Bad Actors

The wind, with its hands in its pockets, whistles a tune as it wanders down the road—a jaunty melody, at odds with the surroundings—and the theme is picked up by everything it passes, until all of Aldersgate Street, in the London borough of Finsbury, has joined in. The result tends towards the percussive. A bottle in the gutter rocks back and forth, cha-chink cha-chunk, while a pair of polystyrene cartons, one nestled in the other’s embrace, whisper like a brush on a snare drum way up on the pedestrian bridge. A more strident beat is provided by the tin sign fixed to the nearest lamppost, which warns dogs not to foul the pavement, a message it reinforces with a rhythmic rattle, while in the Barbican flowerbeds—which are largely bricked-in collections of dried-up earth—pebbles rock and stones roll. By the entrance to the tube there’s a parcel of newspapers bound by plastic strips, whose pages gasp and sigh in choral contentment. Dustbins and drainpipes, litter and leaves: the wind’s conviction that everything is its instrument is justified tonight.

And yet halfway down the road it pauses for breath, and the music stops. The wind has reached a black door, wedged between a dirty-windowed newsagent’s, visibly suffering from lack of public interest, and a Chinese restaurant offering the impression that it’s still in lockdown, and plans to remain so. This door, irredeemably grimy from the exhalations of passing traffic, is a sturdy enough construction, the only gap in its armour a long-healed wound of a letterbox, impervious to junk mail and red-lettered bills, but a door is only a door for all that, and the wind has blown down bigger. Perhaps it considers rendering this supposed obstruction into dust and matchsticks, but if so, the moment passes; the wind moves on, and its orchestra goes with it. The shake and rattle and roll starts to fade, the theme toyed with one last time, then dropped. The wind is going places, and this grubby stage isn’t big enough to hold it. It’s heading for the brighter lights; for the stardom that waits, somewhere over the rainbow.

So the black door is left unshaken and unstirred. But just as it never opens, never closes during daylight hours, nor is it about to yield now, and anyone intent on entry must take the stagedoor johnny route, down the adjacent alley, past the overflowing wheelie-bins and the near-solid stench from the drains, through the door that sticks in all seasons, and then, once inside, climb stairs whose carpet has worn thin as an actor’s ego, and whose walls boast mildew stains, and lightbulbs that are naked and/or spent. It’s dark in here, a bumpy kind of dark, with sound effects provided by rising damp and falling plaster, and the offstage antics of vermin. The stairs grow narrower the higher they go, and the paired offices that lurk on each landing are furnished with shabby props, scratched on every surface and torn in all the ways they can tear—nothing capable of being damaged twice has been damaged only once, because history repeats itself, first as tragedy then as farce, and here in Slough House the daily grind is of such unending repetition that the performers can barely tell one from the other. More to the point they’re not sure it matters, for the role of a slow horse, as this troupe are known, is to embrace unfulfilment and boredom; to look back in disappointment, stare round in dismay, and understand that life is not an audition, except for the parts that are, and those are the parts they’ve failed. Because Slough House is the end of the pier, the fleapit to which Regent’s Park consigns failures, and these would-be stars of the British security service are living out the aftermath of their professional errors. Where once they’d dreamed of headline roles in their nation’s secret defences, they’ve instead found themselves in non-speaking parts, carrying spears for Jackson Lamb. And given his oft-stated advice as to where they might put these spears, none of them should anticipate a return to the bright lights any time soon.

Which doesn’t stop them hoping, of course.

The wind’s tune has faded, and Slough House is as quiet as a mouse—it twitches and rustles, scratches and squeaks. Come morning its scattered cast will reassemble, and as in any office, familiar scenarios will play themselves out once more: the passive-aggressive feuding, the mind-crushing boredom, the ill-disguised hostility, the arguments over the fridge. None of this will ever change much. But as in any office most of those involved expect it to, as if some larger drama is about to begin, one that will erase their previous errors—missed cues, mangled lines, early exits—allowing the spotlight to fall on them at last. It’s a reason for turning up, anyway; the possibility that their attendance today will mean they won’t have to be here tomorrow, and that their future, instead of this endless tedium played out against broken furniture, will be one of shining triumph, in which everything comes out right. Even those who no longer believe this act as if they do, because otherwise, what would be the point? It’s a small enough world without accepting that it’ll never get larger. Better to go along with the fantasy that any moment now the curtain will rise and the lights dim.

That any moment now, there’ll be some action.

Louisa Guy rolled her shoulder, swung from the hip, and punched Roddy Ho in the face.

That felt good.

Let’s do it again.

Louisa Guy rolled her shoulder, swung from the hip, and punched Roddy Ho in the face.

This time, Ho’s head went flying backwards into the gloom, landing on the grass with a damp thud, before rolling twice then coming to a stop, eyes down.

Which was satisfying, but also annoying. Once you’d knocked a head clean off, you could never get it to stay on again.

Louisa looked up at the early morning sky, its long clouds seemingly motionless overhead. She was on the back lawn of her apartment block, where one or two lights were coming on, her fellow-dwellers showering, breakfasting, getting ready for the off. Some would save the shower for the gym, get their workouts over before dressing for the day, but Louisa didn’t belong to a gym. Gyms were expensive. Louisa ran instead, though this morning had opted to take Roddy Ho—or his stand-in; a department store dummy she’d boosted from a skip the previous weekend—and give him an education. It was only the second time she’d indulged herself this way, and it was disappointing to think it might be the last, but fair’s fair, there was an argument that Roddy’s stunt double was taking the method approach. She was pretty sure if she punched the actual Roddy Ho repeatedly, his head would go flying from his shoulders before long.

And when you thought about it, it was really Lech Wicinski who ought to be pounding Roddy to dirt this week. Then again, Lech was still too sore to be handing out punishment beatings.

She collected the broken parts and took them upstairs; showered, dressed, etc; and was soon behind the wheel, a piece of toast clamped between her teeth, heading for work. She’d used a gym regularly back in the by; the Service gym not far from Regent’s Park. It occupied hidden levels below a local authority swimming baths, and on its mats, free of charge, agents in good standing could have the shit beaten out of them by experts. This wasn’t as much fun as it sounded, but did have an upside: after you’d spent an hour being thrown around like a bag of wrenches, the expert explained what moves you might make to improve your situation. Louisa had generally come away feeling more capable than when she’d gone in.

But the key phrase in all of that was “in good standing,” and slow horses were so far from standing well they had trouble lying down. Following her transfer to Slough House, the first time Louisa had tried to access the facility her card tripped the scanner, causing visible tension to the guard on duty, tension that relaxed to amusement once he’d clocked her ID. “Seriously?” he’d said. “You’d have more chance with a Starbucks card.” Nobody had been around to explain what move she might make to improve her situation, though shooting him in the head suggested itself. Unfortunately the nearest guns were on the level she’d just been refused entry to, so she’d had to walk away unconsoled.

What made this bad story worse was, it had happened what felt like a lifetime ago, and things hadn’t changed much since. And things kept on not changing, with unvarying regularity. Even when events occurred that shook the windows—like the Russian hoodlums’ toxic rampage six months back, or the Wimbledon outing, just three days ago—they folded up so small, they might as well not have happened. When you asked What next?, the answer was always: The same. So you woke up next morning and were back in the office; there were extra stains on the carpet, occasionally a missing colleague, but you got used to that. Slough House absorbed differences, leeched them of flavour, and spat them out again; sometimes you were driving to work, sometimes you were driving home, but the space between was so dispiriting, you hardly cared which. On your way there, on your way back, you were still denied entrance to the gym.

Some had this lesson waiting—Slough House had a new recruit. One who fell into that rapidly increasing demographic, the too-bloody-young. Ashley Khan might have been in primary school when Louisa joined the Service, and acted like she still was. No one likes being here, Louisa felt like saying. It’s not necessary to remind us you’re unhappy. But Khan sulked as if there were prizes involved, and what had never been the most clement working environment had a new storm cloud in its skies. True, none of them were exactly rays of sunshine—Jackson Lamb was extreme weather on his best day—but having a new colleague was a challenge, a reminder of how bad things had felt at the start, and how bad they still were. Nothing you could do changed this. Because that was the deal with Slough House: you had all the self-determination of a clockwork fundamentalist.

Her own view, Louisa thought Ashley Khan would quit. Soon. She’d invested too little of her life in the Service to throw good time away after it; there was a whole world of stuff waiting once she’d got over her rage. Though her rage, it was true, did seem to have put its foot down. Not without cause, either: on Khan’s introduction to Jackson Lamb, he’d broken her arm. This was the sort of first impression that made second impressions superfluous, and even for a millennial, raised by the internet, didn’t fall within the range of expected behaviours. No, Ashley Khan’s anger was going to have to find an outlet soon, or the woman would explode.

Now there was a thought.

Maybe she’d just short-circuit the whole process and bring a bomb into work.

And as the morning traffic thickened and her day began to crawl, Louisa wondered if that wouldn’t be the most efficient way to deal with Ashley’s anger and all the other issues bottled up in Slough House; simply to detonate them all together, in one final crowd-pleasing moment.

It had arrived through the post, like a bomb in the olden days, and she’d been tempted to hold it to her ear and listen for its tick. But it was important to maintain the cover of innocence, even with no one watching, so Ashley had simply collected the package from the doormat and carried it into her room, which was on the ground floor. One small window with a smudged view of nothing much, and a single bed that occupied most of the floorspace. There she’d sat and dismantled the parcel, revealing, in reverse order, a stapled cellophane bag inside a small cardboard box inside a jiffy bag. Her name misspelt on the label: Kane instead of Khan.

She’d torn this off for shredding. Put the box in the bin. Studied the cellophane bag and its ripe red content, which might almost have been a souvenir from an anatomy class: the muscle of some unlucky subject, a rabbit or a fox . . . In keeping with such imagined butchery, there were rumours it could stop your heart. Not that its intended recipient had one.

Not much later than that, she was heading for work: a dreary destination at the far end of a dull commute. In an odd, be-careful-what-you-wish-for, or at least, be-careful-what-lie-you-tell kind of way, Ashley Khan’s real job was now as miserable as the one she’d invented for her parents. This company you work for, it has little online presence, her father informed her. Very little. He was a man who cast a shadow himself. You did not, as his regular broadcasts throughout her teenage years underlined, you did not become senior partner in a leading dental practice without exhibiting drive. Without displaying gumption. And what is it they do again, is it burglar alarms? Ashley had thought she was being clever when she’d told her parents she’d found a job with a security firm. But all this conjured up for them was decoy boxes screwed onto walls, and signs reading guard dogs on premises. beware. A high second from St. Andrews had promised a glittering future, so how come she was stuck in an office job, the lowest rung on a shaky ladder? The ladder wasn’t the only thing shaking. Her parents’ heads had swivelled in unison: Ode to Disappointment. The household anthem.

On the other hand, had she told them she’d been recruited by the intelligence service, this information would have been dispensed to her father’s patients one after the other, as they sat before him in open-mouthed astonishment. Ashley, the eldest, she’s working for MI5 now. Very important, very top secret. And rinse. Worse still, any catch-up she offered would have had to include the bitter information that, far from flying high in her chosen career, she’d been derailed almost before it had begun.

You see, I was on a covert surveillance exercise, tracing this guy across London, only I was spotted by his boss . . .

We all make mistakes.

Who broke my arm.

As it was, she’d had to invent a workout accident.

“A collision, was it? On one of those stationary bicycles?” Her father’s amusement alternated with a litigious glint. “Your uncle Sanjeev, did you forget he is a solicitor? This accident, there should be compensation.”

Compensation, no, thought Ashley.

Payback, though. That was something else.

And if a certain type of onlooker could have seen Ashley Khan’s smile through her face-mask, they’d have made sure to socially distance themselves the length of a carriage or two, and possibly adopted the brace position while doing so.

An incoming text roused Lech and he surfaced abruptly, every inch of him feeling like he’d Sumo-wrestled a walrus. This wasn’t quite normal service. The post-Sumo effect was recent—a souvenir from Wimbledon—and sleeping through the night was rare too. Insomnia was one of the few traits he still had in common with the Lech Wicinski of old, who had been on an upward trajectory: a good job—analyst at Regent’s Park—a nice flat he shared with his fiancée; walks by the river on Sunday; meals out with friends once a week. Insomnia, yes, but he’d learned to accept it, treating it as extra space, a quiet time when he had nothing but his own thoughts to attend to. Often he walked it off, striding through the city after dark, paying attention to details that were invisible by day, as if haunting a cinema after the audience had gone: here were the empty seats, the abandoned popcorn containers and takeaway cups; all the signs indicating that life went on here, just not at the moment.

And while this still happened—one night out of three he’d be roaming the streets; blowing this way and that, like litter—the rest was change. He no longer had a job at the Park, or a nice flat, and Sara had emailed yesterday to let him know—she wouldn’t want him to find out any other way—that she was seeing someone else. So was Lech, but only in the mirror. The scarred face there was a whole new chapter in a different story; most of the damage self-inflicted, to conceal the original message carved by a bad actor. PAEDO. A lie, but what difference did that make? Had it been true, he’d have obliterated it just the same.

The scars he’d made to hide that lie had hardened to a mask. Something he could hide behind, and others shy away from.

And his days were no longer spent at Regent’s Park but at Slough House, where the Park’s cast-offs laboured. Their tasks were of the boulder-rolling kind: they never came to an end, they just felt like they might, right up to the moment when they began all over again. To be assigned to Slough House meant you’d committed some egregious error; had endangered lives, or caused embarrassment, or invited the wrong sort of attention, all of which were among the seven deadlies on Spook Street. Lech’s own mistake had been to do someone a favour, and the only consolation he’d devised for himself since had been the promise that he’d never do that again; that from here on in, he was his only trusted friend. Being at Slough House actually helped in that regard. It was a place that encouraged you to remain behind your mask, and focus on rolling that boulder. Either you’d get it to the top of the hill despite yourself, or you’d come to your senses and give up.

But the resumption of normal service wasn’t something you could guarantee against, and nor did a mask protect you from yourself. Or perhaps all this meant was, you couldn’t hide from history; it would always roll round again and perform its favourite damage. He should know that by now. His Polish blood should have sung him the song. But that same blood had the tendency to remind him that he was involved in humanity, like it or not, which in turn meant he’d repeated the same stupid error and done somebody a favour. The same somebody, in fact, that he’d done a favour for first time round. Which was why, lying in bed, he had the not-unfamiliar sense of having kick-started something he’d regret.

To cheer himself up, he read the text that had woken him. It was from his landlord: the rent hadn’t been paid. Which meant his bank had screwed up again—the second direct debit to have gone awry this week.

His alarm clock chirruped. Limbs and body bruised and stiff, Lech showered and dressed, drank a cup of black tea, and set off for work.

Normal service, being resumed.

Talk about not learning from your mistakes.

Spend enough time shadow-boxing and your shadow starts to hit back. Shirley should offer that at the morning session as a “learning.” They were big on learnings, here in the San, especially when they came wrapped in metaphor. So, yeah: shadow-boxing. But when you’re off the ground, she could add, your shadow can’t lay a finger on you. Very good reason for getting high.

This was easy. Second day in, and Shirley Dander was on top of their shit already.

But going along with it would mean pretending she was okay with being here, and that might be a stretch for them to accept, given the forthright assessment she’d made of the place, its facilities and its staff within an hour of her arrival, and then again sometime during the second hour, and maybe a couple more times after that, before everyone agreed it might be best to call it a night. They’d think, in fact, that she was faking it to speed up the whole process of recovery and release. So no, best plan would be to stick with the dignified silence she’d mostly maintained since the previous morning. Dignity was definitely looking like being one of her better things, which, come to think of it, probably counted as a learning too. But there was nothing to say she couldn’t leave here wiser than she’d arrived. It didn’t mean she’d be removing this place from her shit-list any time soon.

Of course, putting its name on any kind of list would be easier if it had a fucking name in the first place. Instead, it was just known as the San, an abbreviation redolent of the Chalet School books her mother had forced on her when she was ten; books she had refused to read as a matter of principle, and then had refused to admit to reading as a matter of survival, because to back down from a principle was just baring your throat for the bite. There was no battle as fiercely fought as a girl’s with her mother. Mind you, the battles fought by a grown woman with her mother could get pretty heated too, which was a good reason for making sure her mother never got to find out about Shirley’s current whereabouts. She’d almost certainly blame it on Shirley’s recreational drug use, and Shirley was sick of being hit with that particular stick. If it’s doing me harm, how come I’m fine? A clincher, but it went sailing over her mother’s head like, Shirley didn’t know, an albatross.

Which was exactly the sort of crap they’d want to hear about: battles with her mother. Yawn.

They also wanted to hear about all the dead people, but they could go fuck themselves.

Light was sneaking through the blind, which meant they’d be knocking on the door soon; a soft, polite knock, as if they didn’t want to disturb her. And then there’d be hours of hanging around waiting for something to happen, which, when it did, would consist of Shirley sitting first in a big circle with a bunch of time-ruined losers, and then in a private pair with one of the happy-clappy therapists, in either instance refusing to join in because of the whole maintaining-a-dignified-silence thing. In between these sessions there’d be time to wander round the grounds, or do a jigsaw, or run amok with an axe—there was a workshop near the stables; there might be an axe going begging. She made a mental note to check. Then there’d be lunch, and then another group session . . . Christ. She’d never thought she’d miss Slough House.

Of which there were ghostly reminders here. Catherine Standish, for instance, haunted its corridors, having been one of the San’s success stories. Because as all the slow horses knew—Jackson Lamb made sure they did—Catherine was a drunk; her history a sordid, vomit-flecked montage of emptied bottles and broken glass, which made it almost comic to see her now, like she’d had a broom handle surgically inserted. Ms. Uptight, in her Victorian spinster costume. Like butter wouldn’t melt, when time was she’d melted more butter than Shirley had had hot toast. So yeah, she was currently top of Shirley’s shit-list, above Louisa Guy and Lech Wicinski, who’d lured Shirl to Wimbledon in the first place; above Roderick Ho, because the whole bus thing was his fault; above Ashley Khan, who would turn out as annoying as everyone else; and even above Jackson Lamb, without whose say-so nothing happened round Slough House—ahead of them all was Catherine, because Catherine had made out that this was for Shirley’s own good, as if Shirley should thank her for the opportunity.

People keep getting hurt, she’d said. People keep dying. We have to look out for one another.

Yeah, right. Shirley would be looking out for Catherine, that was for sure.

Meanwhile, it was about keeping her head down and waiting for everyone to realise that all she needed was for people to stop getting on her case. A few days, tops. And she could manage that, but she’d be happier if she’d had time to pack properly—all the sermonising about self-control and clean living would be easier to take with a bump of coke to help it down, not to mention it would increase their chances of getting her to open up. She’d be first to admit she was more voluble after a line or two. This whole place, now she thought about it, would benefit from a more lax attitude, and a bar wouldn’t hurt either. She wondered if there was a suggestion box, and whether it would infringe her code of dignified silence to make a contribution.

Somewhere in the corridor she could hear footsteps, and a soft knocking on a door as some poor bastard was roused to face the day. Her turn next. Delaying the moment, she rolled and buried her face in the pillow. When you’re up in the air your shadow can’t lay a finger on you, but no one stays high forever. And once you hit the ground, your shadow’s waiting.

I haven’t hit the ground yet, she said out loud, but her voice was unconvincing in the bare little room, and then her door was softly knocked, and the day was starting too early.

Sheesh.

Or, to put it another way: . . .

Nah. He couldn’t think of another way. Sheesh would have to do.

But seriously, the number of times Roderick Ho had to clean up other people’s messes, you might as well go the distance: give him a uniform, cut his pay in half, and call him a key worker.

