Like any Joe, he had his favourite spots. Like any Joe, he mostly avoided them; made his visits irregular, aborting them if there were too many people around, or too few. But like any Joe he needed a space in which he could think, which meant somewhere no one expected him to be. This stretch of canal fit the bill. It was overlooked by the backs of tall houses, and there were usually cyclists around, or joggers; at lunchtimes, shop and office workers wandered down and ate sandwiches. Sometimes narrowboats toiled past, heading into the long tunnel under Islington, where no towpath followed. It was so obviously a place where a spook might sit and think spook thoughts that nobody who knew the first thing about spooks would imagine any spook stupid enough to use it.
So Lamb had called Lady Di from there, and issued his invitation and then he’d sat as the afternoon faded, looking like an office worker who’d just been made redundant, possibly for hygiene reasons. He’d chain-smoked seven cigarettes thinking through Shirley Dander’s report of her trip into the Cotswolds, and as he’d lit the eighth a shudder wracked him top to toe, and he coughed like the Russian had coughed. He had to throw the still king-size fag into the canal while he concentrated on holding his body together, and by the time the fit left him, he felt he’d run a mile. Clammy sweat wrapped him, and his eyes were blurry. Somebody really ought to do something about this, he thought, before leaving the bench, so Lady Di could arrive there first.
And now she ignored his approach, barely acknowledging him as he sat. Her hair was longer than last time he’d seen her, and curled more, though that might have been art. She wore a
dark raincoat which matched her tights, and when she spoke at last she said: “If this bench marks my coat, I’m sending you the cleaning bill.”
“You can get coats cleaned?”
“Coats cleaned, teeth fixed, hair washed. I appreciate this is news to you.”
“I’ve been busy lately. It’s possible I’ve let myself go.”
“A bit.” She turned to face him. “What did you want with Nikolai Katinsky?”
“I’m not the only one’s been busy, then.”
“When you go harassing former customers, they have a habit of pulling the communication cord. And I can do without the complication right now.”
“On account of your domestic difficulties.”
“On account of mind your own fucking business. What did you want with him?”
“What did he tell you?”
Diana Taverner said, “Some story about his debriefing. That you wanted him to go over what he’d told the Dentists.”
Lamb grunted.
“What were you really after?”
Lamb said, “I wanted him to go over what he’d told the Dentists.”
“You couldn’t just watch the video?”
“Never the same, is it?” His coughing fit had entered that comfortable mental zone where it might have happened to somebody else, so he lit another cigarette. As an afterthought, he waved the packet vaguely in Taverner’s direction, but she shook her head. “And there was always the chance he’d remember it differently.”
“What are you up to, Jackson?”
He was all innocence and airy gesture: Him? He didn’t even have to speak. Just wave his cigarette about a bit.
“Katinsky’s strictly from the shallow end,” Taverner said. “A
cipher clerk, with no information we didn’t already have from other, better informed sources. We only hung onto him in case we needed swaps. Are you seriously telling me you’re developing an interest?”
“You’ve looked him up, then.”
“I get word you’ve been rousting nobodies from the Dark Ages, of course I looked him up. This is because he mentioned Alexander Popov, isn’t it? Jesus, Jackson, are you so bored you’re digging up myths? Whatever operation Moscow was thinking of running way back when, it’s as relevant now as a cassette tape. We won that war, and we’re too busy losing the next one to have a rematch. Go back to Slough House, and give thanks you’re not in the firing line any more.”
“Like you, you mean?”
“You think it’s easy, Second Desk? Okay, it might not be life behind the Wall. But try doing my job with both hands tied, and you’ll find out what stress feels like, I guarantee it.”
She stared at him, underlining how serious she was, but he held it easily enough, and wasn’t bothered about letting her see the smile itching onto his lips. Lamb had done both field and desk, and he knew which had you gasping awake at the slightest noise in the dark. But he’d yet to meet a suit who didn’t think themselves a samurai.
Taverner looked away. A pair of joggers panting down the opposite towpath broke apart for a woman pushing a pram. Only once the pair had jogged on, and the pram was approaching the incline up to the bridge, did she continue. “Tearney’s on the warpath,” she said.
