“I assume these were fairly quiet terror jobs,” Lamb said. “On account of I don’t remember hearing about them.”
“They were dry runs. Unarmed, though fully functional, bombs left in strategic places. Water sources ‘poisoned’ with harmless but visible pollutants. Food distribution outlets, travel networks, energy suppliers, hotels—all compromised in specific, targeted operations.”
“He was playing games.”
“He claims that after each operation, security was tightened not only at the target site but throughout the city, and even nationally. Loopholes were plugged. Weak links dispensed with.”
“Did it not occur to him to write the odd letter?”
Whelan said, “We both know that wouldn’t have had the slightest effect.”
“You sound like you approve of what he’s been up to.”
“Each operation he undertook, he attempted to duplicate within the year. In all but one case, he was unable to do so.”
“Well, rah-de-fucking rah for him.”
“His point, he says, is we’re sleepwalking into catastrophe. If IS, or whoever comes next, gets serious—his words—they could level whole towns with little more effort and coordination than it’s taken them so far to become the global bogeyman. Paris is attacked and the whole world trembles, but how many people died? One hundred and thirty? Harkness estimates the theoretical bodycount his team have racked up to be into the thousands, and he counts those as lives saved. Because they couldn’t happen again.”
“Until Westacres put a dent in his average.”
Whelan looked up at the ceiling again. “As you say.”
Lamb put his glass down for the first time since Whelan had entered his office. From his pocket he produced a grey rag which turned out to be a handkerchief. He blew his nose, examined the results, raised his eyebrows, and tucked the handkerchief back out of sight. Then reached for his glass again. “Let me guess. One of his mentally recalibrated robots blew its wiring.”
“That’s the risk he was always running,” said Whelan. “But it didn’t seem to have occurred to him. He thought he’d raised a troupe of perfect soldiers. They had firearm skills, explosives skills, they knew how to live under the radar. But the whole point of the Cuckoo program was, the subjects have to believe they’re who they’ve been trained to be. He wanted terrorists, and that’s what he got. At least in one instance. He was called Yves, by the way. If it matters.”
“And not Robert Winters,” said Lamb.
“No. Well. False IDs were part of the process.”
“Pretty professional ones too, I imagine.” Lamb produced a cigarette from somewhere and plugged it into the side of his mouth. “That would have been part of the set-up package, wouldn’t it? Along with the explosives he used for his suicide overcoat. I mean, I can’t imagine him waltzing through the tunnel with that little lot in his hand luggage. That would really be putting the lax into relaxed.”
“No,” said Whelan after a pause. “They were already here. Frank had a cache from a raid on an armoury back in the early nineties. It was thought at the time to be an IRA operation, but . . . ”
“But it was Frank acting on information received. And we all know where the information came from.” Lamb lit his cigarette, and was momentarily wreathed in blue fumes. When it cleared, his eyes seemed yellow. “The same place as the funds used to set up Les Arbres in the first place.”
“You’ll understand we’re not particularly anxious to have that feature in the report,” Whelan said.
“Oh, I can see it might not play well down the corridor,” Lamb said. “I mean, we’re supposed to be protecting the citizenry. Not providing the wherewithal for lunatics to massacre it.” He breathed smoke. “So one of his mini-mes blows a gasket and performs a wet run instead of a dry one. Which is why Frank has to scorch the earth. David Cartwright being top of his list.”
“We’re still not clear on Sam Chapman’s role,” Whelan said.
“He carried Cartwright’s bags back in the day. Including to Les Arbres.”
“Ah.” He waved a hand to dispel Lamb’s smoke. “That’s one of the areas Harkness wasn’t so forthcoming about.”
“Alongside how he got Cartwright on board by putting his daughter up the duff? There’s an angle they don’t teach you at spook school. But shall I tell you what’s more interesting right now?” Lamb inhaled deeply, and when he spoke his voice was pinched. “Your use of the past tense. Wasn’t so forthcoming. Had an accident, has he?”
“Not . . . exactly.”
Lamb stared, and it seemed to Whelan his yellow eyes became tinged with red. “You’re not fucking telling me you’ve let him go.”
“As we’ve established,” said Whelan, “the full story is not one we want becoming public knowledge. And he still has comrades out there, don’t forget. If we . . . wrap a black ribbon round his file—”
“Or put a bullet in his head.”
“—we can be sure it’ll come back to haunt us.”
“And having him alive means it won’t?”
“We do what we can,” Whelan said. “But we’re at the mercy of events. This is one huge mess we’re dealing with. It’s not possible to clean it up. The best we can hope for is to . . . minimise the repercussions.”
“So he creates fucking havoc trying to keep his story secret, and we end up doing his job for him? He’ll be wanting a sponsorship deal next time. Where is he now?”
“He slipped the leash about ten minutes after hitting the street.”
“There’s absolutely no part of this in which we come out looking good, is there?”
“Not really, no.”
“Plus ça bloody change. I swear to God I’d defect, if there was anywhere worth defecting to these days.” He emptied his glass.
Whelan took another sip from his own, then set it down, still mostly full, on Lamb’s desk. “Other business,” he said. “I’ve set the wheels in motion for Longridge’s death-in-service payment. Five years of salary, tax free. It should come through by the end of the week. Beginning of next at the latest. You might want to let his wife know.”
“Five years,” said Lamb.
“Standard terms.”
“Except Longridge was operational.”
“He was what?”
“What I just said. Operational. As in, on an op.”
Whelan said, “As I understand it, Slough House is deskbound.”
“But I have managerial discretion. Says so somewhere, I can’t be arsed to find the paperwork. Anyway, I sent Longridge and Guy out on the streets yesterday afternoon, and until such time as I sign off on his field report, his status remains operational. Doesn’t look like he’s going to be doing any typing anytime soon. Therefore . . . ”
“Seriously?”
“He qualifies for the active agent increment. Ten years, not five. Or his family does. Money won’t work where he’s gone.”
Whelan shook his head. “That’ll never get through Legal. I barely accept it as English myself.”
“Doesn’t matter. It’s not going through Legal. Sign off on it in the morning, and pass it on to Finance. Lady Di’s still letting you sign things, right?”
“Lamb, I have every sympathy. You lost an agent. But the active increment only applies to joes in the field, and with the best will in the world—”
“See, the thing is, shut the fuck up. Let me explain why. Moira Tregorian—remember her? She’s the superannuated dinnerlady you sent over here, day one of your reign—she spent a lot of time with old man Cartwright yesterday, and gave me what I assure you was a very thorough debriefing. I’ve got pissed in less time than it takes her to finish a sentence. Anyway, one of the details she shared was his recitation of the names of the knights of the round table, which he launched himself upon on account of having lost his marbles, and this got her worrying about where she’d heard the name Galahad lately.” Lamb leaned back. “Ever heard Moira Tregorian trying to remember where she first heard something? It’s like, you can fuck off and read Lord of the Rings, and when you come back she’s still talking. Anyway. Long and short of it is, she still can’t remember. But I’ve got a fair idea. Want me to go on?”