Also, this had been a perfectly good keyboard before Shirley Dander had decided to see how many pieces she could smash it into. Answer being: about as many as she’d smashed the other one into first. Stood to reason she was currently in a padded cell, though if anyone had a right to be mad it was the RodMeister. Whose car, let’s not forget—Ford Kia: modern classic, you don’t see them often—once again needed kinks ironed out, thanks to Dander. Wicinski too, come to that. And meanwhile, the office floor was covered in plastic, and when he’d asked Catherine Standish when she planned to get around to sweeping up—he was a patient man but it had been a couple of days, and that stuff got stuck in your trainers—anyway, yeah, when he’d asked her that, she about blew the bloody doors off. Very touchy. As for Wicinski himself, he was refusing to set foot in the room, preferring to squat in Dander’s vacant office on account of—Roddy had heard him telling Louisa—if he had to spend time in Roddy’s company, he was liable to stuff him inside the wastepaper basket and drop-kick him through the window.

Yeah, right. Come and try it, hopscotch-face.

Caught, for the moment, in a vision of Lech Wicinski doing just that, Roddy did what Roddy did best, which right now was a bit of improvised martial artsing using the broom he was sweeping the floor with. Watch carefully. You might learn something. Subtle as a cobra, Roddy held his broom at eye-level, two-handed. See not the stick. See the space between where the stick is, and where it will be. Fill that space using no sudden movements; capture, rather, the flow of the stick’s desire to be elsewhere. Now blink.

He blinked.

He was still holding the broom, but it was pointing the other way.

No significant amount of time had passed.

Like to see Mr. Lightning try that.

And would like to see Wicinski try to stuff him into the wastepaper basket too. The RodBod would have him impaled on a broom handle and rotating like a chicken on a spit before you could say, well, Sheesh. Or kebab.

Whistling a tune of his own composition, itself a remix of one of his own previous compositions, Roddy more or less finished sweeping up bits of plastic and tipped them into the bin—which was way too small to hold him—then looked round to see what else needed doing. He had a phone call to make, but wasn’t quite ready yet. This, despite having been up half the night thinking about it. Not that he had to do anything more than be his own cool self, but still: sometimes, being Roddy Ho took practice. Even when you were already Roddy Ho to begin with.

But if the movies had taught him anything, it was that inner steel and outer cool saw you through. And if they’d taught him anything else, it was this: listen to the whackjobs, because something they say will turn out important.

Like: Any woman desperate enough to dress up as a cartoon character is looking to get laid.

Remembering Shirley’s words, Roddy twirled the broom in his hands again in another demonstration of self-taught mastery. Move not the stick. Let the stick move through you. Roddy and stick were one, and when the force flowed through Roddy it flowed through the stick too, resulting in an almost mystical marriage of whirling wood and implacable will. The broom a blur in his magical hands: see him parry, see him block, see him jab.

He jabbed.

The broom sailed from Roddy’s grip and flew through the closed window, bouncing off Aldersgate Street below in a shower of shattered glass.

This was greeted by the squonk of an outraged car horn and a shriek from a passing pedestrian.

Roddy blinked six times in quick succession.

This time, even he could tell, sheesh wasn’t going to be enough.

Windows, as it happened, were already on Catherine Standish’s mind. If the eyes are the windows of the soul, she was thinking, what does that make windows? Not that she was given to whimsical speculation—it was frowned upon in recovery circles; she’d heard the phrase “slippery slope”—but this one was hard to avoid as she wiped away condensation to reveal a little of her office to the world, and vice versa. Of all Slough House’s windows only hers were ever cleaned, and then only on the inside. If you only clean one side of the glass, you might as well clean neither. To the casual glance her windows were blotched and stained, and if that said anything about the state of her soul, Catherine didn’t want to know.

And with the other offices’ windowpanes unbothered by cloth or cleaning fluid, to inhabitants of the Barbican opposite, the building must seem like it housed vampires, a suspicion perhaps not dispelled by the faded gilt-lettering across the windows of the floor below, spelling out ww henderson, solicitor and commissioner for oaths in such ornate, seriffed flamboyance that it couldn’t help but seem a fiction; an over-elaborate cover for dark deeds. Oaths and blood went together. But whatever business had once been carried on in the office she still thought of as River Cartwright’s, it had ceased long before the building passed into the hands of Jackson Lamb, who would allow the building to fall around his ears sooner than suffer the intrusions required to keep it clean. His own window, anyway, was rarely open to view. His blind was mostly down. He preferred lamps with switches, light he could kill. The new recruit, Ashley Khan, had asked Catherine if Lamb were paranoid, a question to which the obvious answer—of course he is—didn’t do justice. Lamb’s history demanded paranoia: it was the role he’d been assigned. In a tragedy he’d be the last man standing, drenched in blood. In a comedy, about the same.

She sighed, finished wiping, and assessed her work: the slightly less filthy windows. A certain amount of effort, and almost no result. She might have been miming daily life in Slough House.

Floors were another story. Even failed spies should know one end of a broom from the other, and Catherine tried to make sure the offices were swept once a quarter by their own occupants, which in effect meant almost never. But the previous week, taking advantage of Lamb’s absence on some mission doubtless involving food or cigarettes, she’d swept his room, releasing almost visible odours, and when she’d finished, there in the dustpan—among the rat’s-nest tangles of hair and dust, and desiccated lumps of food, and thirteen disposable cigarette lighters—there’d lain a tooth, a molar, unmistakably human, its root darkened with blood. Nothing suggested it hadn’t lain there for years. She remembered, ages back, finding a handkerchief on Lamb’s desk clotted with blood, and thinking it a sign of life’s impending retribution: you could not live the way Lamb did without inviting comeback. His lungs, his liver, his lights: some part of him waiting to be switched off. It had seemed freighted with foreboding, that handkerchief, the way handkerchiefs in plays can be, and she had tried to put it out of her mind since, only to find herself wondering now if it had been another of Lamb’s cruel jokes, allowing his poor dental health to masquerade as something potentially fatal, for her benefit. This, after all, was what their relationship was like; lies were told with no words exchanged, and knowledge falsified in the absence of information. If she taxed him with that, he’d ask her what she expected? They were spooks. This was how they lived.

But she wouldn’t ask him, because there were some things she didn’t want to know, answers she’d rather remained in the dark and dust.

It was time to stop woolgathering and face the day ahead: weekly reports to assemble for Lamb, who never read them, and job-output stats to compile for Regent’s Park, which didn’t care. All that mattered to both was that the work of Slough House continue uninterrupted, whether by something major like whatever had happened in Wimbledon the other evening, or by something comparatively trivial, involving, say, the sound of a window breaking two floors below, which Catherine would now have to investigate.

The condition of her soul notwithstanding, she allowed herself a brief, uncharacteristic curse word before heading downstairs, wishing she’d chosen a different day for an early start.

But some never had that choice to make.

Some will never wake again.

A few streets off the Westway, where the city makes its bid for freedom with one last flourish of bookmakers and bed shops, bridal boutiques and barbers, in a single-roomed annexe occupying what was once the back garden of what was once a family home and now houses thirteen individuals leading thirteen separate lives, a figure lies on a bed, fully clothed, eyes shut, still breathing. How much of his current state can be put down to natural sleep, how much to alcohol-induced coma can be gauged by the empty bottle by his side: the label reads The Balvenie, a brand way too classy for this venue. The figure’s breathing is regular but laboured, as if heavy work were being done in that unconscious state, and the air it’s processing is thick with cigarette smoke—there’s an ashtray on the floor which needed emptying last Tuesday. One stub still smoulders, suggesting a recent companion, as it seems unlikely that the prone figure has been active these past few minutes. An unkinder view would be that it’s unlikely he’s been active this past month, but a bottle of scotch can have that effect, as indeed can two—a second bottle, equally drained, has rolled to rest under the room’s only table: a battered, tin-topped thing with foldable leaves.

Nothing else in sight gives cheer. Against the wall is a sink unit, on one side of which unwashed crockery mounts up on a stainless steel draining board, while on the other, a two-ring electric stove plugged into an already overworked socket offers just enough of a nod in the direction of domesticity to allow a landlord to describe the room as self-catering. One of the two rings is dormant, and on top of it has been placed a plastic bag of frozen chips, torn open at the wrong end. A little diagram explains how to prepare them: they can be cooked in an oven or on top of a stove, supposing a chip pan is available. A chip pan, as it happens, is available, and in fact is close at hand: it sits atop the second of the two rings, which is glowing orange in the dusky light, and the viscous liquid with which it is filled is beginning to bubble and pop, causing the pan’s wire basket to rattle against its sides. Spread out on the floor below is a newspaper, one of the capital’s giveaways, its pages unfurled and unfolded as if someone has been trying to read all of it in one go.

It’s a familiar scenario, this: a tabloid newspaper waiting to add fuel to whatever comes its way. Already a splash of oil has escaped the pan and landed on the ring with a big-snake hiss; not loud enough to penetrate a whisky fog, but a sign of more to come. The minutes will pass, shuffling their way towards the quarter hour, and before that milestone is reached the oil will have bubbled its way to freedom, at which point the minutes will give up, and the seconds come into their element. Things that were happening separately will start happening at once, and when the boiling oil spits onto the waiting paper, the paper will respond as it would to any good story and spread the news far and wide; across the threadbare carpet, over the shabby furnishings, and onto the figure on the bed itself, which might twitch of its own accord in its first few flaming moments, but will soon lose any such self-motivation and become the fire’s puppet, twisting and baking into a flaky black museum piece, while the annexe burns to a shell around it. All of this will happen soon, and some of it’s happening already. The oil burps in the pan, hungry. The cigarette stub smoulders its last, and a faint grey coil of smoke drifts towards the ceiling.

A few streets off, on the Westway, traffic roars into and out of London, embarking on an ordinary day.

But here in this cramped, shabby room, that day will never happen.

Meanwhile, back on Aldersgate Street, the shards of glass have been swept from the pavement, which is to say that Catherine Standish has marched Roderick Ho out and watched him sweep said shards into a pile—after watching him rescue the broom from the road—and then brush them into a cardboard box. There’s an audience of sorts for this sideshow, but it’s a desultory morning crowd made up of London’s early pedestrians, and no one lingers long. These groundlings have other dramas to pursue, and this particular moment is merely a respite from their various starring roles, in which they answer phones and do battle with spreadsheets, serve customers and mend computers, police the streets and mark exams, sell cigarettes and ask for spare change, heal the sick and empty the bins, launder clothes and broker deals, write songs and typeset books, love and lose and sing badly in the shower, commit fraud and assault, drink themselves stupid, and are kind to strangers. With all this ahead of them, there’s little time to linger. They move out of shot, and Roddy hoists the cardboard box, which rattles like a kaleidoscope, and carries it round the alleyway to the back of Slough House, where he dumps it in a wheelie-bin. Then he sulks his way upstairs, to spend the rest of the morning covering the broken window with a cardboard shield fashioned from taped-together pizza boxes, whose company logos smile onto the road below like unexpected adverts.

On Aldersgate Street a council lorry wheezes past tugging a series of trailers, each freighted with pipes and sinks and indeterminable items of metalware; travelling junkyards that look as if all the shiny bits have been extracted from some huge and cumbersome invention. And in the offices of Slough House the slow horses have settled themselves at their desks for another day, one which already seems askew from reality, as if things that happened in one order are about to be told in another.

But as long as they start happening soon, this doesn’t really matter.

Oliver Nash had chosen a patisserie in which to meet Claude Whelan, because it was handy for both of them, and because you had to support small businesses, and because it was a patisserie. Nash’s battle with his weight was an unfair contest. He had good intentions on his side, and a whole stack of diet books, not to mention words of advice bordering on warning from his GP, but his weight had a secret weapon: his appetite. In the face of which indomitable force, the massed artillery of inner determination, bookshelves and medical wisdom didn’t have a prayer.

None of which went through Whelan’s mind as they shook hands. They hadn’t seen each other in years, but neither had changed much, and if Whelan wouldn’t have gone so far as to say Nash was the shape he’d chosen for himself he was certainly the shape he was, and that was as much thought as Whelan had ever given the matter.

“How are you, Claude?”

He was fine.

“And can I tempt you to an almond croissant?”

No. He was a fallible man, and wouldn’t claim otherwise, but he’d never had a sweet tooth.

Nash didn’t pretend to regret having already ordered two. Coffee, likewise, was on its way: “Americano without, yes?” He had a memory for such things, heaven knew how. To the best of Whelan’s recall—they had been colleagues, of a sort, once—Nash spent half his life taking meetings, drinking coffee with others. He surely couldn’t recall everyone’s taste in beverage.

They chatted until their drinks came. Though not one of life’s small talkers, Whelan found this undemanding: Nash could provide both halves of a conversation if it proved necessary, and sometimes when it didn’t. The patisserie wasn’t crowded, and anyway held only half the tables it once had. On the nearest one, an abandoned newspaper revealed that the PM had just shared his vision of post-Brexit Britain as a scientific powerhouse, its trillion-pound tech industry the envy of the world. They chuckled over this, and drank coffee, and Nash put away a croissant without apparently noticing doing so, and at last said, “You’re a busy man,” which was the correct formula: nobody likes to be told they have nothing much to do. “But I have a favour to ask.”

Whelan nodded, hoping this wouldn’t be misinterpreted as a willingness to carry out the favour, but knowing it probably would. Hard to deny it: he was a soft touch. Not a busy man, either. He had things to do, but not enough to keep him occupied.

Besides, stopping Nash from continuing would have taken heavy machinery. This was odd, or ought to have been—Nash’s role in the Service wasn’t operational, but it was senior: he was chair of the Limitations Committee, which among other things imposed fiscal restraint on the Service, and might thus be assumed to warrant discretion, if not downright secrecy, an assumption for which you could probably find legal backing if you waded through the paperwork. But Nash seemed blithely unaware of the fact. To be in his company for more than two minutes was to learn three things about four other people, as someone had once remarked, and it hadn’t been meant as a criticism.

Whelan raised his coffee cup, noticed it was empty, and put it down again.

Nash said, “I shouldn’t say this. But you were requested by name.”

Whelan supposed that was better than being hailed like a passing taxi. Nash, meanwhile, was waggling his eyebrows in a way that indicated the request came from above. He presumably hadn’t been receiving messages from God, so Whelan settled on the next rung down. “Diana Taverner?”

He found it impossible to keep the disbelief from his voice.

Nash found it equally difficult. “Good heavens, no. Ha! No no no.”

“So, then—”

“I doubt you’ve entered her mind since she saw you off the premises, to be honest.” There was something innocent about Nash’s lack of tact. It was as if he’d learned it from watching talent shows. “No, I was referring to Number Ten.”

“The PM?”

“Well, I say Number Ten. But the PM isn’t exactly hands on, is he? Got enough to do with all his . . .” Nash tailed off, as if the task in view, that of explaining what it was that the PM spent most of his time doing, was too daunting to wrestle with. “No, I meant Sparrow. You know. The PM’s, ah . . .”

“His special adviser.”

“Quite.”

As the PM’s enforcer, Sparrow wasn’t as high profile as his predecessor had been—it would have been challenging to maintain that level of unpopularity without barbecuing an infant on live television—but those in the know recognised him as a homegrown Napoleon: nasty, British and short. Whelan had never met him, but that Sparrow was aware of him was only mildly surprising. A spad would be expected to know who was who, and as one-time First Desk at Regent’s Park, Whelan had been a who in his time.

“And what exactly is it that Mr. Sparrow thinks I might be suited for?”

“He’s concerned for the whereabouts of an associate of his.”

“An associate?”

“That was the word he used. A woman called Sophie de Greer. Doctor. Of the academic variety. She was a member of this think tank Sparrow runs, an advisory body. Something to do with policy initiatives? He was vague on the details.”

“And she’s gone missing.”

“Apparently. And he rather suspects . . .”

“Foul play?” suggested Whelan, hating the moment even as it was happening.

“Yes. Well, no. He rather suspects your old Service has something to do with it, actually.”

Whelan said, “He thinks the Service has abducted a colleague of his? Our Service? That’s absurd.”

“Isn’t it? Doesn’t, couldn’t, wouldn’t happen. Exactly what I told him.”

“Then why are you coming to me with it?”

Nash noticed the second croissant on his plate. It was clearly a discovery of some moment; he glanced around, as if making sure it hadn’t been left there by accident, then indicated its presence to Whelan, as if he were the body to whom reports of such finds should be made. Whelan, unwilling to take part in this pantomime, waited. Nash sighed, sliced an inch off one end of the pastry and transported it to his mouth, his expression suggesting that the whole endeavour was an unfortunate necessity. Then glanced around once more. There was nobody near enough to hear his next word, even if he’d spoken out loud rather than simply mouthed the syllables. “Waterproof.”

“. . . I beg your pardon?” Then Whelan shook his head: he’d heard. “I mean, what, no, seriously? He said that?”

Nash nodded.

“And he meant . . . You’re saying he thinks that’s what happened? That someone triggered the Waterproof protocol?”

Nash said, “Well, he didn’t come out and say it directly. But that’s clearly what he was hinting at.”

He picked up the knife once more, and sliced what was left of the croissant in half.

Whelan said, “That’s ridiculous. There was an inquiry, I set it up myself. Waterproof, well . . . Okay, there was a certain amount of grey area. But the official line, the actual finding, was that the protocol was never used.”

“Yes, I’m aware what the official finding was, and I’m equally aware that the report will remain sealed for years to come. Even a virgin like me can draw the line between those dots.”

“That’s as may be. But leaving aside any . . . discretion involved in the conclusions reached, how is a newcomer like Sparrow even aware of Waterproof’s existence?”

“Because such is the role of special advisers, blessed be their name, that there is no document passes a portal anywhere on Downing Street that they can’t lay their eyes on at will. And don’t ask me how or why that started, because believe me I’ve no idea.” No idea, but an evident distaste. The manner in which Nash tore into the last piece of croissant made this clear. “And now that this particular bee has entered this particular bonnet, it apparently behooves me to catch it and pin it to a board, or whatever it is one does with bees. I’m not an expert.”

“But why me? I mean . . . You’re in daily contact with Diana, surely. Can’t you just ask her about it?”

“Well, I could and I can’t. You know how political things get. And I rather have to stay on Diana’s good side, if you know what I mean. Like I say, it wasn’t my idea. It was Sparrow’s.”

“Well, what does he think I can do about it? I’m not a police officer.”

“No, quite. Though I’m not sure that would carry weight at the Park, the way things are. Diana does rather seem to have pulled the drawbridge up.”

“What makes you think she’ll lower it for me? I’ve no authority there. You know that.”

Arguably less than none. Because while there were many things about Diana that Whelan had failed to recognise while she was nominally his subordinate, this much had become clear since: that she practised a scorched-earth policy towards anyone not entirely committed to her advancement. In this, he realised, she was in keeping with the political zeitgeist, and he was self-aware enough to know that, had he recognised this at the time, it wouldn’t have significantly altered the outcome. Even Nash, technically one of Regent’s Park string-pullers, knew to tread carefully around Diana. String-pullers carry weight, but Diana carried scissors.

“Besides,” he went on, “an official inquiry is a shallow grave. Anyone approaching it with a shovel is likely to find bones. That’s how Diana will see it. That I’m trying to resurrect an old scandal, and hang it round her neck.”

“Diana’s not going to worry about bones that were buried by one or other of her predecessors.” Nash’s face was a bland mask. “More coffee?”

“‘One or other’?”

“A turn of phrase.” He wiped crumbs from his tie. “There’s no need to look at me like that. I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know.”

“That if you need something done ask a scapegoat?”