Lamb said, “Being on the warpath’s Tearney’s job description. If she wasn’t rattling a sabre, them down the corridor would think she wasn’t up to it.”
“Maybe she isn’t.”
Lamb ran five fat fingers through hair that needed a rinse. “I
hope you’re not about to wax political. Because, and I can’t stress this enough, I don’t give a flying fuck who’s stabbing who in the back at the Park.”
But Taverner was venting, and not about to interrupt herself. “Leonard Bradley wasn’t just her rabbi, he was also her Westminster mole. Now she doesn’t have any allies down the corridor, as you put it, and you know how jumpy she gets. So she doesn’t want any boats rocked or any strings plucked. In fact, she doesn’t want anything happening at all, good or bad. Bring her the next Bin Laden’s head on a plate, she’d be worried where the plate came from, in case someone claimed it on expenses.”
“She’s gunna love this, then.”
“Love what?”
“I’m planning an op.”
Taverner waited for the punchline.
“Is that you being quietly impressed?”
“No, this is me not believing my ears. Were you listening to a word I said?”
“Not really. I was just waiting for you to finish.” He flicked his cigarette end into the water, and a duck changed course to investigate it. “Popov was a myth, Katinsky’s a nobody, and Dickie Bow was a part-time spook long ago. But now he’s a full-time corpse, and on the phone he was carrying when he died, there’s an unsent text message. One word. Cicadas. The same word Katinsky heard in relation to a plot dreamt up by the non-existent Alexander Popov. Tell me that’s not worth checking out.”
“A dying message? Are you serious?”
“Oh yes.”
Taverner shook her head. “You know, out of your whole crew, I really didn’t think you’d crack up first.”
“Keeps you on your toes, doesn’t it?”
“Lamb, there’s no way Tearney’s going to stand for Slough
House going live. Not with the Park in economic lockdown. And not any other time either.”
“Good job I’ve got you then, isn’t it?” Lamb said. “What with your inability to refuse me anything.”
Slough House
on an April afternoon: the promise of spring on the streets occasionally broken by the farting of traffic, but still, it was there. Min could glimpse it in the sunlight glinting off the Barbican Towers’ windows, and hear it in the occasional burst of song, for the students from the nearby drama school were invulnerable to embarrassment, and would happily perform while walking to the tube.
All aches and pains from the cycle-dash, he felt good anyway. A couple of years stuck behind a do-nothing desk, but he could turn it on when he needed to. He’d proved that this morning.
For the moment, though, he was back at that do-nothing desk, completing a do-nothing task: cataloguing parking tickets issued near likely terrorist targets, in case a suicide bomber’s research included checking out the facilities first, by car, without bothering to top up the meter. Min was nearly through February without a single plate coming up twice, while Louisa, immersed in an equally tedious task, hadn’t spoken for a while.
Thumb-twiddling time.
There was a theory, of course, that they were given these jobs for a reason, and the reason was that they’d grow so mind-achingly bored they’d quit, saving the Service the hassle of bringing their employment to an end, with its attendant risk of being taken to tribunal. It was a good job, thought Min, that he had a morning’s real work behind him, and the prospect of more to come. A dosshouse off the Edgware Road. Piotr and Kyril holed up there, waiting for their boss to show: it wouldn’t hurt to know more about that pair. Their habits, their hangouts. Something to give Min an edge, if it turned out he needed
an edge. You could never have too much information, unless it was about parking tickets.
It was quiet upstairs. Lamb had disappeared after listening to Shirley Dander’s report on how she’d tracked down Mr. B; or that’s what Min assumed she’d been reporting.
He said, “I wonder what Shirley turned up.”
“Hmm?”
“Shirley. I wonder if she found the bald guy.”
“Oh.”
Not a lot of interest there, then.
A bus trundled past the window, its top deck empty.
“Lamb seemed keen on it, that’s all,” he said. “Like it was personal.”
“Just a whim, knowing him.”
“And I doubt River was happy Shirley got to go out and play.”
He couldn’t help the smile that went with that. He was remembering the speed with which he’d whipped down Old Street. And of River sitting at his desk while this was happening.
Louisa was watching him.
“What?”
She shook her head and returned to her work.
Another bus went past, this one full. How did that happen, exactly?
