’
‘Well, they might if they learn of your connection with one of those groups.’
And now they’d come to the meat of the matter.
Hobden said, ‘Don’t imagine that the reason I never mentioned it in print was that I thought it a youthful indiscretion. I just never wanted to hear you deny it in public. You’re PM material. With you at the helm, this country can be great again. And those of us who believe in strong government don’t want to hear you apologizing for the causes you truly espouse.’
PJ placed his glass very carefully on the counter. ‘I’ve never had any truck with extremism,’ he said levelly. Now he was Peter Judd, the people’s pundit: his tone precisely the one he used on TV when he was about to put someone right while indicating that few people had ever been wronger. ‘As it happens, I did write a report on the activities of some fringe right groups in the early nineties, in the course of researching which I attended one or two meetings.’ He leant closer, so Hobden could feel his breath.
‘And do you really think you have any credibility?’ His voice was velvet. ‘You’ll think the car crash your life has become is a fucking feather bed. Compared to what’ll happen next.’
‘I don’t want to cause a scandal. That’s the last thing I want. But if I did—’
Slowly, carefully, Hobden drained his own glass.
‘But if I did, I don’t need credibility. I have something far more useful.’
He set his empty glass next to PJ’s.
‘I have a photograph.’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake. How could this get worse?’
Taverner said, ‘It’s not simply about improving Five’s reputation. There’s a war on, Jackson. Even from Slough House you must have noticed. And we need all the allies we can get.’
‘Who is he?’
‘It’s not who he is, it’s who his uncle is.’
‘Oh, Christ,’ Lamb said. ‘Don’t tell me.’
‘His mother’s brother is Mahmud Gul.’
‘Jesus wept.’
‘General Mahmud Gul. Currently Second Desk at Pakistan’s Directorate for Inter-Services Intelligence.’
‘Yes. Thank you. I know who he is. Jesus Christ.’
‘Think of it as bringing communities together,’ Taverner said. ‘When we rescue Hassan, we make a friend. You think we can’t use one? In Pakistan’s secret service?’
‘And have you given the flipside any thought? If this goes wrong, and Christ knows it’s not gone right yet, you’ve assassinated his nephew.’
‘It’s not going to go wrong.’
‘Your faith would be touching if your stupidity didn’t make me retch. Pull the plug. Now.’
Another strain of laughter wafted over the canal, but sounded less than genuine; driven by alcohol rather than wit.
She said, ‘Okay, suppose we do that. Finish it. Tonight.’ Her eyes momentarily focused on something beyond Lamb’s shoulder, then returned to his face. ‘A day early. Doesn’t mean it can’t still work.’
‘When I hear anyone say that,’ Lamb began, but she spoke over him.
‘In fact, it’ll work better. Not a last-minute rescue. We get to the kid twenty-four hours before he’s due for the chop, and why’s that? Because we’re good. Because we know what we’re doing. Because you know what you’re doing.’
Lamb appeared to choke. ‘You’re out of your mind,’ he said, once he could talk.
‘It works. Why wouldn’t it?’
‘Well, for a start, there’s no papertrail. No investigation. How’m I supposed to have found him, divine inspiration? He was taken in bloody Leeds.’
‘They brought him here. They’re not far away.’
‘They’re in London?’
‘They’re not far away,’ she repeated. ‘As for the papertrail, we’ll work up a legend. Hell, we’re halfway there already. Hobden’s our point of entry. It was your team burned him, took his files.’
‘Which were a pile of cack,’ he reminded her.
‘Not necessarily. Not once we’ve decided what they really say.’
Enough light fell on Taverner’s face for Lamb to see she meant every word. She was probably mad. It wouldn’t be the first time the job had done that, and being a woman couldn’t help. If she was thinking straight, she’d have noticed the flaw in her reasoning, which was that he, Jackson Lamb, couldn’t give a flying fart for whatever she was offering.
Or maybe she had. ‘Think a minute. About what it could mean.’
‘I’m thinking there’s a body on my staircase.’
‘He fell on the stairs. An empty bottle’s the only prop you’ll need.’ Her whispers were urgent now; they were talking of death, of other people’s death. They were also talking of career-ending moments, and maybe of something else. ‘Redemption.’
‘Excuse the fuck out of me?’
‘Rehabilitation.’
‘I don’t need rehab. I’m happy where I am.’
‘Then you’re the only one. Christ, Jed Moody would have given his left bollock to be let back inside.’
‘And look where that got him.’
‘So he proved he was a slow horse. Are the others as bad?’
Lamb pretended to think about it. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Probably.’
‘It doesn’t have to be that way. Do this, and you get to be a hero. Again. So do the boys and girls. Just think, the slow horses back among the thoroughbreds. You don’t want to give them that chance?’
‘Not especially.’
‘Okay, so what about the downside? Was Moody really on his lonesome when he broke his neck?’ She put her head on one side. ‘Or did he have company?’
Lamb showed his teeth. ‘We’ve covered this. Call in the Dogs. When they’ve finished tearing you apart, they’ll maybe have strength to pick at the rest of us.’ He yawned a cavernous yawn he didn’t bother to conceal. ‘I’m not bothered either way.’
‘No matter who gets swatted.’
‘You said it.’
‘What if it’s Standish?’
Lamb shook his head. ‘You’re tossing darts, seeing what you might hit. Standish isn’t involved. She’s at home, asleep. I guarantee it.’
‘I’m not talking about tonight.’ And this time she had the sense that a dart had landed close. She could tell by Lamb’s body language; a relaxation of the muscles around his mouth, a signal designed to indicate absence of care. ‘Catherine Standish? She came this close to a treason charge. You think that went away?’
His eyes were black in the moonlight. ‘That’s not a can of worms you want to open.’