“You’re being melodramatic. If Diana needs to paint a target anywhere—which she won’t—it’s not your back she’ll be looking at. It’s Ingrid Tearney’s.” He lowered his voice. “There was a whisper at the time that Tearney, ah, waterproofed someone entirely for her own benefit while First Desk.” He shook his head saying this: the evil that women do. “And then there’s her predecessor, Charles Partner, who’s been safely dead these many years. With that pair to choose from, Diana won’t feel unduly paranoid if questions are asked about an ancient protocol that officially never existed in the first place.” He paused. “Unless, of course, she is responsible for Dr. de Greer’s disappearance. But that doesn’t strike me as especially likely.”

Even Whelan could hear the weariness in his tone when he said, “The whole reason I was appointed First Desk was that I wasn’t tainted by anything Ingrid Tearney got up to. A clean pair of hands. Remember?”

“Of course. Anyway, we’re losing sight of the wood for the trees. All Sparrow’s interested in is the whereabouts of Dr. de Greer, and all you have to do is confirm that wherever she is, the Service didn’t put her there.” He still wasn’t happy with his tie. It was possible, thought Whelan, he was trying to brush away some of its pattern. “A few questions, a few answers, and it’s done with.”

“It doesn’t seem as if that’ll get Sparrow any closer to finding out what’s happened to his associate.”

“But it’ll close down a line of enquiry. Besides . . . Between us, I’m not entirely sure that’s what he’s really after. No, chances are, he’s using the situation to let the Park know who’s top dog. It’s no secret he’d prefer the set-up there was less . . . independent.” Nash had taken his phone out while saying this, and was playing with its buttons like a jazz pianist looking for a tune. Whelan’s own phone pinged: incoming. “There. Now you know what I know.” He slipped the phone back into his pocket. “A few questions, Claude. A plausible denial from the Park. Just so I can let Mr. Sparrow know there’s nothing to his suspicions.”

“In my day, which wasn’t that long ago, it was the prime minister called the tune. Not his poodle.”

“The poodles are running the bloody show, that’s the problem. I expect to see the PM in a collar and leash any day now.”

For a moment Nash looked old and tired, which rather shook Whelan. He’d always thought of Nash as one of Westminster’s groupies, living for the gossip and the lunches, and generally unbothered by the moral dimension. It was possible he’d been wrong about that.

The waitress came and collected their crockery. Whelan found his gaze drifting in her direction, admiring the way her uniform adhered to her shape, and slapped his own mental wrist.

“I don’t know, Oliver,” he said, which was a lie. He did know. This shouldn’t be touched with a hazmat suit on. It had politics scribbled all over it, and there was no way you could wander into that kind of firefight without getting bits of you shot off: your reputation, your career, your pension. It was politics that had proved his undoing at the Park. Well, and also the connection between a working-paper he’d written years ago, a massacre in Derbyshire and a bloodbath involving penguins, but that could have happened to anyone; it was politics had sharpened the knife. So yes, he knew: shake an apologetic head and walk away.

On the other hand . . .

Reputation, career and pension. He was probably overstating the risk. His pension was secure, and his career largely over; had dwindled to committee work and charitable enterprise, the rubble that remained after a failure to launch. As for his reputation, the circumstances demanding his departure from office had never been made public, so rumour and gossip had rushed to fill the gap. An unexpected rise to prominence; a sudden crashing to earth—whispers suggested a #MeToo moment, and men his own age offered sympathetic headshakes. No, his reputation was already shot. So perhaps what was on offer here was the opportunity to settle a score. With that thought, another name from the past popped up unprompted: Taverner’s sparring partner, Jackson Lamb. He’d rather enjoy tilting his lance at that bad actor. And yet one more consideration: having a mission would get him out of the house. That could only be a good thing, surely?

He said, “Your face, Oliver.” He gestured to the corresponding section of his own. “You have some . . .”

Then, while Nash was wiping icing sugar away with a napkin, said, “All right, then. All right. I’ll give it a shot.”

Okay, a soft touch. But he wasn’t a busy man.

Catherine was busy that morning, not least of her tasks being an attempt to negotiate her way towards a mended window, which involved an extended conversation with Regent’s Park’s facilities manager. But the recent hiatus during which Slough House had been wiped from the Park’s map—its location removed from internal records, and the slow horses themselves rendered formless and floating—had served to make an already thankless process a migraine-inducing ordeal, and it became clear that the functionary on the other end of the call wasn’t happy about admitting the building’s official status, let alone despatching a Security-approved operative to perform maintenance work there.

Perhaps, Catherine suggested, she should just go ahead and Google the nearest available glazier?

Which would be a breach of Service regulations: admittance of non-vetted civilian personnel onto premises deemed classified.

“Except you’ve just told me we’re not deemed classified. We’re barely deemed existent.”

But Catherine’s insistence on seeking the necessary permissions indicated her own belief that the premises were indeed a Service satellite, rendering any initiation of such non-approved admittance a breach of her oath of service, itself a regulatory offence.

“So if I hadn’t sought clearance, I wouldn’t have needed it?”

He seemed pleased she’d grasped the basic idea.

This wasn’t a conversation to be relayed to Jackson Lamb, though he was also on the morning’s agenda—whether or not Lamb liked things, in the normal human sense, was a matter for philosophers or possibly zoologists, but what was certain was that there were things he insisted happen, among them team meetings. Not that he went out of his way to prepare. When she crossed the landing to his room five minutes before today’s gathering was due to start, carrying a small wooden stool and a bottle of hand sanitiser, he was slumped in his chair like a bean bag on top of a clothes horse; a cigarette burning in one fist, the other inside his trousers. Both his eyes were closed. The smell of tobacco almost overpowered a recent bout of flatulence.

She put the stool by the door; placed the sanitiser on top of it.

Lamb opened one eye. “Lubricant? Pretty optimistic for a staff meeting.” He closed it again. “But I suppose it’ll be a chance to swap these gender fluids I keep hearing about.”

“As I believe I’ve mentioned already,” she said, “it might be an idea to curb your boyish humour in front of Ashley. Give her half the chance, she’ll bring a harassment charge.”

Lamb adopted a wounded pout. “What did I ever do to her?”

“Broke her arm?”

“She’s still on about that? Bloody snowflake.”

This too was familiar territory. When Ashley Khan—a fledgling spook—had been despatched by Diana Taverner to tail a slow horse, and Lamb had sent her back to the Park bent out of shape, Taverner’s response had been: You broke her, she’s yours. Which, as far as Lamb was concerned, was tantamount to being made to suffer consequences for his actions, precisely the kind of moralistic bullshit he’d joined the Service to avoid. What was this, the Church?

A recitation he spared her today, perhaps because he was too busy scratching his crotch.

He was wearing a new shirt, she noticed; or a shirt new to her. It was only actually new if they came pre-frayed. Outside of a sixth-form college staffroom, Lamb was always going to come off worst when fashion statements were being made, but this was particularly ill-judged: a pale shade of lilac, it had the effect of making his skin look waxier than usual. On the other hand, it was of a piece with the rest of his ensemble: the grey woollen trousers, shiny at the knees; the lumpy, shapeless jacket, which just might, on second thoughts, have been made-to-measure. This had originally been either light blue and was now more-or-less evenly soiled, or dark blue and had faded. A yellowing stain she didn’t want to think about adorned the left shoulder.

Still by the door, she said, “Are you going to tell me what happened in Wimbledon the other night?”

“Doesn’t seem likely.”

“Because Shirley’s in the San. And Lech’s lucky not to be in hospital.”

“Which one’s Lech again?”

“You’ve barely enough staff left to run an ice cream van.”

“Getting through them nicely, aren’t we?” said Lamb. “If the bloody Park didn’t keep sending replacements, we’d have this place to ourselves by now.”

“And if I hadn’t twisted Taverner’s arm, Shirley would be out on her ear. I know the phrase ‘duty of care’ means nothing to you, but casualties and rehab-placements go down on the end-of-year audit. Sooner or later, someone’s going to ask what you’re doing to your agents.”

Lamb had adopted a glazed expression, unless she just had glaziers on her mind. “I’d have paid money to see you twisting Diana’s arm. Did you oil up beforehand or just get sweaty in the act?”

“Would you mind removing your hand from your trousers?”

He did so, sniffed it, and wiped it on his jacket.

“It’s like a chimps’ tea party round here,” she said.

“If you’re offering.”

“We’re out of milk.”

“I’ll take it black,” Lamb said. “As a concession to your miserable failures of housekeeping.”

“This place is falling apart,” she said. “And I don’t just mean the plasterwork. If you expect me to keep on holding the fort for you, I deserve to know what’s happening.”

“If landing me in the shit with Taverner’s what you call holding my fort, then don’t start bashing my bishop. Or the plasterwork’s not the only thing’ll be falling apart.”

“. . . How did I land you in it with Taverner?”

“Because anything you can twist her arm with pretty obviously came from me. And she’s not one to shy away from getting her own back. In fact she usually does that first, to save time.”

“Oh,” said Catherine. Then: “I may have mentioned her entanglement with Peter Judd.”

“Yeah, that would do it.” This entanglement, involving Diana’s accepting funding for Service ops from a cabal led by a notorious power-seeker, was not something she wanted public light shed on. Lamb looked at the cigarette he was holding, then stubbed it out in a tinfoil container squatting among the papers on his desk. “I’d be careful crossing roads if I were you. In fact, I’d be careful sitting quietly in your room. She’s got a long reach.”

“I think she’s got more to worry about right now.”

“If she can’t protect the Service from a Number Ten land grab, she doesn’t deserve to be in the job.”

It had been Judd Catherine was thinking about, not Downing Street. “You think the PM’s got an eye on the Park?”

“I think the PM keeps both eyes on the nearest pair of tits,” said Lamb. “But that garden gnome that makes his decisions for him seems pretty keen on taking back control. And that would involve sidelining Taverner, yeah.”

“I didn’t realise you kept track of the Westminster bubble.”

He put a hand down his trousers again. When it reappeared, it was holding another cigarette. “Only in case it causes me grief. Like that butterfly effect. Some arsehole flaps his wings in SW1, next thing you know there’s a storm in my teacup. Speaking of which.” He reached for the mug on his desk, and tossed it at her. About half an ounce of cold tea containing at least two cigarette ends scattered around the room, much of it spattering Catherine’s dress.

“For heaven’s sake!”

“That’s for lying about the milk.”

“Are you ever going to—oh, forget it!” She left the mug where it had landed and returned to her own room, where she did damage limitation with a box of tissues. While she was there, she heard the others coming up the stairs: Louisa, Lech, Roderick, Ashley.

It hadn’t escaped her that he’d said nothing about what happened in Wimbledon. That had been the point of throwing the mug, she realised. He was always one for creating a distraction messier than whatever he was covering up. Which was either a very good attribute for a spook, or a very bad one. So he either did it deliberately, to give the wrong impression, or it came as naturally to him as smoking and farting, always supposing he wasn’t faking them too.

She spent far too much time trying to understand him. She should just accept that he was what he was, and get on with life.

When she returned to his office, the others were filing in, Louisa, Lech and Roddy helping themselves to hand sanitiser as they passed. Ashley didn’t. Catherine raised an eyebrow.

“I’ll use it on the way out,” Ashley said.

“Are they all here?” Lamb asked Catherine. “I lose count.”

“It’s not like it’s a huge number,” Louisa said.

“And why are two of them wearing masks?”

“Only one of them’s wearing a mask,” Catherine said. “And that’s her right.”

Lech made jazz hands. “Same face as yesterday,” he said. “But I appreciate being noticed.”

“Yeah, enjoy it. With your looks, it’s the closest you’ll get to consensual sex.” Lamb looked at Ashley. “That’s a funny hijab. What’s it decorated with, germs?”

“It’s not a hijab. And they would be emojis.”

“Well, smiley face, ironic wink, you’d better get used to communicating that way. On account of I can’t hear a word you’re saying with that thing on.”

“If you didn’t hear me, how come you know what I said?”

“Best not to encourage him,” Catherine said quietly.

Lamb gave his injured martyr look. “Eye roll. Pay no attention to Jane Eyre. She’s been in a snit since I friend-zoned her.”

“Could we get on with things, please?”

“Unless anyone else has something to contribute?” He stared at Roddy Ho. “Hmm?”

“Well—”

“Shut up.” He gazed round at the rest of them. “Now, it won’t have escaped your attention that there’s fewer of you than there used to be. Which means there’s more work to go round, because that’s just plain maths. So you two,” meaning Lech and Louisa, “can split whatever Dander was doing. And you,” meaning Roddy, “find out what Cartwright was up to and finish it.”

“What about me?” asked Ashley.

“You carry on doing what you’re doing. Only do twice as much of it.”

“I’m doing nothing.”

“Yeah, so you could probably get away with only doing half as much again.” He squashed the side of his nose with his finger and winked horribly. “Just make sure I don’t find out.”

“There’s probably an emoji for that,” muttered Louisa.

“Thank you, smartarse. Since you’re crammed full of general knowledge this morning, tell the ship’s monkey here where the Russian embassy is.”

He gestured with his unlit cigarette at Roddy Ho.

“It’s on Bayswater Road,” Louisa said. “Why?”

“Because he pretty certainly doesn’t know.”

“I meant why—”

“Because one of us gets to give instructions, and the rest of us get to carry them out. See if you can work out who’s who. My door’s always open.”

Lech said, “The stuff you’ve got us on already, the social media dropouts and the library lists and the rest, they’ll pretty much take us forever to finish. So how do you expect us to do Shirley and River’s jobs as well?”

“Well, that’s something for you to brood on next time you’re planning a jolly of your own, isn’t it?” He opened the three left-hand drawers of his desk, and slammed them shut in quick succession. Then fumbled through his jacket pockets before producing a lighter. “If I wanted you to display anything, I’d choose something you can spell. Initiative’s not the first thing that’d come to mind.” He lit his cigarette and tossed the lighter over his shoulder. It landed with a plastic bump. “Your arse’d be the first thing that comes to mind. I appreciate that’s a novel experience for you, but imagine how it makes me feel.”

“I already knew where the Russian Embassy is,” said Roddy.

“Amazing. Skillset like yours, you could work for Deliveroo, once you’ve learned to ride a bike.”

“I can already—”

“Yeah, shut up. There’s enough CCTV round there to stage an Olympic opening ceremony, right? Usual traffic stuff, plus local security, plus whatever the Park’s set up to keep the Ivans in the spotlight. So you do whatever it is you do when you’re not playing Star Trek, and hijack or lojack or just plain jack off one or other or all of these, and let me know when you’re done.” He exhaled smoke without apparently having inhaled any yet. “Because today’s the day the teddy bear’s having a picnic. And I want to know who’s invited.”

Which didn’t so much cast light on the assembled company as push them a little further into the dark.

Catherine said, “Perhaps, when you’re giving instructions, you could aim for more clarity?”

“Christ. I should use flashcards.” He leaned forward, and all present, bar Ashley, braced. Sudden changes of position often signalled an oncoming fart. “The Russian Embassy—Russian, bear, get it?—the Russian Embassy’s hosting a shindig this evening. And I’d like Kung Fu Panda here to provide a list of those turning up for caviar and chips. Is that clear enough? Why are you all retreating?”

“Eager to get on with the job,” said Louisa.

“Nice to see some enthusiasm for a change. I’m pretty sure I’m due a tea break myself. Oh, wait. One more thing.” He paused. They waited. He farted. “No, sorry. Forgot what I was about to say.”

Lech and Louisa stopped off in the kitchen before heading to their offices: she put the kettle on; he leaned against the fridge and groaned.

“Take more painkillers,” she suggested. “Has Bachelor been in touch?”

“Thanks for the sympathy. He called, yes.”

“Everything okay?”

“I’d have said if it wasn’t. Catherine doesn’t know about any of this, does she?”

“Doesn’t appear so.”

“And he normally tells her stuff. You think this Russian Embassy do is connected?”

“I think Lamb wasn’t kidding when he told us to keep quiet about it.”

Or I’ll do for both your careers what he’s already done to his face, had been Lamb’s codicil.

The kettle boiled as Ashley came in, still wearing her mask, and carrying a Tupperware box with a sticker attached. hands off, it read. “It smells like wet dog in his office,” she said.

“I’ve stopped noticing,” Louisa said.

“You do realise that’s not a good thing? Can I get in there?” The fridge, she meant. Lech moved aside, and she bent to deposit the box, apparently trying to conceal it behind a tub of margarine.

“Is that your lunch?” Louisa asked.

“Uh-huh.”

“Because the chances of Lamb not stealing it are up there with the chances of him going on a diet.”

Ashley shrugged and shut the fridge door, then shut it again when it swung open. “Did he really make you all come in during lockdown?”

Lech said, “His point was, we’re in the security service. If it got out that we’re not remotely key workers, it might be bad for public morale.”

“Because that’s a priority with him,” said Ashley.

“You have to understand,” Louisa told her, “most of what he says and most of what he does is just to wind us up. That’s what being at Slough House is all about.”

“If the boredom of the work doesn’t see you off,” Lech said, “the stress of his constant goading might do the trick.”

“Well when I’m back at the Park,” Ashley said, “he’s going to face the stress of some serious grievance procedures. Lots of them. He smokes in here. That’s not even legal.”

Louisa and Lech shared a glance.

“What? It isn’t. There’s a law.”

“You do realise this isn’t a temporary posting?”

“That’s only when you’ve messed up. And I didn’t. That bastard broke my arm. He’s the one should be reassigned.”

“That should matter,” Lech said, “but it doesn’t. Once you’re here, you’re here.”

“It’s like the Hotel California,” Louisa elaborated. “Only for demoted spooks instead of cokehead clubbers.”

“Well, Shirley,” Lech said.

“Yeah, okay, Shirley. But my point stands. You don’t get passage back to where you were before.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. What’s California got to do with it?”

“Never mind. But forget about the Park. If you hate it here, quit. That’s your only option.”

“Well you both obviously hate it,” said Ashley. “So why do you stay?”

The kettle turned itself off, bubbling steam into the air.

“In case we’re wrong,” Louisa said at last.

The file on Dr. Sophie de Greer was slender, and an hour spent on Google hadn’t fleshed it out much. De Greer was an academic, attached to the University of Berne but on sabbatical these past six months, working in London with a group chaired by Anthony Sparrow, codenamed—or possibly just named—Rethink#1. Her discipline was political history, but her attraction for Sparrow was her status as a superforecaster; someone with a knack for accurate predictions, particularly, in her case, regarding electoral responses to policy initiatives. Such talents were assessed, Whelan knew, in clinical conditions: in de Greer’s instance, in a string of tests carried out in Switzerland and France. One result gave her ninety-two per cent accuracy in forecasting voting swings in a series of local elections across four European states, an achievement, the file suggested, on a par with scoring a hat trick in a World Cup final. It would have impressed Whelan no end, if he’d admired conjuring tricks.

But superforecasting was, to his mind, flavour-of-the-month stuff. Every administration brought its own stage dressing, from Blair’s “pretty straight guys,” who had briefly imagined themselves the living embodiment of some TV liberal fantasy, to the current crew, a homogenous bunch—because those with independent outlooks had been culled in the first weeks—under the sway of a wave of Svengalis with that fetish for disruption that had rolled tsunami-like across the globe this past decade. Weirdos and misfits they proudly asserted, as if the groundstaff of any political movement had ever comprised anything else. Sociopathy had long been recognised as a handy attribute in politics. Only recently had it been considered worth boasting about. This was the context in which those with de Greer’s peculiar talents were enrolled like jesters at a medieval court, which was better than being rounded up as witches, Whelan supposed. Better for them, anyway. How it would work out for everybody else had yet to be determined.