Min tapped a pencil against his thumbnail. “Maybe she screwed up, do you think? I mean, she didn’t have a lot to go on.”
“Whatever.”
“And she was Comms, wasn’t she? Shirley. You think she has much field-time?”
And now Louisa was looking at him again. Quite hard, in fact. “What’s with the mention-itis?”
“What?”
“You want to know how Shirley got on, go chat her up. Best of luck.”
“I don’t want to chat her up.”
“Not what it sounds like.”
“I’m wondering if she did okay, that’s all. We’re supposed to be on the same team, aren’t we?”
“Yeah, right. Maybe you should give her some pointers. After your morning’s adventure.”
“Maybe I should. It’s not like I did so badly.”
“You could show her the ropes.”
“Yes.”
“Steer her right.”
“Yes.”
“Spank her when she’s naughty.” Louisa said.
“Yes. No!”
“Min? Shut up now, okay?”
He shut up.
There was still the same promise of spring outside, but the atmosphere inside the office had unaccountably reverted to winter.
“It’s a
good job I’ve got you then, isn’t it?” Lamb said. “What with your inability to refuse me anything.”
A crooked yellow smile accompanied this, in case Taverner had forgotten what good friends they were.
“Jackson—”
“I need a workable cover, Diana. I could put one together myself, but it’d take a week or two, and I need it now.”
“So you want to run an op and you want to do it in a hurry? Does any part of that sound like a good idea?”
“I also need an operating fund. Couple of K at least. And I might need to borrow a pair of shoulders. I’m under strength at the House, what with your boy Spider’s recruitment drive.”
“Webb?”
“I prefer Spider. Every time I see him, I want to swat him
with a newspaper.” He gave her a sly glance. “You know about his poaching, right?”
“Webb doesn’t rearrange his desk without my permission. Of course I know.” There was a sudden clatter as the duck launched itself out of the canal and headed downwater. “And there’s no way you’re using anyone from the Park. We’ve got Roger Barrowby counting teaspoons. Trust me, he’ll notice if a warm body goes missing.”
Lamb said nothing. The wheel had turned. Any moment now, Taverner would notice she’d gone from saying the door was shut to negotiating about how far it would open.
“Oh Christ,” she muttered.
There you go.
Silently, he offered his cigarettes again, and this time she took one. When she leant in to be lit he caught a wave of her perfume. Then his lighter flared and it was gone.
Taverner leaned back, past caring about any marks the bench might leave. She closed her eyes to inhale. “Tearney doesn’t like undercover,” she said. He had the feeling she was continuing a conversation she’d had in her head many times. “Given the chance, she’d scrap Ops and double the size of GCHQ. Distance intel-gathering. Just the way Health and Safety likes it.”
“There’d be fewer joes in body bags,” Lamb said.
“There’d be fewer joes full stop. And don’t pretend to defend her. She’d parade your generation before a truth and reconciliation committee. Apologising for every black-ribbon adventure you ever set up, then hugging your oppo for the cameras.”
“Cameras,” Lamb repeated. Then said, “God, you’re not even joking, are you?”
“Know what her latest memo said? That those in line for Third Desk grade should sign up for an in-house PR course. Make sure they’re fully prepared for a ‘customer-facing’ role.”
“ ‘Customer-facing’?”
“ ‘Customer-facing’.”
Lamb shook his head. “I know some people. We could have her whacked.”
She touched his knee briefly. “You’re kind. Let’s make that Plan B.”
After that they sat in silence while she finished her cigarette. Then she ground it beneath her heel and said, “Okay. Enough fun and games. Unless you’re ready to tell me you’re kidding about this?” But a quick glance told her she wasn’t getting off that easy. She checked her watch. “Lay it out.”
Lamb told her what he had in mind.
When he’d finished, she said, “The Cotswolds?”
“I said an op. I didn’t say al Qa’eda.”
“You’re going to do this anyway. Why bother even telling me about it?”
Lamb looked at her solemnly. “I know you think I’m a loose cannon. But even I’m not stupid enough to run an op on home ground without clearing it with the Park.”
“I meant really.”
“Because you’ll find out about it anyway.”
“Damn right I will. You worked out which one of your newbies is reporting back to me yet?”
His expression betrayed nothing.