And lately, prized or not, Sophie de Greer—blonde, thirty-seven, five five; suit and tie in the accompanying photo, though presumably not always—had dropped off, if not necessarily the map, at least some pages of the A–Z; those covering Whitehall and the offices occupied by Rethink#1 on the South Bank, a short walk from Waterloo. Scheduled to attend a meeting chaired by Sparrow three days previously, she had neither turned up nor sent apologies; phone calls went unanswered, emails ignored. Later that day, one of Number Ten’s security team was despatched to her apartment to determine that she hadn’t fallen ill, died or ODed in bed, and reported back in the negative. Nor were there signs of abduction. It was hard to determine whether she had packed for departure, given the few belongings she’d brought to London, but it seemed that, wherever she was, she had a walking-round kit: wallet, phone, iPad, passport. There was no record of her having left the country, no apparent reason for her to want to vanish. Her flat, a six-month let, had weeks to run. Her position on Rethink#1 was “secure”: Sparrow’s word.

None of this amounted to much. And three days wasn’t a long time to be invisible, in Whelan’s opinion. Evidence of a more protracted disappearance lay all around him. In the furnace of government, of course, other metrics applied: Sparrow clearly expected hourly contact with—or from—his team, making a lapse like de Greer’s an aberration. But was it mystifying? From all Whelan had heard, Anthony Sparrow was best kept at a distance; the PM’s string-puller according to some, his headbutter-in-chief to others, he was nobody’s idea of a good time either way. Perhaps de Greer had simply decided she’d had enough, and gone to seek more agreeable company: a bunch of drunk golfers, or a basket of rats. But there would always be those who saw, or professed to see, conspiracy, just as there would always be those who engineered it. Few were more aware of this than Whelan.

Because, prior to his elevation to First Desk, Claude Whelan had worked over the river. Scenes & Ways had been his department—Schemes and Wheezes, in the jargon; a typically schoolboy designation for what had begun, literally, as a cut-throat division, its original brief having been to plot assassinations. This had been during wartime, its current operatives would reassure newcomers, sometimes remembering to add “obviously.” In Whelan’s early years, destabilisation scenarios were the hot-button issue; leverage applied by major players to keep the ragamuffin nations to heel. Then the internet levelled the playing field, and the old rule-book was trampled underfoot. Once, you had to appear big to play the bully. Now minnows could be rogue nations too. Keyboards were weaponised, trolls emerged from under bridges, and somewhere along the way free elections turned into free-for-alls, as if democracy were a shaggy dog story to which a joke president was the punchline. All those decades of the arms race, and it turned out there was no greater damage you could inflict on a state than ensure it was led by an idiot. Somewhere, someone, probably, was laughing.

These thoughts required Whelan to shake himself like a dog waking up. The world’s problems weren’t his doing. His own problems, even: not all were his fault either. And yet. And yet. He had worked in a dirty business, which had helped produce a dirty world. Small surprise that when he’d been in a position to make a difference he’d been brought low by dirty tricks; a ruination engineered not by anonymous disruptors, but by the current First Desk herself, Diana Taverner, aided and abetted by the loathsome Jackson Lamb. And here he was, gifted an opportunity to poke around in Taverner’s cupboards . . .

It was possible he was being used. Sparrow’s ambition to open his umbrella over every aspect of the state machinery was well known, and de Greer’s disappearance could be a ruse to allow him access to the Park. Letting Whelan run the investigation was a slap in the face to Taverner—having her predecessor investigate her actions presupposed a guilty finding. If that were all true, where did Whelan’s loyalties lie? Not with either side. Not with any bad actor, whether in the Service he’d led or the government he’d served. So why not with himself, this once? It still rankled, his fall from grace, and why shouldn’t he take some measure of revenge? It wasn’t really him, he knew that. He was nobody’s idea of an avenging knight. But wasn’t it time for a change, and Christ, he was havering like bloody Hamlet. Enough. He had said he would do it. So enough.

Whelan read through the file once more, but learned nothing new. That done, he rang the Park and informed Diana Taverner that he was on his way to see her.

With her office door ajar, an inch-wide view of the landing was available to Ashley. If anyone entered the kitchen, she’d know. No matter how quiet they were, they’d darken her door.

A slim thing to concentrate on, but she had nothing else to do. Literally: nothing. It was like being an extra in a crowd scene—she was dressed the part, she took up space, she had no lines to deliver.

A week ago, she’d followed Lamb home, or that had been her plan—she’d wanted to see where he lived, how he lived. A mental picture was easy: a pigsty with a car on bricks out front. The possibility that he shared this dwelling she briefly entertained, but when she tried to bring a cohabitee into focus, the image seared and melted. Who would share their life with Lamb? Apart from the slow horses, obviously. Slow horses don’t count. She’d learned that much.

But in the end, her plan fell apart. For two hours she’d waited on the Barbican terrace, roosting on a flowerbed’s brick border. Her healed arm ached, a dull reminder of why she sought revenge, as—hood up, mask on—she stared across a meagre flow of traffic at Slough House. By this time in her career, her training completed, her hand-in assessed—and she’d done a good job on that—she should have been assigned to a Park department. She’d been hoping for Ops. Instead she’d had six months of administrative nightmare, fighting her reassignment to Slough House, which happened anyway. So here she was, and the evening had grown smeary and grey long before Lamb appeared, an unkempt figure spilling out of the alleyway. He paused to light a cigarette then stepped off down Aldersgate Street, weaving slightly as if drunk. Unpeeling herself from her perch, she flitted over the footbridge to follow him, maintaining that safe distance drummed into her at the Park: far enough away that you can fade; near enough that there’s no gap he can slip through. Hood up, mask on. Everything was disguise.

The Old Street junction was busy, queues of traffic bidding for dominance, and the cold made Ashley’s eyes water, adding lens-flare to the reds and greens and ambers, the yellows and whites. Lamb was a blurry solid amidst this flashing circus, crossing the road with no apparent regard for moving vehicles. A bus blocked her view but he was still there once it had passed, on the opposite pavement, hobbling north. There was a pub on that corner whose curved windows suggested a bygone era; behind it lay a patch of wasteground enclosed by hoardings. There’d been shops or houses there, but it was now a barely curated absence, a temporary space where you could park all day for twenty pounds. She was crossing the road when Lamb slipped past the horizontal pole guarding its single point of entrance. Did Lamb have a car? One not propped up on bricks? It seemed too normal. But if he did, and this was where he parked it, that was it. He’d soon be gone.

Her heart sinking—already sunk—she picked a shop doorway in which to huddle, waiting for the telltale glow of headlights, but none came, and no car hauled into view. Five minutes. Ten. She’d approached the pole at last and stood peering into the dark. There were only half a dozen vehicles on the cracked, sloping ground, which looked like a sinkhole waiting to happen, its only redeeming feature the absence of Lamb, and even this a drawback in the circumstances. The sheet-metal hoarding reached around three sides of the rough square; the fourth was a four-storey wall from which the vanished building had been sheared off, the ghostly outline of a stairwell visible on its battered surface. She’d been monitoring the only exit, which Lamb hadn’t used. At the same time, she couldn’t lose the feeling that he remained close by, watching her.

At length she’d turned and walked away, back up Aldersgate Street, past Slough House, down into the tube. She felt wrung out by the time she got home to her cramped room in her noisy house; wrung out but simultaneously seething. An hour later, cross-legged on her bed with her laptop, she’d found and ordered the Dorset Naga, and like a spy had tweaked her name when providing an address.

Her view of the landing broke and mended itself. She held her breath: in the kitchen, the fridge door creaked open, then closed. There was a moment’s silence, an unusual blessing in Slough House, whose floorboards sigh when they’re not in use and groan when they are, and then the figure moved past her doorway again, heading upstairs.

With no sign of glee on her face, in her eyes, Ashley carried on doing nothing, but in her heart there swelled the knowledge that her shark had taken the bait.

“You’re looking tired, Claude. All well at home?”

Fifteen love, thought Whelan. And he’d not sat down yet.

“Fine, thanks, Diana. And you?”

“Oh, you know this job. Turn your back five minutes, there’s another dagger sticking out of it.”

“Don’t remind me.” The memory of Diana’s own dagger still itched between Claude’s shoulder blades. Long-term effects included the fact that he needed a visitor’s badge to be here in the Park.

Where little had changed. The hub was still the hub, that hive of activity where the boys and girls—as they continued to be known—fiddled about on the margins of the right to privacy, and the air was still one degree too cold, and the season-specific lighting flickered now and then, as it always had done. Though elevated to First Desk status, Diana Taverner still occupied the same office: the one with the glass wall that frosted to opacity at the touch of a button, an effect, he’d once daydreamed, that replicated what you’d get if a bullet passed through it. Back then, he’d imagined a bullet might do Diana harm. These days, he doubted a stake in the heart would dismay her.

She invited him to sit; he sat. They discussed coffee, but briefly: she was busy, and he clearly wasn’t worth the time. He made a comment about her recent appearance on Question Time; she took it as a compliment. They got down to business.

“Oliver tells me he’s reactivated you.”

She sounded amused.

“Hardly. I’m simply doing a favour.”

“I would have thought all those committees kept you busy enough.”

The committees—Whelan sat on several, notably the Pandemic Response body, also known as the Stable Doormen—were largely decorative; inquiries whose findings had been determined before their instigation, but whose existence had been deemed necessary to deflect attention from the issues they considered. The row over the lack of disabled BAME women on the panel examining the suicide rate among those denied Universal Credit, for example, had been raging for six months. But none of that was on his agenda right now, so he simply said, “Be that as it may. Oliver asked, I answered.”

“He points, you march. Always the good soldier.”

“I’m not sure duty is to be scoffed at. Or that this is the place to do that.”

She inclined her head ever so slightly. “As you say. I don’t mean to make light of your sense of responsibility. I’m just wondering why it’s brought you to me. As I understand it, you’re investigating a non-occurrence.”

“If nothing’s occurred, it shouldn’t take long to clear up,” said Whelan. “Is your confidence based on knowledge or magical thinking?”

“It’s based on, I don’t actually know where everybody is at any given time. But that doesn’t mean everybody’s missing. It just means they’re somewhere else.”

“Very neat, Diana. Shall we call in one of the philosophy graduates you have out there?” He gestured through the glass wall. “See how long it takes them to demolish your position?”

She sighed. “All right, all right. Sophie de Greer. You mentioned magical thinking, that seems to be her speciality. Lady Macbeth to Number Ten’s would-be king hereafter. I get it that Sparrow doesn’t want her wandering free as a cloud, but she’s only been out of sight a few days. I really don’t see what the fuss is about.”

“But you’ve given it some thought.”

She dismissed that notion without so much as a gesture. “Obviously, after your call, I had someone do background. You’ll remember Josie? I think she was one of your favourites.”

“I tried not to have favourites. It didn’t make for a comfortable working environment.” He shifted in his seat. “As for fuss, well. De Greer’s involved in discussions, in policy talks, with very senior—”

“Unelected.”

“—advisers to HMG. It’s hardly surprising her disappearance has caused alarm bells to ring.”

“She might simply have gone on holiday.”

“She doesn’t appear to have left the country.”

“So? She’s a Swiss citizen. Being here’s a holiday. Has her visa expired?”

“No.”

“Well, then. As far as I’m aware, and that’s quite some distance, here in the UK we’re not currently required to inform the authorities of our whereabouts on a daily basis. Since she’s not subject to a self-isolation order, Dr. de Greer could be tramping round the Lake District, halfway up Snowdonia or being eaten alive by Highland midges. It’s not actually any of our business.”

“No, not until I was asked by Oliver Nash to investigate her whereabouts. At which point, it became our business.”

“Not to pull rank, Claude, but there’s a gap between ‘your’ and ‘our.’ You haven’t been behind a desk in this building for some while.”

“And yet Nash has the authority to, what was your word? Reactivate me.”

“Don’t get carried away. That’s a visitor’s badge, not a sheriff’s star. Look, whatever’s going on, it’ll turn out to be dirty politics. That’s how these people operate. De Greer’s a troublemaker. I don’t know what it says on her website, but that’s what she specialises in. Making trouble.”

“Superforecaster is the technical term.”

“Does that sound like a job title to you? Last time we had one of those in Number Ten, they turned out to be even weirder than the advert asked for. Some Nazi-leaning incel pipsqueak. You’d think their vetting procedures would have tightened up.”

Whelan could see this conversation getting away from him, and decided to reel it in. He said, “The word waterproof has been mentioned.”

“. . . Waterproof?”

“I’m sure you recall the protocol.”

Diana affected to pretend to remember. So many protocols, so long behind the wheel. “That’s ancient history.”

“A lot of things are fairly old, but that doesn’t mean they’re not still in use. Clocks? Kettles?”

“Retirement has made you skittish. Who on earth raised that rabbit? You’re not telling me it was Oliver?”

Whelan gave her his best poker face.

“No, you’re not telling me it was anyone. But we both know Oliver has loose lips, whether he’s stuffing things past them or blurting things out. So it all comes down to whoever he’s been talking to recently, doesn’t it?”

He thought: He could just sit here without saying another word. There was every chance the conversation would continue without him.

The first time he’d heard of the protocol had been in this room, several years ago. Diana had been his guide to the underworld in those days, his first as First Desk. His ascent to the role had taken an unconventional route, and he was almost as much a stranger to the Park as any of those gentle souls who took the visitors’ trip round the upstairs regions, where they were shown the acceptable side of the Service: its hallways and hatracks; the discreet busts in their nooks; the display cases of Cold War knick-knackery—radio transmitters in bootheels and the like. Oohs and Aahs were the appropriate response. A thin-lipped nod was the best Claude could muster as Diana had revealed the darker aspects to the role he’d been assigned; if not actually handing him the chalice—that had been a decision taken over her head—at least pointing out how battered and stained it was; how he should take care drinking from it if he didn’t want a cut lip. His induction into the dangerous edge of things. His teacher among the dangers awaiting him, though he hadn’t known that then.

Waterproof, he learned, had been briefly in use years earlier, in the wake of various events whose anniversaries were still marked by minutes of public silence. During that period, the Service had acquired a broad remit for dealing with those suspected of involvement in terrorist attacks. Public trials—“You won’t need me to tell you,” she’d told him—were preferred for those likely to be found guilty, while the more circumstantially involved received more circumspect treatment. Waterproof, in a word. A form of anonymised rendition. This wasn’t about returning bad actors to the wings; it was about removing them from the cast list altogether. Records were sealed. Names erased. And the subjects never saw daylight again. Even today they’d be alive somewhere, some of them, living out what was left of their span in unwindowed cells in black prisons in eastern Europe. Cells the size of phone booths.

“A gateway drug to capitalism,” Diana had told him. “All those former Soviet states leasing out their gulags to the west. A handy dumping ground for our undesirables.”

And this wasn’t still in use—not something he’d be expected to implement? Or defend, god help him?

No, the protocol had been consigned to the NH file. Never Happened. The most Whelan had to do was launch an inquiry that would ensure that no current Upper Desk need fear this particular chicken coming to roost in any of their drawers.

This much at least Whelan had recognised. London Rules. Cover your arse.

All of which was long in the past, but he had no doubt Diana’s recollection was as sharp as his own, an intuition she now confirmed. “Well, whoever he’s been talking to, he’s barking at the wrong dog. There was a commission, remember? Your doing. ‘No evidence that such protocol was ever utilised.’ Not a finding likely to be overturned, not while the report itself is still in heavy wrappers.”

Meaning, Whelan knew, that it was subject to the thirty-year rule.

He said, and was self-consciously mild of tone in doing so: “But we both know that Waterproof was used.”

“Not during my tenure. But are you about to make a confession? Josie’s somewhere about, if we need a witness.”

The idea that he might have implemented something like Waterproof without Diana having been aware of it was almost amusing.

His poker face clearly wasn’t doing its job. Diana shook her head. “Claude, whatever Oliver’s playing at, or whatever he’s been instructed to look like he’s playing at, it’s mischief-making, that’s all. Waterproof’s history, it’s less than history. Remember the NH file? And before that, before it never happened, it was Charles Partner’s brainchild, and only Dame Ingrid ever made full use of it. Charles, of course, is unavailable for comment. Ingrid’s in North Carolina. Rumour has it she’s taken up quilting. So if you’re planning on hauling her before a truth and reconciliation committee, you’d better get a wiggle on, because I assume she’s at death’s door. No one would take up quilting if they expected to be doing it for long.”

“I’m not sure the budget will sustain a long-distance trip.”

“Welcome to my world. I have to go on bended knee if I want the shredder serviced.” She mock-grimaced. “You should be thankful you didn’t need coffee. We’re buying a supermarket-brand, in bulk.”

Whelan said, “None of which gets us nearer the point at issue, which is the whereabouts of Dr. de Greer. I’m operating on goodwill, obviously, but bear in mind it’s a goodwill requested by Oliver. And one of the suggestions he’s made is that I verify there’s been no contact between the Service and Dr. de Greer during the time she’s been stationed in London.”

“Of course. Perhaps we could find you an office? You could hold court while I have my staff wade through half a year’s worth of comms data on the off-chance we’ll turn up something that helps. It might get in the way of any actual work, but listen, what’s national security compared to your convenience?”

“Diana—”

“Or I could simply reiterate what I’ve already said. Wherever the woman’s got to, it has nothing to do with us. Think about it. Why would the Service be involved? She’s a Swiss citizen, haven’t they got their own way of dealing with their misshapes? Dip her in chocolate and wrap her in foil or whatever. Because all this, this favour Oliver’s got you doing, it’s pretty clear he’s having his leash tugged by Number Ten, by which I mean Anthony Sparrow. Who presumably has de Greer hidden in his basement while he sets the dogs on us. Waterproof’s his way in, that’s all. The leverage he hopes to bring the walls down with, so he can walk in and take charge. But not while I’m First Desk, Claude. Maybe you could let Oliver know? And I think that brings this meeting to a close.”

She could, he knew, breathe fire, and there was a moment there when she came pretty close. But not while I’m First Desk, Claude. There was a reason she’d always considered herself right for this job, and watching her seethe in her office, it was hard to deny she made a convincing argument. But Whelan, even while marking this, was noticing something else: that he didn’t much care. He had his own problems. While watching Diana Taverner work her way towards fury might once have had him checking the exits, right now, he felt little more than an interested detachment. And the continuing resolve to do what he’d come here to do.

He said, “Glad you’ve got that off your chest. Could we get down to practicalities? I think phone records to start with. Let’s assume she had actual numbers to ring rather than just the switchboard. So we’ll begin on the hub and move out from there.” He smiled. “Just official lines for now, but I’m not ruling out checking personal mobiles.”

Diana studied him for a long moment, an unfamiliar glint in her eye. She looked like her lunch had just moved. But that went, and she spoke again. “All right. We’ll do it your way. But you’re not getting an office. You can wait in Briefing Two, I think that’s free. I’ll have someone bring you the paperwork once we’ve run a search.”

“On a disk, if you don’t mind.” Whelan was maintaining that smile: it was beginning to feel painted on. “More searchable.”

He wasn’t so detached he didn’t wonder if he’d gone a little far there, but Diana didn’t even twitch. “As you say.”

Whelan remembered full well where Briefing Two was, but even so he remained seated while Diana sent for someone to escort him. He spent the interval running the scoring in his head, and was pretty sure Diana had been out in front for most of the conversation. But was equally confident he’d won the only point that counted: the one that finished the match.

There was a game you could play, if you were into childish shit. Roddy wasn’t—a surefire way to tell a busy dude from a lightweight: no time for pissing about—but he’d heard the others at it, and what you did was, you saw a yellow car, and you mentioned it. End of. It beggared belief, what entertained the hard of thought.

Went without saying, though, that if Roddy cared, he’d be world-beating—it never happened that he saw a car without noticing what colour it was. No wonder the others never asked him to play.

Anyway, the reason that came to mind was, he’d spent half the day staring at images of cars; video footage of the front of the Russian Embassy—Bayswater Road, as if he’d needed telling. There’d been a steady stream of arrivals: catering for the reception, plus taxis and limos delivering early guests, shuttled from airports with cases and suit carriers. He captured screenshots, and sent them to Louisa to run through face-recog. His own program was faster and better, but she didn’t know that, and it would give her an excuse to come and hang out with him.

“Black car,” he murmured, as another visitor arrived.

The footage was black and white, but with cabs you could just tell.

The new arrival didn’t pause to admire the place before going in, which maybe meant he knew it already. He had no luggage; just a small carrier bag from Harrods. And something about the way he got out of the cab suggested he was also familiar with the cameras trained on the entrance: the Service coverage—which Roddy was piggybacking; technically not a feature he had access to, but the word “technically” applied only to those for whom tech itself was a barrier—had its blind spots, and this guy was occupying them like a dancer working the limelight. The best screengrab Roddy could manage was a straight-on back-of-the-head. He popped it down to Louisa anyway, so nobody could say he wasn’t covering all the angles.

A thing about all this work, though; he still hadn’t made that call yet. Any woman desperate enough to dress up as a cartoon character . . . Anyone else, it would look like avoidance, but here was the Rodster’s code: Chicks can wait. This stuff—he was basically spying on the Russians, dude—this stuff took priority.

Another taxi went past. “Black car,” he said again. Man, this game was beyond average.

A draught snaked through a gap in the cardboard mosaic over the window, and he sat back in his chair. Sheesh—that thing with the window. Catherine Standish had not been pleased. But that was improv for you: you relied on the tools at hand. A broom wasn’t combat-quality—you needed your actual staff to pull off the trickier moves. So when you were caught up in the moment and just grabbed what was nearest, well, windows were going to get broken. What was he supposed to do about it? Until they installed a dojo on the premises he was basically making do, and didn’t see why he should take a bollocking simply for keeping himself battle-fit.

Speaking of which, a man needs to eat. He lunched off half a tube of barbecue-flavoured Pringles and a chunky KitKat, and was licking the wrapper when Louisa came in clutching a stack of printouts.

“Thanks for the extra work. Really, I’ve not enough to do without having a couple of dozen faces to run through a clapped-out recognition program. Can’t you do it yourself?”

“I’m doing the actual surveillance.”

“Oh, yeah, forgot. Men don’t multitask.” She glanced at her notes. “Okay, so. Eleven no matches of any kind. Seven around eighty per cent sure, all the possibles being middle-ranking business types with no security flags. Three tripped warning bells, they’re probably FSB. That foursome who turned up in a van? They’re a string quartet from Bath. The woman with the squint is a quite well-regarded poet, and you should let Lamb know that, because I suspect Lamb’s really interested in poetry. As for the mystery man, and he’s my favourite, the one you only got the back of the head of? I’ve got slightly more than twenty-three hundred possible matches.” She slapped the notes down on his desk. “See, the thing is, you need a recognisable characteristic or two before the program does its stuff. Just having a head does not count.”

“He was avoiding the cameras.”

“You think?”

“It’s pretty obv—”

“Don’t send any more. It’s boring, and the program keeps freezing.”

Lech wandered in. “This the Russian Embassy gig?”

“Yeah, wonderboy here had me putting names to faces.”

“I’d have told wonderboy to get stuffed.” He noted the Pringles tube and the crumpled chocolate wrapper. “Which he seems to have done anyway.”

“Sod off, hashtag features.”

“That was my plan,” said Louisa. “But Lamb wanted a list.”

“He always wants lists. I think he’s smoking them.” Lech glanced at the cardboard shroud around the window by his desk, and said to Roddy, “I see you’ve installed air-con.”

“Yeah, well, I see you’ve installed . . .”

They waited.

“. . . Stupid marks on your face.”

“I can’t work out,” said Louisa, “whether he’s better at repartee or driving.”

Recalling Roddy’s driving talents, Lech rubbed a bruise or two before picking up the topmost of Louisa’s printouts. “They have these three or four times a year,” he said. “They bring in some lecturer from the homeland, who bores the locals rigid for a couple of hours, then everyone gets pissed. Taverner has half the hub watching the footage in case any celebrities show.”

“Does that ever happen?”

“Molly Doran got excited once. Some living waxwork turned up, she said he’d debriefed Philby back in the day.”

“She’s collecting the set. One hundred spooks you must see before you die.”

“Before they die, more like.”

Roddy said, “You think that’s Lamb’s plan?”

They looked at him.

He said, “All these old spooks.” He raised one eyebrow, or thought he did. He was actually raising both. “You think Lamb’s bumping them off?”

Louisa approached Roddy’s desk, leaned across it and stage-whispered into his ear. “You’re not supposed to know about that.”

“. . . Okay.”

“Best to pretend you never said it. You with me, Rodster?”

“. . . I’m with you.”

She patted his cheek softly. “Smart boy.”

“. . . Uh, Louisa?”

“What?”

He nodded at the nearest monitor. “Black car.”

Louisa looked at the screen, looked at Roddy, looked back at the screen, and then looked at Roddy again. “Keep up the good work,” she told him, and left the office, followed by Lech.

Home again, Whelan found the landline handset winking at him, but when he checked it was a cold caller, concerned about his financial arrangements. It was nice that someone cared. He pressed delete anyway.

After a protracted vigil in Briefing Two—an antiseptic chamber whose chief feature was the number of available sockets: they studded the walls, and lurked beneath little trapdoors in the floor—he’d been startled by the almost noiseless appearance of, inevitably, Josie-from-the-hub. I tried not to have favourites. It didn’t make for a comfortable working environment. He knew all the horror stories about male bosses and their PAs but it hadn’t been like that; he’d been aware Josie had a soft spot for him, but he’d never acted upon it. He was old enough to be her . . . Not that that mattered. He’d been, still was, married.

“Lord, Josie, my dear, how are you—”

And then that excruciating moment when he’d leaned for a hug, and she’d pulled back to the same degree.

“Of course, no, sorry sorry sorry—”

It would have been better without the apology. That way, they could both have pretended the moment had never happened.

Recovery was achieved in a politely brittle manner: It was good to see him, how had he been, how was retirement? He’d attempted refutation—not retirement, he wasn’t that old, thanks, Josie, not quite yet—but was merely compounding his error. She smiled efficiently and handed him a love token. No she didn’t: she handed him an oddly fun-coloured thing, bright pink. A thumb drive.

“The phone records? A bit raw, I’m afraid, but Diana said you were in a hurry?”

“Oh yes, very much, thanks. I’m sure I’ll make sense of them.”

Whether he would or wouldn’t being beside the point by then. All he wanted was to get out of the building.

He signed for the thumb drive while Josie recited some boilerplate about not copying or transferring the enclosed material, and swore on his neverborn children that it would be returned upon completion of his investigation: a “standard security measure,” though he wondered whether it wasn’t also budget-driven. His visitor’s lanyard, too, she needed back. She walked him up the stairs, and he felt like an inconvenient neighbour, or barely tolerated uncle. One you’d not seat next to your daughter, if you all ended up in the same taxi.

Old, yes, god. Replacing the receiver he said, aloud, “I’m sorry, Claire,” and his wife’s name made itself at home; busied itself in plumping up cushions and straightening the magazines on the coffee table before disappearing into the airy stillness of the house.

He made a pot of tea and a butterless sandwich—he’d forgotten to take a new packet from the fridge. One of a hundred small hurdles to trip over, daily. But the tea was fine. Semi-refreshed, he reached for his laptop and plugged the new drive in to discover that it contained two hundred and seventeen files, a number of them very large. It was impossible not to sigh. Had he really promised Nash he would see this through? Or had he simply agreed to poke around a little, and see if anything stirred?

Nothing was stirring on his laptop, that was for sure. When he opened the largest file, it unrolled a huge column of numbers, dates, times: the length of calls made to separate numbers at the Park, and the numbers from which they had originated. Did he really think studying this was going to provide any solutions? He felt like a patsy in a fairy tale, one who’s just been tasked with matching up a cellarful of odd buttons, and closed the file before the numbers sucked him in. Then poured more tea, and leaned back and closed his eyes.

He thought: Diana thinks, or wants me to think she thinks, that I’m really looking into Waterproof and not de Greer. Which means she either wants me to do that, because she doesn’t want me looking into de Greer, or she doesn’t want me to do that and is only letting me think she thinks that’s what I’m doing in order to make me think she doesn’t care if it is. So she either wants me not to look into Waterproof, or wants me not to look into de Greer.

It was good to have clarity.

He pondered for some moments, and then checked the material Nash had forwarded. The details included Dr. Sophie de Greer’s mobile number; the phone she hadn’t used since she’d disappeared, and from which she’d removed the battery, or otherwise rendered untraceable. This he keyed into a search box he then applied to the fun-coloured memory stick. It took little more than two seconds.

One result.

Whelan hadn’t been expecting this. Taverner’s lack of resistance to his having these records had strongly suggested they would contain nothing of interest; did that mean she had a particular desire that he see the one hit they contained? She must know it was there; she’d never have approved handover of the files without first ascertaining what they’d tell him. Unless—and here was a novel idea—unless she’d been telling the truth, and had no interest in de Greer and no involvement in her disappearance. Whelan could feel his skull tightening. This was what Spook Street did to you. You stepped onto its pavements and the world instantly became unsure of itself; its depths an illusion, its shallows treacherous. All of it set dressing, apart from the bits that weren’t, designed to make you think yourself in circles and never stand straight again.

The files had come with no key attached; no explanation of which number dialled sat on which desk. All he had was the number de Greer had called: a landline, out of sequence with most others on the list. More significant was the timing. The call had been placed on the afternoon of the day de Greer disappeared, which meant that any possibility that the two events were unconnected faded like a forgotten flavour, because the Park was the Park, and coincidence was outlawed within its precincts. The Park was where plots were hatched and nurtured and set loose from their cages, and no one knew this better than him.

He had the sense of standing by a long-grassed meadow, aware that some of the rippling on its surface was made by the wind; the rest by small creatures scurrying about out of sight.

The clock’s ticking had grown louder, as good an indication as any of time passing. He attempted to put an end to this by arriving at a decision: the best way of finding whose phone de Greer had rung was calling it, so he called it. It took an unconscionable time to be answered, but when it was Whelan found himself holding his breath, and once he’d disconnected without speaking, he remained motionless for some while. It was as if he had just stepped into that long-grassed meadow. It was as if the rippling were heading in his direction, and he would soon feel either a soft breeze whispering past him, or some sharp-toothed rodents sawing at his legs.

In this last brief heatwave of the year, which faded every evening with the dimming of the day, London had dragged itself back to normal, setting the memory of two miserable years aside, and letting its age-old hallmarks reappear. So the river slowed to a crawl as the day departed, just as it always had, and the skies purpled in the distance, soothing the edges of office buildings. Sounds seemed softer: the sighs and exhalations of weary cars, and the buzzing of swarms of bicycles steered by skintight black-and-yellow riders, mere whispers compared to the frantic careering of rush hour, though the helicopters shredding the air overhead, ferrying important people to important places, were as angry as ever. Lower down, in the green spaces, trees soughed and whistled, and runners tapped to the pavements’ beat in brutally expensive footwear; prams trundled on boardwalks by the lakes, wheelchairs rattled over paving stones, and music was everywhere, like mist; leaking from doorways, broadcast from speakers strapped to couriers’ handlebars, and performed with huge sincerity and varying degrees of talent by buskers: someone, somewhere, was playing a cello while coins splashed into its case. Underneath this music, the liquid lub-dub that was London’s heartbeat could be heard once more: the pouring of pints and glasses of wine; the sloshing of water in the bottles everyone carried; the streaming of piss into toilets and urinals, followed by the flushings of cisterns that sent it cascading into sewers, their pipes laid along the beds of forgotten rivers, which once lapped to the same tidal pull that amplifies the Thames. And most constant of all, visible everywhere if you knew where to look—in the building sites, in the long black cars, in the designer suits and jewelled throats, in wristwatches and cufflinks, tattoo parlours and nailbars, in a million glittering windows and a billion slot machines—the tumbling wet slap of money being laundered, over and over again.

Funny how her thoughts dragged her that way, as she was driven to the Russian embassy on Bayswater Road.

Diana had a nine o’clock appointment with the PM; their weekly meeting was a fixture but its timing varied, principally—she suspected—to provide him with a ready-made alibi should his domestic circumstances demand. Even without that clouding her evening, the embassy reception was one she’d regretfully declined some weeks previously, on the unstated ground that no one in their right mind wanted to spend a late September evening in the company of gangster-state diplomats, no matter how high-end the catering. But that afternoon’s catch-up in the hub’s screening room had turned, if not the world, at least the day upside down.

It had started ordinarily enough, the format the usual: Diana at the head of the long table, facing the video wall; her theme, as ever, Impress me. By her side, Josie—just back from delivering to Claude Whelan the data he’d wanted; she wasn’t quite Oscar material, Josie, but she had her moments—and lining the table two rows of boys and girls, some of them hub, others from Ops; the former somewhat tense, as if the occasion kindled memories of seminars with a particularly tetchy tutor; the latter more pleased with themselves, a satisfaction evident in the amount of space they took up: elbows well apart when leaning forward, legs the same when they pushed their chairs back. Ops, their stances read, was rock and roll. Those on the hub might fancy themselves the brains of the outfit, but the streets were where doors were kicked down. The boys and girls from Ops didn’t do the kicking themselves (you had Ops and then you had Muscle, a department which didn’t actually go by that name but probably should), but if it turned out in the course of the meeting that any doors needed opening suddenly, the Ops guys were confident nobody would be looking at the hub sissies to take first go.

It wasn’t always this combative. Well, it was, but it wasn’t always so blatant. Meetings, though, brought out the worst.

The first half hour took a little less than twice that long, which was par for the course. There was a presentation (hub) on the importance of changing passwords at least once a month, a theme which rolled round with the regularity of a Take That farewell tour, and generated as much interest; and a head-cam recording (Ops) of a takedown of a suspected sleeper cell operating out of a two-bed flat in Brighton. This had proved a false lead—the “cell” was in fact a bridge school made up of off-duty bus drivers—but the process involved in storming the premises and scaring the shit out of everyone was textbook, and the subsequent night out worth a twenty-second rehash before Taverner cleared her throat and silence prevailed.

Then Josie wiped the video, and projected onto the wall images of those attending the reception at the Russian embassy that evening.

This too was run-of-the-mill, but had involved legwork, as there were attendees from Mother R rolling up to sample the canapés, so those from Ops responsible for babysitting the incomers looked suitably important, while the boys and girls from the hub prepared to chip in with background detail, the kind of small-print clarifications often overlooked by those wearing reinforced boots. Diana watched and listened while the guest list was toothcombed for anomalies, none of which arose from among the usual liberally inclined scientists, left-leaning playwrights and anything-for-a-sausage-roll poets; while minor staff changes at the embassy were noted, and local firms catering the evening given a onceover; and while those appointed to monitor real-time coverage of proceedings were namechecked and offered the ritual handclap of relief by those not so appointed, and so on and so very much forth until about forty minutes in, when what had been a by-the-numbers recital went—a breathless Josie later related to non-attenders—from snore-fest to shitstorm in nothing flat, Gregory Ronovitch being the culprit.

Gregory Ronovitch, not previously sighted in this parish, was a visiting academic, Moscow-gowned, come to deliver a lecture entitled “Battleship Potemkin: An iconography re-examined.” The photo accompanying his bare-boned CV—an action shot of Gregory alighting from a car on the embassy’s drive, his welcoming committee limited to one bored security guard—revealed a middle-aged nobody with neat beard and centre parting. He wore sunglasses, true, but so did everyone else, so the detail wasn’t cast-iron proof of mafia connections. Which meant that wasn’t the reason Diana Taverner got to her feet, causing all ambient noise in the room—the taking of notes and wrangling of phones—to cease immediately. When Taverner got to her feet, a meeting was over. Either that or it had just become urgent, without anyone else noticing.

When she spoke, her voice was icy calm. It was said of Diana that she’d been known to frost the glass wall in her office without recourse to the button, a quip popular among those who hadn’t been anywhere near when she was demonstrating its accuracy.

“Why the different angle?”

Nobody understood the question.

“It’s straightforward enough. The other arrivals were shot from whatever direction it was, was it east? Which means this was taken from the west. Why so?”

There was a shuffling of paper, and somebody said, “Ah, this subject, Gregory Ronovitch? He wasn’t caught full-face by the Service hardware. This was harvested from local security coverage.”

“He wasn’t caught full-face by the Service hardware,” Diana repeated. “Almost as if he knew how to avoid that.” Her eyes were fixed on the image on the wall. “Well, then. Someone. Anyone. Care to fill in the blanks on Mr. Ronovitch?”

Someone, anyone, but definitely from Ops, said, “Er, Battleship Potemkin . . . He’s some kind of film critic, right?”

Josie, who’d attended more of these meetings than anyone else present, Diana excepted, sent up a decoy balloon. “He was a late addition, but I’ll have a profile worked up before—”

But it was too little, too late. “No, really, don’t. Let’s just workshop it, shall we? Who’s been babysitting, let’s call him Greg?”

A young man at the back of the room raised an unhappy hand.

“And you’re . . . ?”

The young man said, “Dean. Pete Dean.”

“Well, Pete Dean, run us through Greg’s movements since he hit town.”

“Ah, he first arrived at the embassy yesterday morning—”

“From where?”

“. . . The airport?”

“You’re asking?”

“From the airport, ma’am. That would be Heathrow.”

“You’re sure about that.”

“That’s where the Moscow flight comes in—”

“And you had eyes on him as he waltzed through Arrivals.”

“Ah . . . No, ma’am.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because there’s only one of me? And I was assigned to three attendees?”

The clock on the wall was silent: it swallowed seconds, minutes, hours without chewing. But everyone present could hear a crocodile tick tock while waiting for Diana’s response.

Which was slow in coming, but at least was fair. “All right,” she said. “So you assume a Heathrow arrival. And I assume I’ll have the CCTV footage of that waiting in my office before I get back there. And I further assume that the timings will indicate that he went from airport to embassy gate with no intervening outings. When did he arrive?”

“Ah, 11:45?”

“Mr. Dean, you seem to think you’re the one asking questions. I promise you, you’re not.”

“11:45.”

“Movements the rest of yesterday?”

A brief, panicky look at inadequate notes. “He remained in the embassy all afternoon, then was driven to his hotel, alone, just before seven.”

“I’ll make up the background detail, shall I?”

“Ah, the Grosvenor, ma’am. He ate in the dining room, again alone, then retired to his room. This morning he ate breakfast at the hotel, then made a shopping trip. West End. I, ah, have a list . . .”

“Highlights?”

“He spent two hours in Harrods.”

“No prizes for originality. There’s footage?”

“Yes.”

“Josie?”

“Cueing it now,” said Josie, and the viewing wall changed as she dabbed at her keyboard, now showing Gregory Ronovitch in the men’s department at Harrods, holding two ties, visibly deciding between the two. If he’d chosen to pose for Pete Dean’s study, he couldn’t have adopted a more useful stance; a neutral observer would have assumed Dean was being asked his opinion.

“Here’s another question,” said Diana to the luckless Op. “Do you think there’s a chance Gregory was aware of your presence in Harrods?”

“Ah . . .”

“In your own time.”

“I didn’t think so then.”

“And now?”

“Now, yes. It looks like he clocked me.”

“And following his shopping trip?”

“That first picture was him arriving at the embassy ninety minutes ago. Which was when I handed over to—”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Still on her feet, Diana approached the image on the wall so that it shimmered across her own head and shoulders. She looked out at the room as if she too had just been transported to Harrods, and was choosing a tie. Gregory Ronovitch’s head was next to her own, almost touching, and much larger. The two of them stared out at Pete Dean taking the picture then, and at everyone else looking at it now, as if no time had passed between the two moments. Nobody spoke. The silence held for a quarter of a minute.

She said, “Someone. Please. Put me out of my misery.”

It was Josie who got there first. “Oh my god.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Diana. “Anyone else?” She scanned the room. “Imagine it’s important. Imagine you work for the intelligence service.”

When realisation swept round the table it did so by morphic resonance, alighting on all present one after the other. Two heartbeats earlier, no one bar Josie had known what had triggered Lady Di. Now everyone did; the more foolish among them with mounting excitement, the rest with a sense of dread. Ops looked at hub and hub looked at Ops, and both wondered what might lie on the other side of the door Diana had just kicked down.

Someone, anyone, spoke. “He’s grown a beard.”

“He’s grown a beard,” Diana repeated flatly. “He’s grown. A. Beard. Well. If I’d known we’d be dealing with Dick Emery, I’d have thrown in the towel long ago.”

“But . . .”

“But yes, what?”

The speaker couldn’t follow through. “He looks different. That’s all.”

He did, but not enough that it should have taken them this long. Diana Taverner herself had never set eyes on the man, but she’d studied the same footage they all had, had grown familiar with the way he moved, with the hand gestures, with the rubbing of the—admittedly clean-shaven—chin. There’d even been, for a while, a photo pinned up in the hub’s breakout area; a rather self-conscious elevation of the man to celebrity status. The picture had shown him receiving a medal from the Gay Hussar himself, and wearing the expression most serving officers wore when posing alongside Putin, one adopted following instructions not to make eye contact, or sudden movements.

The silence in the room, now knowledgeable rather than ignorant, wasn’t any more comfortable than it had been.

“So,” said Diana at last. “How worried should we be, do you think?”

No one dared answer.

“Let me put it another way,” she said. “Vassily Rasnokov, First Desk of the Russian secret service, has been in town since yesterday morning, and it’s only just come to our attention. Gosh, do you think he’s been up to anything we should know about?”

Mostly, Catherine Standish viewed her history as scenes from a flickery, black-and-white world, and knew that her current sober colours were the real thing: a little muted, several rinses short of dazzling, but true nonetheless. She moved among washed-out reds and faded blues, the greys and browns of city streets, but this was better than the monochrome existence of the drunk, who is always only one thing or the other. But there were moments, still, when she suspected that she had this the wrong way round, and that her alcoholic years were brighter, more Technicolor, than anything she knew today. Once, her daily palette had included deep dark reds and crystal whites, smokey ambers and velvety golds, each the colour of a curtain waiting to be drawn. Together, they made today’s rainbows watery and thin. Made the noises from bars and public houses, the lights of off-licence windows, a welcome mat.

When she had such thoughts, she was careful not to chase them away too quickly—that would be to underline their attraction—but subject them to a quietly rigorous examination. These were the colours of blood and vomit, of false friendship and foul laughter. Blackouts were called blackouts for a reason. White nights were mental blizzards in which travellers got lost. Catherine might not be in Kansas anymore—or perhaps she was not in Oz—but wherever it was she wasn’t, she was at least home. And when she wasn’t home she was in Slough House, or, as now, moving from one to the other, picking her way past the noises from bars and public houses, between the lights of off-licence windows. There were other premises too, innocent ones, but they never called out to her as she passed.

Though someone did.

“Ms. Standish?”

She turned.

It was a middle-aged man, a little shorter than Catherine, with receding hair and glasses; pleasant looking—mild was the word that came to mind—wearing a fawn-coloured raincoat. There was an odd disconnect: she knew him, she did not know him. Then the name arrived. This was Claude Whelan, one-time First Desk at Regent’s Park. She had once watched him descend a flight of stairs. But they’d never stood face-to-face, had never exchanged words. If he was interrupting her journey home, accosting her on a pavement, it wasn’t because she was an old acquaintance glimpsed in passing.

He confirmed his name. Then said, “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“But you did mean to follow me.”

“I’m sorry. No harm was intended. But I need to talk to you, outside your office.”

“Is this a work issue, Mr. Whelan?”

“It’s connected.”

“Because I’ve finished for the day. And unless I missed something, you’ve finished for your career.”

He acknowledged this with a nod. “It’s something I’ve been asked to look into. Unofficial, but . . .”

“But official all the same.”

“Yes.”

“And you don’t want to encounter Jackson Lamb while pursuing it.”

He paused, and then said, “Not quite yet, no.”

She wondered if this were where it began, the inevitable unravelling. Not her own, but Lamb’s—sooner or later, it was bound to happen; there’d be a panel of inquiry, or a lynch mob. But it didn’t seem likely that Claude Whelan would be first in line with a pitchfork. It had been said of him, she remembered, that he was too meek to hang onto First Desk long; that the alligators were circling before his feet were on the floor.

“I’m on my way home,” she told him.

“It won’t take long.”

“And it’s turning cold.”

“There’s a place up ahead. Please. It won’t take long, and it is important.”

“And if I’d rather not?”

But he simply smiled, and said again, “Please.”

The place up ahead, which she’d already known about, was a bar. Big glass windows; socially distanced tables. The sign on the door declared a thirty-patron maximum, but that was wishful thinking; the room was all but empty. Whelan held the door, and she walked in. How long since she had been in a bar? If she put her mind to it, she could perform the mathematics. All those years and months, all those days. They stretched a huge distance in one direction; in the other, they might crash into a wall any moment.

A waitress, wearing a visor, was hovering before they were seated.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m ready for a G&T,” Whelan said.

If I ever drink again, it will be like this. No special reason, no special occasion. Someone will offer me a drink, and I will ask for a glass of wine. When I drink again, it will be like this.

Not right now, though.

“Just water.”

“Still or sparkling?” The waitress asked.

“Sparkling. Thank you.”

“Ice and a—”

“Yes.”

Whelan gave the waitress his full attention while placing his order, and Catherine remembered what else had been said about him: that while he had made much of his happy marriage, he’d had a roving eye. Something of a wandering car, too. A close encounter with an anti-kerb crawling initiative might have derailed him before those alligators had their boots on if he hadn’t managed to quash the police report, or mostly quash it. Lamb had scraped what was left together and used the information to ensure that, whatever else he did while First Desk, Whelan never messed with Slough House.

At least some of that was presumably on Whelan’s mind as they waited for their drinks, but he kept a tight lid on it, and in place of any more obvious conversational gambit recited a phone number.

When it became clear that he expected a response, she said, “That’s Lamb’s phone.”

“I know. On his own desk?”

“Where else?” she said, though it was a reasonable question. Had the phone annoyed Lamb, which it could easily have done by, say, ringing, there was no telling where it might have ended up.

“What I mean is,” he said, “if that phone rings, he’ll be the one who answers it, yes? Not you.”

“In general.”

“Why only in general?”

“It’s not complicated. The phone is on his desk. Sometimes it rings. He’ll either answer it or not, depending on what mood he’s in, and whether he’s even there. If he’s out and it rings and I hear it, I’ll answer it. If I get there in time.” It felt a little like explaining how stairs work. “I think that covers everything.”

“There was a call on Monday afternoon,” Whelan said. “To that number. At five forty-six. Did Lamb answer it himself?”

Catherine’s mind fed off static for a moment, as anyone’s would. “I imagine so,” she said. “I didn’t, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“The call was from a Dr. Sophie de Greer.”

“Am I supposed to recognise the name?”

“She’s a government adviser, a Downing Street, ah . . .”

“Flunkey?”

Whelan blinked. He said, “That’s the last phone call she’s known to have made. Dr. de Greer hasn’t been seen since.”

Catherine lifted her glass to her mouth, felt the slice of lemon brush her upper lip. The sensation didn’t take her back, exactly, but it suggested that the door was always open. She looked around. Bars had not changed since they’d been her daily backdrop; or, more likely, they had changed and changed back again. The theme of this particular establishment was industrial chic, or possibly warehouse glamour. The furniture was solid and blocky, bulbs hung from the ceiling in metal bowls, and the visible pipework followed a schematic no sane plumber would have devised. The walls these pipes hung on were distressed, or that was the word whoever was responsible no doubt used. Call that distressed? she wanted to ask. I work between walls that make these look ecstatic. The glass in her hand felt heavy, but held only water. If she was ever going to fall, when the day came that she fell, it wouldn’t be with a Claude Whelan. Nor even with the Claude Whelan.

“I’m wondering if there’s any light you can cast on this for me.”

“You’d have to speak to Lamb.”

“I intend to. But not before I’ve done a little background.”

“I’m afraid I can’t offer any. I didn’t answer her call, and I’ve no idea what it was about.” She put the glass down. “Sorry not to be of more help. But if we’re finished . . .”

“Not quite.” He also placed his glass on the table, and spent a moment adjusting its position according to some quiet whimsy of his own. He’d started his career over the river, she reminded herself, among the weasels, who dealt in data rather than human intelligence, and as a result were considered tricky when it came to social interaction. Whelan had been an exception: on his first day at the Park he’d set the Queens of the Database all atizzy by wearing open-necked shirt and chinos. But it was as well to remember that you could deck a weasel out in tennis whites, he’d still be a weasel.

He said, “You were Charles Partner’s PA before transferring to Slough House, am I right?”

People didn’t ask if they were right without knowing they were. She gave a single nod, and he went on:

“While Partner was in office he instigated a protocol. An illegal one.”

“I wasn’t privy to all that went on behind Charles’s door.”

“I thought you were close.”

“So did I.”

He waited, but Catherine had nothing to add.

“The protocol was called Waterproof. Does that ring bells?”

“Well, it’s not an unfamiliar word. But I don’t recall encountering it professionally.”

“It involved disappearances.”

That made sense. Much of her Service career had involved disappearances of one sort or another.

“There’s been a suggestion that the protocol is still in use,” said Whelan.

“I see,” Catherine said. “So you think this—de Greer?”

“De Greer.”

“You think this de Greer woman has been the subject of an historic, not to mention illegal, Service protocol? Based on a phone call she apparently made to Slough House?”

“It’s a line of enquiry.”

“For her sake, I hope you have others. Because anything on the scale you’re suggesting requires organisation and resources. We have a fridge whose door won’t close properly. Does that sound like we fit the bill?”

“It sounds like that’s the way someone wants you to look. Slough House may be a damp and draughty teardown, but it’s outlasted sturdier institutions. Not to mention my career, as you’re well aware.” He rested a finger on the rim of his glass. “Lamb and Taverner saw to that between them. In fact, any time Taverner wants a dirty deed done, it seems to me it’s Lamb she turns to. And you know what they say about old spooks like Lamb. The past’s their playbook. Partner was his mentor, don’t forget. So yes, adapting one of his historical—illegal—schemes, that sounds right up his alley.”

Or his passage even, was Catherine’s involuntary thought, as a street sign not far from here came to mind. That “Lamb’s Passage” seemed a vulgarity was an occupational hazard, one she wondered if the other slow horses suffered from: a Lamb-style Tourette’s, brought on by proximity. Face masks no protection.

She said, “I won’t pretend to have full knowledge of everything he’s up to at any given time, but I can tell you Lamb wouldn’t implement anything Charles Partner ever dreamed up. Or cooperate with Taverner, unless there was something in it for him.”

“Taverner controls a large budget.”

“He’s not interested in money.”

“Really?”

“Well, I wouldn’t leave the petty cash where he could find it. But if I had a Swiss bank account, I wouldn’t need to hide the number from him.”

Whelan nodded, as if this confirmed something he suspected. Which irritated Catherine, who was pretty sure it was an act. She said, “Does that give you enough background? Because when you’re ready to talk to Lamb, please let me know. I might bring popcorn.”

“The call was Monday afternoon. Has anything out of the ordinary happened since?”

Well, this could go either way. What was ordinary for Slough House was everything but in most places. So it was tempting to tell him no, that the even tenor of slow-horse life had continued uninterrupted for months, but there was a point of principle here, one Lamb himself would endorse. Don’t try to hide something from someone who might already know about it.

Catherine wasn’t the world’s best liar, anyway.

She said, “We’ve had an employee issue.”

“What do you mean?”

“One of my colleagues had an . . . episode.” Catherine reached for her glass, and took a sip. Water tasted wrong. “A rather violent one. She was arrested.”

“When did this happen?”

“Monday evening.”

“So it might have been related to the phone call.”

“I don’t see how.”

“It’s a matter of patterns, though, isn’t it?” As if to underline the thought, he mirrored Catherine’s recent action: reaching for his drink, tasting it. “What was the nature of this, ah, episode?”

She gave him the bullet points: the iron, the bus, the traffic jam of witnesses.

“Were the Dogs called in?”

The Dogs being the Park’s internal police force, generally first on the scene when Service-related shit was hitting taxpayers’ fans.

“And she’s now, what? On bail? In a cell? Unemployed?”

“She’s receiving treatment.”

“So I’d imagine. Whereabouts?”

“In the San.”

Whelan raised an eyebrow. “The place in Dorset?”

She nodded.

“That’s a pretty exclusive, not to say expensive, form of rehab.”

“She’s a valued employee.”

“No, she isn’t. She’s Slough House. Any public meltdown involving the police, she’d be cut adrift, you know that. So what happened?”

Catherine said, “I asked Diana Taverner for a favour.”

Whelan stared.

“She owed me one. I gave her my lasagne recipe, she’d been pestering me about it for ages.”

Without taking his eyes off her, Whelan finished his drink. Then asked, “How long have you worked for Lamb?”

“I try not to think about it.”

“No, I can see why. Because he’s rubbing off on you.”

“If that were the case,” she said, “I’d definitely make hay with that delightful image. Now, to the best of my recollection, Shirley’s episode apart, nothing out of the ordinary happened on Monday or since. That being so, I think we’ve finished, don’t you?”

“For the time being.” The waitress approached and he shook his head, warning her off. Then said, “But not for good. Because I’m going to need to find out more about this phone call.”

“I’m sure you’ll do whatever you think best.”

“Even if that means annoying Lamb.”

“I’m not sure he’ll notice, to be honest. But if I might offer advice?” Catherine stood, buttoning her coat. “Don’t take him at face value. There’s a reason Lamb acts the way he does.”

“And why is that?”

“He’s a joe. Always has been. Always will be.”

“And you admire that.”

“Admiration would be beside the point.”

“But you’re on his side.”

“As opposed to whose?” Catherine wondered, but not until later; not until she was out on the street again, noticing how, even to her sober view, the colours had deepened with the hour’s darkening, the washed-out reds and faded blues looking richer than before, the greys and browns an earthier, muddier soup.

Security at the embassy was of the fuck-you variety: suits, shades and visible earpieces, as if someone had rung Heavies-’R’-Us. Diana Taverner’s invitation to enter was a hip-height hand-waggle, and once through the front door she had to surrender her phone to a woman who scanned the barcode on her e-mailed invite with an expression suggesting that a better time awaited her elsewhere. The only bright note was offered by the youngster who subsequently waved a wand over her, still fresh-faced enough to look like he might be channelling Harry Potter rather than checking her for tech. She nodded pleasantly, offering a smile that would pass for the real thing, and was swooped on by a functionary who ushered her through to a well-clad drawing room, all the while maintaining a polite distance. “Our apologies for the security, Ms. Taverner. But you know how it is.”

“Of course. There are always chickens out there, looking to come home to roost.”

“Forgive me. I’m told my English is good, but some idioms remain opaque.”

The room was large enough not to appear crowded but there must have been fifty people present, not including those bearing trays. These were, as usual, far younger and more beautiful than the guests, and on this occasion too, since the guest list leaned heavily towards the arts, better dressed. Diana had a glass in her hand before she’d taken three steps.

“Thank you.”

“We’re very glad you could make it this evening, Ms. Taverner.” Not the server, but her welcoming functionary. “You have an admirer among us.”

“Oh really?”

“Indeed. One of our guest speakers is most eager to meet you.”

“How intriguing.”

This dance, she thought, was as formalised as anything Jane Austen might have imagined; the polite lies offered; the half-truths exchanged, hoping to pass unnoticed. The spook world was its own quadrille. In recognition of this the company had arranged itself in small groupings, each distinct from the other, as if there were circles painted on the floor. But then, this had become the norm at formal gatherings, before the drinks had taken hold; everyone conscious of the clouds others walked in; of the area round a warm, working body that’s full of sweat and spittle, and leaving traces in its wake. Diana remembered being told, when young, that the way to apply perfume was to spritz a dash into the air and walk through the mist. Not an image today’s advertisers would reach for, the lingering nature of airborne particles being a tough sell.

Already, her functionary was yielding her to an approaching male. “Enjoy your evening, Ms. Taverner.”

The newcomer was in late middle age; his head hair dark, his neatly crafted beard shot with silver. Five ten, she estimated. In good shape for his age and profession: like her, he spent his working days underground, surrounded by screens and well-trained staff; so like her, his apparent good health was testimony to early hours working out, or pounding round a park. His suit—new tie—bore no traces of recent international flight, and the smile with which he greeted her was in his eyes too, which had a greenish tinge. Diana had never met him in the flesh: MFD, as he was abbreviated on the hub. Moscow’s First Desk. Her opposite number. She was no mathematician, but found herself wondering: Would such a meeting produce a zero? And then dismissed the frivolity in much the way Vassily Rasnokov dismissed the functionary: both departed without a murmur.

“Diana Taverner. I saw your name on the guest list, and was disappointed to hear that you’d declined. But this afternoon I was told that you’d become available, and it gladdened my heart. It would have been a disappointment not to meet, after all this time.”

In the current manner, he clasped his hands and gave a little bow.

She said, “A previous engagement was cancelled. I was glad of it too. This is a rare opportunity.”

“Rare indeed. I don’t know about you, but there are people back home who will be furious we’re in the same room unaccompanied.”

“Same here.”

“And others who would want me to bring back your autograph.”

“I’m ahead of you there, Vassily. I have any number of people who can do me your autograph.”

He laughed, without overdoing it, and raised a hand for the nearest waitress. When she arrived, he took a glass of mineral water from her tray.

Diana went on: “This is a surprise, though. I didn’t see your name on the visitors’ list.”

He shrugged so hugely he might have been French. “I was a last-minute substitution. There was an illness, and a lecture had to be cancelled. Which would have been a shame, as the staff here were looking forward to it. It just so happened that the topic—”

“Battleship Potemkin,” Diana contributed.

“Yes. Happens to be an interest of mine. So I thought, well, why not come over to London and give the lecture myself? And enjoy your beautiful city in the autumn sunshine.”

“Which happened so swiftly that we have no documented entry for you.”

Rasnokov shook his head, sympathy in his eyes. “Ah, paperwork. How many things fall between the cracks? But let’s not look a gift horse in the teeth. It’s very satisfying to meet you face-to-face. For you, maybe not such the pleasure, eh?”

She gave this a moment’s thought. “Oh, I don’t know. The beard rather suits you.”

He seemed in a relaxed mood, but then, he’d had a reasonably laid-back few days. The hastily assembled itinerary Diana had received just hours ago had verified his arrival at Heathrow on Tuesday morning, though the passport he’d shown had been in the name of Gregory Ronovitch, which was also the name he’d used when checking in at the Grosvenor. He’d eaten there Tuesday evening, and had gone to bed asking for an 8 a.m. alarm call. Wednesday morning he’d breakfasted at the hotel, enjoyed a well-detailed shopping excursion which had taken in every second emporium along Regent Street, though had resulted in no purchases that wouldn’t fit in a single bag, and then returned to the embassy for—presumably—meetings, after which the Grosvenor again, dinner and bed. This afternoon, following the catch-up meeting at the Park when his presence had dropped like a bagful of pennies, the luckless Pete Dean had picked him up leaving the embassy once more, this time with a seven-strong team counting his footsteps: they were treated to a crawl along the South Bank, culminating in a full hour and twenty-eight minutes during which Vassily sat on a bench with that morning’s Guardian, gazed across the river, and made no contact whatsoever of any kind with anyone. That, anyway, was their claim, and even now that same team was back in the Park’s viewing room, studying the footage at quarter speed like a bunch of poloneckers at an Andy Warhol retrospective. Rasnokov, meanwhile, had cabbed back to the Grosvenor, from which he’d reappeared fifty-four minutes later, freshly-suited, to head on back to the embassy.

And here he was.

She said, “The tie was a good choice. The one with spots was a little much, I thought.”

“It’s a question of what you can carry off, isn’t it? I prefer the low-key look.”

“Along with an off-the-cuff approach.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I’m still wondering about the suddenness of your visit. You’re sure it wasn’t prompted by circumstances back home?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“I had the feeling, not long ago, that you were less than satisfied with some of the more, ah, provocative actions sanctioned by your boss.”

“You’re succumbing to wishful thinking, Diana. It’s always satisfying to imagine, what shall we say, an opposition team falling prey to rifts and squabbles.”

“It can be even more alarming to see a united front despite the criminal nature of the party line.”

“We might have to disagree on issues of legality.”

“Murder’s a black-and-white matter, I’d have thought.” She took a sip of champagne. There were other trays circling too: caviar, blinis. “Do you ever worry you’re headed back to the bad old days?”

“The Cold War was a two-way street.”

“I was thinking of older days than those. There were Tsars who wielded less power.”

“If you’re looking for flaws in public figures,” Rasnokov suggested, “maybe you should direct your gaze nearer home. Your own Prime Minister, perhaps. A man who’d rather people remember the promises he’s made than count the ones he’s kept.” He looked thoughtfully at the glass in his hand, but didn’t drink from it. “Though of course, to call him your country’s leader might not be entirely accurate. Say what you will about our president, but he is not a glove puppet.”

“Well, I’m sure that’s brought comfort to his victims.”

“Are we going to discuss politics? There are flaws in every system, Diana. I prefer to leave reform to those who know what they’re doing. Your own Anthony Sparrow, for instance. An interesting man, don’t you find?”

“Don’t believe all you read in the press.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it. But I meant in person. We had a most enjoyable conversation over dinner.”

Diana nodded, because all the words made sense, and had appeared in intelligible order: enjoyable, conversation, dinner. Her apparent lack of concern failed to impress Rasnokov.

“You look, I’m not quite sure what the word I’m reaching for is. Unsettled?”

“The champagne,” she said. “Poor quality brands have that effect.”

“You’re running through my itinerary in your head, yes? And you’re wondering how I managed to squeeze in dinner with Mr. Sparrow without your being aware of it.”

She couldn’t tell whether he was toying with her; whether he knew Regent’s Park had dropped the ball, and he’d been free to wander at will before this afternoon. “Really,” she said. “You make it sound like you’re newly arrived in a police state.”

“Oh, no. Police states are famous for their efficiency.” He drank some of his water at last. “But you can relax. I’m sure your people were doing their job. No need to dispatch them to, what’s the name of this department? Slough House?”

He mispronounced the word; deliberately, she was sure. But she made no attempt to correct him.

“Your dining companions are your business, Vassily. I’m just surprised you found time to arrange such an outing. What with your unplanned arrival.”

“It would have been a hasty occasion, yes. But I was referring to an encounter last month, back in Moscow.”

“I see.”

“Nothing official, Diana. A social gathering. The world has become such a small place, don’t you find? Connections that could never have been made a decade ago are commonplace now. And anything that brings us together is surely better than the many things that drive us apart.”

The thought of Anthony Sparrow, special adviser to the PM, having made a connection of any kind with Moscow’s First Desk was going to bear closer examination. Especially if it had happened in Moscow itself. But for the moment all Diana did was smile, as if Rasnokov were confirming details she’d long since logged in her workbook. She sipped her champagne, mentally begged its pardon for her slur, and glanced towards a nearby couple, poets by the look, who had hijacked a waitress and were making short work of her canapés. Anthony Sparrow, Diana thought. Not technically a member of Her Majesty’s Government. But a figure, nonetheless, who should definitely have filed a report of spook contact made when on a jaunt abroad. Or anywhere else.

Perhaps this train of thought made its way past her expression, because Rasnokov suggested again that she relax. “It’s the curse of our profession, to be always thinking around corners. But this is a party. There is good food, good drink. Life is returning to normal. You should learn to enjoy yourself. London is full of opportunities, as so many of my countrymen have discovered.”

“Largely because they’re frightened to go back home.”

“And still you cannot help yourself. I understand your hostility towards my government. But is this an appropriate occasion on which to indulge it?”

She nodded. “Perhaps you’re right. I’m simply concerned for you, Vassily. All pretence aside, we both know you work for a psychopath. The closer he gets to the end of his reign, the more blood there’ll be in the gutters. I’d hate to think yours might run with it.”

“Thank you. When you come to approach your own retirement, I’m sure you’ll make necessary arrangements for your comfort and prosperity. Why think less of others?” He made a sudden bow. “And now, if you’ll forgive me, I have to, what’s that expression? Make some rounds. But I hope we chat again before the evening’s over. It’s been most charming to meet you. A human face, after all this time.”

“It’s been good to meet you too.”

“And do relay to your Mr. Sparrow that I trust his association with Dr. de Greer is working out to his satisfaction. It was most interesting, our discussion about her work. I can see that, in the right hands, her talents would pay dividends.”

She had to hand it to him: his timing was immaculate. He’d made his bow again, was off across the room greeting others before she could make a reply.

The poets had finished with the caviar tray and had moved on to a young man bearing a salver of smoked salmon. Diana was reminded of seagulls she’d seen, ripping sandwiches from the hands of tourists. She deposited her glass on a passing tray, and didn’t look back to see if Rasnokov noticed her leaving, but would have put money on it.

Champagne and salmon, caviar and blinis, canapés stuffed with olives.

Or the last slice of pizza fished from a grease-drenched box, and garnished with extra cheese and onion, or at any rate, accompanied by crisps of that flavour.

Even with his face a scarred mask, it was possible to read Lech’s disgust as he watched Roddy Ho shovel this delicacy into his mouth. “I think you’ve just invented the Unhappy Meal.”

“All part of my five-a-day.”

Lech stared. “You’re aware that’s not just counting how many things you eat?”

Ashley said, “Lamb stole my lunch.”

“Yeah, if Slough House had a coat of arms, that’d be its motto.”

“Does anyone know if he ate it?”

“That would be his usual approach,” said Louisa. “Why? What was in it?”

“. . . Nothing.”

They were in Roddy’s office, and on Roddy’s screens was the continuing coverage of the reception at the embassy, this consisting largely of the drivers of various limos moodily smoking. Moodily was how the slow horses read it, anyway, though it was possible this was a nuance bestowed by black-and-white footage. On Bayswater Avenue evening had fallen, as it had on Aldersgate Street. One of the office’s overhead bulbs had blown so the room was dimly lit, and a draught penetrated the cardboard shield covering the broken window. This stirred the dominant odours: the pizza Roddy was eating, the black tea in Lech’s mug, the whispers of long-smoked cigarettes that pervaded Slough House, a constant reminder of their onlie begetter, Jackson Lamb.

Who had had left ages ago. He might come back, of course—Louisa half-believed he slept in his office—but for the moment he was off the premises, having departed in Catherine’s wake. Louisa would have been home herself by now if not for the ever-recurrent fear-of-missing-out that all slow horses were prey to; well, all bar Roddy Ho, who was constantly at the centre of events, if only in his head. And it was possible, she told herself, that among these visitors to the Russian embassy—the liggers and lackeys, hungry for party food and propaganda—she might just spot one Alexa Chaikovskaya, absurd as that might sound. But was it? She’d be old now, seventies at least, but that was hardly a stretch for these former KGB types, some of whom seemed to undergo living mummification, still wheeled out on parades when slippers and a nice cup of cocoa would have been a kinder fate. Chaikovskaya had been a colonel in the eighties, and might have gone on to greater heights. Not that Louisa was up to speed on ranks in the Russian machine. River Cartwright would have known.

Someone was leaving, appearing as a shadow on one of Roddy’s screens, silhouetted in the embassy’s doorway. A woman, not the one on Louisa’s mind, but recognisable nevertheless. Lech said it first:

“Lady Di.”

“Why’d you call her that?” Ashley said.

Louisa and Lech shared a look. “Because everyone does?”

“No, they don’t. Why would they?”

“. . . Because her name’s Diana?”

Their mutual incomprehension would have made everyone present uncomfortable, if that number hadn’t included Roddy Ho.

Onscreen, Taverner stepped inside a cab.

“Black car,” Roddy murmured under his breath.

“Why would she be there?” Louisa asked.

“It’s an official function,” Lech said. “Why wouldn’t she be?”

“I thought she hated that kind of thing.”

“Gotta fly the flag, I suppose.”

“Why did Lamb want us watching this anyway?” Ashley said.

“Did he say he did?” Lech said.

“Well, no, but . . .”

“But he knew we would, once he’d asked Roddy to hijack the coverage.”

“Yeah,” said Louisa. “You think it’s Taverner he wanted us to clock?”

“What, because he reckons she’s up to something dodgy?”

“To be fair, she usually is. Though I’m having trouble imagining it having anything to do with the Russians.”

“On the other hand, there she is,” said Lech. “Strolling out of their embassy.”

“Yeah, right,” said Roddy, rolling his eyes. “Because the best time for a secret meeting is when the place is full of people. Duh.”

“Well, yeah, actually. Duh.”

“I thought Taverner sent an underling along to functions,” Ashley said. “When she wanted her RSVP to be ‘fuck you.’”

“That’s what the word in the Park is, huh?” said Louisa.

“Well, it was recently. Why, when was the last time you were there?”

“Touchy,” said Roddy.

“It’s pronounced touché,” said Lech.

“What is?”

“So okay, for some reason Lamb wanted us to watch this,” said Louisa. “And apart from a bunch of freeloaders turning up for gangster grub and gangster wine, all we’ve seen is First Desk leaving early. Do we feel wiser yet? Because I’m ready to go home.”

“Lightweight,” said Lech. “Can you give me a lift?”

“Which direction?”

“Chelsea.”

Louisa held his gaze a moment, then sighed. “Yeah, okay. Come on.”

“I wouldn’t have guessed Lech lived in Chelsea,” Ashley said when they were gone.

“He doesn’t,” said Roddy.

“I wonder what he’s up to then?”

Roddy shrugged. “Do you do much social media?”

“Normal amount. Why?”

“Do you ever . . . dress up?”

“Not sure where this is going,” said Ashley. “But I’m not following it.” She went to find her coat, and on her way back down put her head round the door again. “Did you see Lamb after lunch, by the way?”

“Don’t remember. Why?”

“No reason.”

But she was scowling as she made her way down the stairs, and kicked the back door harder than necessary before stepping into Slough House’s yard, its walls damply patterned with city mildew, and quietly reeking of loss in the late-summer evening.

Anyone watching Oliver Nash approach La Spezia that evening would have thought he’d been hanging around the Park too long. His every move betrayed an excess of caution. For a start, he made three passes—walking straight by the first time; pausing to study the menu the second; the third, hovering in place, making a play of indecision—which was one too many for a man casing a brothel, let alone a small Italian restaurant off Wardour Street. Before he at last braved the front door he paused to turn his overcoat collar up, and for all the street dazzle of Soho—the neon lights and mirrored windows; the pavements shiny with party-poppered sequins—you’d have thought Nash was stepping into noir, dimming everything to a monochrome rainbow: black and white and grey and white and black.

Once inside, he asked for a table for one, and was taken downstairs and placed in a corner booth. Two others were occupied, both by elderly couples audibly engaged in eating pasta, and by the time Nash was seated—after waiting in vain to be relieved of his coat; he settled for draping it on the banquette opposite—a laminated menu had been slapped in front of him, illustrated with photographs of the dishes on offer. All of this, too, would have puzzled any watcher. Nash’s regular haunts required reservations and appropriate footwear. La Spezia’s kitchen seemed more likely to be graced by a Pirelli calendar than a Michelin star. Besides, Nash was on his own, and dining solo was not his habit. A possible, if unkind, explanation might be that Nash had found somewhere he might indulge himself without witnesses; an arena in which he could not only let his appetite off the leash, but sit back and admire its turn of speed. But the cannier observer would be aware that Nash was studying his surroundings, and making notes on his phone. Oliver Nash was on the job.

scruffy but clean

photo of pope

framed football shirt (signed by?)

He paused, unable to either make out the name scrawled in Sharpie on the shirt, or recognise the team colours.

floor tiled in red and white squares

ditto tablecloths

It wasn’t evident that any of this information mattered, but he was here, and would follow his instincts.

staff young Italians, badly needing shaves

One such approached Nash’s booth now and asked if he’d made his choice, or at least, so Nash interpreted his monosyllabic enquiry.

“What do you recommend?”

This earned a blank stare.

“What’s the chef’s speci—”

“Fettucini’s good.”

With prawns, though their provenance wasn’t mentioned. The travails of the joe in the field. “Very well. And the bruschetta to start. And a glass of the Amarone.” He squinted at the wine list. “That’s number . . . seventeen. A large glass.”

The young man disappeared through the swing doors into the kitchen, and Nash added brusque service to his list.

But the wine arrived swiftly, as did his starter, and the odours filling the room were promising. There was no piped music, which was a plus—no muzak—though a radio played in the kitchen, a football match. He checked his messages as he ate. Nothing of interest bar a note from Claude Whelan, seeking retrospective confirmation that he, Nash, had approved his, Whelan’s, request to examine phone records pertaining to the hub . . . That wouldn’t have gone down well with Diana. It was possible Whelan was less diffident than Nash had thought. He replied, then scanned the headlines: the PM had just shared his vision of post-Brexit Britain as a cultural powerhouse, its film industry the envy of the world—there was more on the Home Office reshuffle, which some were calling a bloodbath; and there’d been a house fire off the Westway. One fatality, as yet unidentified. He laid his phone aside, and thought back to yesterday’s meeting.

It had been his first summons to Sparrow’s presence, but he was aware of precedents. Some had involved civil servants of forty years’ standing, the resulting interviews curtailing their careers in the time it would take to drink a cup of tea, had such courtesy been offered. Others had learned that their departments were coming under new admin structures more directly controlled by Number Ten; “reforms”—a bastardised word if ever there was one—that were in reality a show of strength from a government whose weaknesses had been on national display over the previous eighteen months. This performance was largely due to the prime minister himself, whose sole qualification for the job had been the widespread expectation that he’d achieve it. Having done so, he was clearly dumbstruck by the demands of office: the pay-cut, the long hours, the pandemic, and the shocking degree of accountability involved. For a man who’d made a vocation out of avoidance of responsibility, this last was an ugly blow. Nash didn’t much care about any of that—the man’s character had been evident for decades, and people still voted for him—but it mattered that, as a consequence, the PM had come to rely on a series of advisers whom no one had voted for. And “rely on” was putting it mildly. While the PM still racked up soundbites on a regular basis, they mostly came out as “gottle o’ geer.” His lips might move, but it was Sparrow writing his script.

Sparrow’s script-writing ambitions stretched beyond the odd political broadcast.

“How do you find Diana Taverner?” he had asked Nash the previous afternoon, before the topic of Sophie de Greer had been broached.

“Diana? She’s an effective First Desk.”

In other circumstances, the prospect of a no-holds-barred discussion of Diana’s ups and downs would have been a thrill, but Sparrow was no gossip. Sparrow was the weasel under the cabinet table, his teeth bared and dripping.

“It’s said she’s close to Peter Judd.”

“Judd was Home Secretary while Diana was Second Desk,” Nash said. “Naturally they worked together.”

“And have continued to . . . associate since. Though Judd has some dubious acquaintances.”

Judd had set himself up as an old-school eminence grise, and was currently stage-managing the mayoral ambitions of one Desmond Flint, who might fairly be described as dubious, Nash thought, but was at least prepared to put himself before the electorate. As for the degree to which Diana was involved with Judd, Nash had wondered about that himself, but was wary of airing doubts in front of Sparrow.

He said, “That’s the nature of the Westminster village. We all bump elbows with some we’d sooner avoid.”

Sparrow received this with his customary lack of expression.

“The Westminster village. Curious to take pride in its parochial nature, don’t you think?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Her associations aside, Taverner’s support for Number Ten has been underwhelming. I’d prefer First Desk to display a little more enthusiasm for the government she serves.”

It did not escape Nash that it was a first-person preference Sparrow was stating.

He said, “If this is to sound me out about a possible, ah, move towards a replacement, I’d remind you that Number Ten has traditionally relied on the guidance of the Limitations Committee in such matters. And as its chair, I have to say Diana commands the Committee’s respect. She can be abrasive, yes, but there’s no reason to question her commitment to the government of the day.”

“Very loyal. But as you say, Number Ten’s reliance on the Committee’s judgement is a matter of tradition. And tradition doesn’t rank highly with myself or the PM. It’s a drag on progress.”

“Some might say—”

“Any such removal would be part of a larger reorganisation. First Desk has a ring to it, but overstates the case. His or her role is simply to carry out policy and instructions delivered by Number Ten. As for the Committee, I see that as being streamlined, but with more responsibility accruing. The PM himself, or one of his advisers, would attend meetings designed to formulate overall policies. The chair would then inform First Desk of instructions arising. Which would lessen the possibility of the Service involving itself in adventures detrimental to the government’s larger aims.”

“Such a structure might overlook—”

“And there’d be no debate about removing Taverner from office, since she’d resign sooner than suffer what she’d see as a demotion. So you don’t need worry about a conflict of loyalties.”

“. . . Conflict?”

“You’ll be required to stay on as chair for the foreseeable future. I assume that’s what you want?”

Phrased, thought Nash, as if he had been plotting his own advancement.

Sparrow was observing him, head tilted to one side as if in homage to his avian namesake, so he nodded. “When do you plan to announce these changes?”

“I’m sure the moment will present itself. Meanwhile, there’s another matter. As it happens, not entirely unconnected.” He had gone on to lay out the problem of his missing superforecaster, and the role Nash might play in resolving this.

When his main course arrived, it was soundtracked by a roar of approval from the kitchen: a goal, Nash assumed. Certainly his waiter seemed less morose. He paused long enough to assure himself that Nash had noticed the plate in front of him, and then went back through the swing doors, which flapped in his wake, a diminishing series of farewell gestures. Nash speared a garlicky prawn, delivered it to his mouth, and for a moment all other concerns disappeared. Food was a form of magic. But his meal diminished with every mouthful, and before he had finished, the spectre of Sparrow was rematerialising: Deeply out of place here, as much so as Nash himself, and that was the question, wasn’t it? What on earth had drawn Anthony Sparrow to this obscure eatery?

It had been a little over a week ago that Nash had seen him on Wardour Street, mid-evening; satchel on his back and walking with purpose. Nash had been browsing in Foyle’s before heading for a club on Shaftesbury Avenue, but spurred by mischief and the possibility of intrigue had changed direction. The adventure lasted less than a minute, Sparrow turning off the main drag almost as soon as Nash had spotted him, and heading for this restaurant. But instead of the front door he had used the entrance marked for deliveries, which Nash now assumed led into the kitchen. At the time, he had walked on past, abuzz. The notion that he’d stumbled on a secret dining hole, frequented by a Downing Street elite, was a rare prize, a morsel he could dine off for weeks. But care would be needed. Sparrow wanted to be feared, and didn’t mind being hated. He wouldn’t take kindly to having his secrets unearthed.

What was already widely known about him was bad enough. That he was a “disruptor,” a self-described architect of the new future. That it was his habit to call fake news on anything showing himself or the government in a bad light. That it was also his habit to proclaim fake news a good thing, since it forced people to question what they heard. That such contradictions allowed him to claim victory in every argument. That he appeared to be running the country, with half the cabinet terrified of him, and the rest scared stiff. That when Number Ten boasted of approaching glories, it was Sparrow’s pipe dreams the prime minister was passively smoking. That it wouldn’t end well.

Given all that, it had been no surprise that Sparrow in person had proved a charmless bully. But—and here Nash forced himself not to look away from a grim truth—a charmless bully armed with the promise of advancement. This couldn’t be ignored. The last few years had scraped the rosy glow off his investment portfolio, and the knowledge that this was true for many did little to alleviate the matter. There was an opportunity here to ensure that his future continued to feature the right kind of restaurant, and appropriate shoes. And he had never sworn fealty to Diana Taverner. There could be no treachery in witnessing her eclipse.

The doors to the kitchen swung open as another meal was carried to a table, and the volume of the football match grew louder, as did the attention of the kitchen staff. Nash could make out coathooks on the other side of the doors, on which hung several football jerseys, the same design as the trophy shirt on the wall. The doors strobed to a standstill, obscuring the view. He rather liked this place, he decided, and on impulse added to his list surprisingly enjoyable atmosphere. Again, not something he’d expect Sparrow to be susceptible to. Nash pondered that for a moment, wondering what he might be missing.

Then he caught the waiter’s eye, and ordered more wine and a chocolate delice.

The second gin and tonic is the key. In this instance what it unlocked was a disinclination to go home, a disinclination that left Whelan poised, empty glass aloft, imagining that the picture he presented to the approaching waitress was one of attractive dishevelment. Another drink wouldn’t hurt. Nor would a dish of smoked almonds. Behind her visor the waitress smiled, thinking about something else, and he smiled too, thinking about her. A large figure slid out of nowhere and occupied the chair Catherine Standish had vacated with the grace of a nesting hippo. “And a large scotch.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very large.”

“Yes, sir. We have—”

“Whatever’s most expensive.”

Which caused some confusion, but Whelan gave a reassuring nod, and she left to fill the order.

Jackson Lamb glared round benignly, like a momentarily appeased tyrant, settling into a kingdom that hadn’t yet realised was his.

Whelan said, “Do you make a habit of following your staff?”

“It’s more of a hobby, really.” His gaze settled on Whelan. “But dodgy looking geezers hanging round bus stops, who wander off after my joes, well. Them, I keep an eye on.” He arched a raggy eyebrow. “You never know who’s got form when it comes to harassing a working girl.”

So intent had he been on following Standish, on not alarming her by his presence, it hadn’t occurred to Whelan that he should have been checking his own wake.

The almonds arrived. Lamb scooped a grubby handful almost before they were placed on the table, and poured most into his mouth. His gaze remained on Whelan throughout.

Who said, “Well, you’re here. I was planning on speaking to you anyway. So this saves us both time.”

“Good to know. When I’ve saved enough, I’ll put the clocks back.”

“You took a call on Monday afternoon.”

“‘Took a call?’”

“Answered your office phone.”

“Doesn’t sound like me.”

“The call lasted two minutes thirty-seven seconds.”

“Can’t have been a dirty one,” said Lamb. “My stamina’s shot to pieces these days. I’ve had sneezes last longer.”

“I see you haven’t changed.”

The waitress brought their drinks. Lamb kept his gaze on Whelan, but Whelan gave her an appreciative look.

“Seems like I’m not the only one,” Lamb said.

Wherever he was going with that, Whelan wanted none of it. He said, “Sophie de Greer.” Lamb’s expression didn’t alter. “The name of the woman who called you.”

“I’d say you were well informed,” Lamb said. “If you weren’t full of shit.”

“This won’t help.”

“I’m not trying to help. I’m hoping you’ll fuck off and injure yourself.”

“Help you I mean.” Whelan reached for his glass. He’d rather be reaching for a weapon, he thought, ridiculously: When had he ever held a weapon? But there was something about Lamb: even facing him across a table felt like facing him across a trench. “All I’m doing is establishing the facts. And if you carry on being obstructive, my report will reflect that.”

“And I’ll get my wrists slapped.”

“Treat it like a game, that’s fine. But this is coming from all the way upstairs. If you don’t cooperate, things will get uncomfortable.”

Lamb lifted his glass and examined it for a moment. He’d asked for very large, which was what he’d been given, in bar terms. But if he’d poured this amount for himself, anyone watching would assume he was on the wagon. Without drinking, he said, “So tell me about this Soapy Gruyere.”

“Congratulations, you’re half right. She’s Swiss.”

“Someone has to be.”

“And a political appointee. As you well know.”

“I may have come across the name,” Lamb conceded. “Isn’t she Number Ten’s new weather girl?”

“The term you’re reaching for is ‘superforecaster.’”

“‘Superforecaster.’” Lamb shook his head in an exaggerated lament. “Still, I suppose the Swiss had to diversify from their more traditional pursuits. Chocolate, cuckoo clocks. Gay porn.”

“. . . Gay porn?”

“Well what did you imagine a hard-on collider was?”

He was going to have to take charge of this conversation before Lamb turned it into a lads’ night out. “She’s disappeared.”

“Wonder if she saw that coming?”

“And you’re the last person she called before it happened.”

Lamb shrugged, and used his free hand to help himself to more almonds. The ones that didn’t reach his mouth scattered, some falling into Whelan’s lap.

Whelan said, “You were in your office all afternoon?”

“Usually am.”

“And Ms. Standish takes your calls when you’re not there.”

“Does she? I’ve often wondered what she gets up to when I’m out.”

“How did you come to know Dr. de Greer?”

“I didn’t.”

“Because there’s some suspicion that the Service is involved in her disappearance. And the fact that she called you rather lends weight to that notion.”

Lamb balanced a nut on a thumbnail and flicked it into the air. Whelan expected it to drop into his mouth, but Lamb apparently didn’t: the almond disappeared somewhere behind him. “So your main item of evidence is something that didn’t happen. Dream this one up in your mother’s basement, did you? Because it has all the hallmarks of a conspiracy theory. And the sad bastards who fall for conspiracy theories always see more than what’s really there.” He leaned forward. “It’s like that fable about the blind men who think they’ve found an elephant. When what they’ve really got is a length of rope, a wall and an old umbrella stand.”

“I think we’ve heard different versions of that.”

“And what you’ve got, Claude, is several handfuls of crap you imagine adds up to an elephant.”

“You haven’t asked how I know about the phone call.”

“I don’t need to.” He smiled, unless it was a leer. “The Park’s always had an unlimited supply of elephant shit. Comes from being so close to the zoo.”

All of this, and the drink still untasted in his hand.

Whelan took a sip from his G&T. “Whatever’s going on, I plan to get to the bottom of it.”

“Save your strength for getting into that waitress’s knickers. I mean, you’ve no chance of that either, but at least you won’t get too badly hurt.” Lamb paused. “On the other hand, hassle my joes and I’ll take it as a declaration of war.”

A spurt of anger cascaded through him, as hot and wet as a stomach bug. “Joes? Your ‘joes’ are a bunch of wrecks. That Wicinski character should be behind bars if what I’ve heard’s true. As for what’s her name—Dander?—it’s not treatment she needs, it’s a padded cell. Slough House isn’t a department. It’s a psychiatric ward.”

If his outburst shook Lamb, he didn’t show it. “As ever, you’re missing the big picture. It’s my psychiatric ward. And it’s off-limits. Whatever you think your jurisdiction is, it runs out well before it reaches mine.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Only arseholes and idiots make threats. And I’m not an idiot.” Lamb got to his feet with a suddenness belying the weight he carried. Not to mention the glass in his hand: the surface of his whisky trembled, but no liquid sloshed over the sides. “Dander’s treatment’s none of your business. But thanks for the drink.” It barely resembled a drink, the way he put it away; it might have been a thimbleful. And then he was gone.

As it turned out, it was the fourth gin and tonic that was actually the key. Because by the time Whelan had drunk it, by the time the frightening bill arrived, he had replayed the encounter several times over in his head, and come to the firm conclusion that Lamb had been lying about the phone call.

And while he wasn’t entirely certain that Lamb had also caused Sophie de Greer to vanish, he had an inkling of where he might have put her if he had.

If the regularity of Diana Taverner’s meetings with the PM suggested a stable relationship between Number Ten and the Service, such stability was of the kind a folded-up beermat beneath a wonky table offers—it would do at a pinch, but sooner or later you’re going to need tools or a new piece of furniture. If this crisis point had lately seemed closer at hand, that, Diana suspected, was due to Anthony Sparrow, whose own position seemed secure enough. The prime minister makes me look like Greyfriars Bobby, Peter Judd had once told Diana, and it was true that the PM’s sense of loyalty was most observable in its application to his own interests, but it was also the case that he had, in the past, defended Sparrow against the slings and arrows of an outraged media. Loyalty, then, was not beyond him, even if most observers reckoned this had more to do with his belief that The Godfather was a guidebook than adherence to a principle. Whatever the cause, Sparrow seemed a fixture, his untouchability reinforced by the fact that, unlike cabinet ministers, he didn’t rely on the electorate’s approval, so the PM could be reasonably sure that irrelevancies like public opinion and the national good weren’t unduly skewing his advice.

On the other hand, what Sparrow had been doing cosying up to Vassily Rasnokov on a mini-break in Moscow would bear investigation. At the very least, a direct question or two.

She’d had time to call back at the Park before heading to Number Ten, and there had verified that no report had been filed by Sparrow regarding an encounter with Rasnokov the previous month. He had, though, been in Moscow: the occasion had been a “fact-finding mission,” its duration three days, and the official calendar indicating twenty-seven meetings, their subject—and presumably their object—trade. But what rattled her more than the possibility of a covert encounter being buried between appointments was that Rasnokov had let her know about it. That he was making mischief was evident, but whether the plaything was herself or Sparrow had yet to be determined. What other mischief he might have orchestrated while in London remained as yet unknown.

Speaking of mischief, her phone rang en route—her secondary phone; the one only her caller knew about.

“Is this important? Only I’m heading for Downing Street.”

“I remember the feeling,” said Peter Judd. “But best-laid plans and all that.”

“Save the lost-leader lament for your fan club. Those of us who know you well are still thanking our lucky stars.”

To the country at large, Judd’s tilt at Number Ten had ended in an inexplicable withdrawal from centre stage some years previously. To the better informed, the inexplicable element was Judd’s continued existence.

“Now now,” he said. “Let’s not forget our common cause.”

Diana spent several hours a day trying to forget precisely that.

Because a while back she had broken one of her own rules, stepping into a web without being certain she was the spider, and had accepted financial backing from a cabal led by Judd, thus untying herself from official, unsympathetic oversight. In her defence, the Service had needed the support. The case for the prosecution was more succinct: holy shit. Because as things stood, deep behind a Service op that had seen a Russian assassin murdered on Russian soil lay Chinese money, and most nights Diana lay awake for hours, counting how many different shitstorms might rain down if the story leaked. Her only comfort was that it was no more in Judd’s interests to conjur up such an apocalypse than it was in her own. But she remained in Judd’s tar-baby embrace, and judgment, she knew, was waiting down the tracks.

For the moment, though, his demands were specific to the day. “I was hoping for a little support. In the form of an endorsement.”

“An endorsement,” she repeated. “For your man Flint? One of us has clearly lost their mind.”

“Just a few words about how the capital needs a firm hand on the tiller. That sort of thing. And you’d be backing a winner, which gives one a nice warm glow, I find.”

“You seriously expect your straw man to take the mayor’s job?”

“Someone has to.”

“While using the fact that he didn’t catch the virus as a character issue?”

“Well, his opponent did.”

“It was a virus, Peter. Anyone could get it.”

“And as I’ve just pointed out, his opponent did.” His tone was the familiar one of a patient bully explaining the obvious. “I’m not saying it’s a sign of moral probity. But if it was, Desmond won.”

“And if it had been the other way round . . .”

“I’d be pointing out what a survivor he is. And not a pampered, scaredy, mask-wearing chicken.”

“You realise some idiots believe the pandemic was caused by gay marriage? This is no better than that.”

“Yes, well, once we established we’ve no time for experts, it’s open season, isn’t it?”

“Not really, no. Let me be quite clear. No way in hell am I supporting your candidate for mayor. And if he stands for anything else, I won’t support him for that, either. Not for worst-dressed rabblerouser. Not for seediest looking sockpuppet. All understood?”

“I’ll put you down as an undecided. Meanwhile, how’s business your end? Any more special operations planned?”

“The Service currently has its hands full maintaining equilibrium. Like most other organisations. So your cabal—”

“Our cabal.”

“—will have to content itself with the quiet life.”

“I do hope you’re not expecting us to fade into the background. You’ve opened a door that won’t easily shut. You can’t pretend you didn’t know what you were doing.”

“I don’t have to pretend I wasn’t aware of your dark passengers, Peter. You’re the one brought them on board.”

“We both know how much protection that will offer you should our arrangement become public. Which there’s no need for, obviously. As things stand.” The implicit threat hovered a while, underlined by Judd’s leavetaking: “What was it Fu Manchu used to say? ‘The world shall hear from me again.’”

She dropped her phone into her bag as the car arrived at Downing Street.

Where the small, irregularly shaped room she was shown to was a drab brown chamber, its walls bare save for various versions of the queen’s portrait, ageing in ten-year jumps. These were spaced at uniform intervals, making it hard not to notice there was no room for another, unless it was to be hung on the door. In the centre of the room, two long-backed chairs sat either side of a coffee table, on which was a cafetiere, freshly made, and two cups. Diana filled one, knowing she’d be waiting a while yet, the PM being one of those who believed that punctuality shows weakness. On the mantelpiece, a carriage clock ticked, its noise curiously elongated between the not-quite parallel walls. Downing Street was more than the warren it was labelled; there was a physics-bending aspect to it. Take it apart, room by room, and there’d be no way of putting it together again: you’d have spaces left unfilled, leftover rooms too big to fill them. Though those empty spaces would be handy for sealing up unwanted occupants . . . When the door opened to admit Anthony Sparrow, Diana thought, for a blurred moment, that she’d summoned the devil.

He grunted a greeting. “The PM’s got something on. You can brief me on his behalf.”

“‘Something on’?”

“It happens. He’s running a country.”

“This isn’t party business. Are you sure you’re an appropriate stand-in?”

“A petty distinction,” he said, pulling a chair back and flinging himself into it. “I’m taking this meeting, end of. Start talking.”

Sparrow was a scruffy dresser, and this evening wore jeans and a red T-shirt under a sandy-brown combat jacket. He carried satchel rather than briefcase, and as with many aspects of his behaviour seemed to dare anyone to comment on it. While Diana ran through the weekly business—the threat-level checklist; budgeting issues; whispers of a hushed-up cyber-attack on a German bank; more budgeting issues—he stared at the nearest portrait of ER, the tenor of his thoughts suggested by the curl of his lip. He had, as an unkind sketch writer once commented, a face only Wayne Rooney’s mother could love: faintly squashed, as if he’d spent years pressing it against a window. On the other side of the glass now, he was making up for lost time. Anyone who thought power was about anything other than settling scores hadn’t been paying attention.

When she’d finished, he said, “That it?”

“As much as you’re allowed to hear. The PM might delegate his duties, but I’m not about to breach confidentiality issues.”

“We’ll be taking a look at those guidelines.” He stood. “It’s a timewaste, having him fill me in after every briefing.”

She said, “Since we’re both here, I’ve a few issues.”

“Make them quick.” He was already reaching for his satchel.

“You’re concerned about the current whereabouts of Dr. Sophie de Greer.”

“That’s a question?”

“I understand you asked Oliver Nash to have my predecessor look into the matter.”

“The authority I wield comes from Number Ten. When I want things done, I don’t ask. I issue instructions.”

“That’s enlightening. But you might as well hear this from me first. Whatever fantasy you’ve concocted, the Service has no involvement, or interest, in Dr. de Greer’s whereabouts.”

“I’ll await Nash’s report. Anything else?”

“Yes. You were in Moscow last month. Who did you talk to?”

“A lot of people. Most of them Russians. They’re thick on the ground there, funnily enough.”

“Any topics of interest I should be made aware of?”

“Depends how interested you are in this country’s future. I was heading up a trade delegation. Keeping the beaches open.”

“. . . I’m sorry?”

“An observation. The real hero of Jaws was the mayor, because he kept the beaches open. That’s what this government is doing. Keeping beaches open.”

“I’ve heard the PM say so,” said Diana. “It’s no huge surprise he got it from you. But the Russian I had in mind is called Vassily Rasnokov. He’s not on your appointment list, and he’s not your average beach bunny. Any contact with him, I should have known about.”

“You personally? What is he, your pen pal?”

“He’s First Desk at the GRU. Do you need me to explain what that is?”

He laughed, half a beat later than he should have done. “No. For Christ’s sake. Are you worried I’ve been recruited by the Russians? Don’t be fucking ridiculous.”

“But you’re aware that any approach made by a foreign intelligence service should be reported to Regent’s Park?”

“The regulations don’t apply. The occasion was a social one, a meet and greet, followed by dinner. There were many people present. Rasnokov and I didn’t exchange ten words.”

“Which were?”

“It was weeks ago. Can you remember social chitchat from weeks ago?”

“That’s the reason we require immediate debriefing after contact. And why the regulations aren’t open to individual interpretation.”

“Well, you’ve had your say, and I hope you feel better. Who told you about this so-called contact, anyway?”

“Vassily Rasnokov,” said Diana.

Sparrow blinked.

“During social chitchat.”

“He’s in the country?”

“He is. Do you think he came all this way to drop your name? I wouldn’t put it past him.”

Sparrow said, “Well, he’d hardly be likely to alert you to the fact that we’d met if he’d used the occasion to recruit me, would he?”

“That depends,” said Diana, “on whether or not he thought I already knew.”

“Word games. My advice would be to spend your remaining time as First Desk concentrating on the more important issues facing your Service.” He hoisted his satchel over one shoulder, and glanced at the cafetiere. “Is coffee always provided? I don’t remember giving that instruction.”

For a while after he left Diana remained seated, looking at the portraits of the queen. Perhaps, she thought, she should have let Sparrow know that Rasnokov had mentioned de Greer. His reaction would have been interesting. But there was no point second-guessing herself: she’d kept it up her sleeve, for later use. Besides, her phone was ringing.

“I was just thinking about you.”

“That gives me a warm feeling right down to my nuts,” Lamb said. He paused, and Diana heard a flick-and-flare. Deep inhale. “I’ve just been talking to your predecessor, who seems to imagine I’ve had a Swiss fortune-teller disappeared. Where do you suppose he got hold of that idea?”

“It’s possible someone’s been pulling his leg.”

“I’d try pulling theirs,” said Lamb, “but I’d worry it’d come clean off. Don’t know my own strength, that’s my trouble.”

“It’s one of them,” Diana agreed. “Look, Claude was being a nuisance, so I threw a stick for him. Gave him something to chase.”

“In my direction.”

“I thought you might have fun wrestling him for it.”

She could picture him breathing out smoke.

“It’s not like he’d have been disturbing anything important. Slough House, for God’s sake. You’re already a joke. I was just adding a punchline.”

“Happy to help,” said Lamb. “But the thing is, it’s a bit more complicated than you thought.”

That didn’t sound good.

“So your stand-up routine needs work. Let’s talk it over. Tomorrow morning.”

“I’ve got meetings.”

“Yeah, I had a nap scheduled. We all make sacrifices.”

He told her when and where, and rang off.

Diana put her phone away, took one last look at Her various Majesties, and left, mentally kicking herself for overlooking Lamb’s talent for taking the straight and narrow and installing an Escher staircase. She should have considered that before she’d had Josie mess with the telephone data, adding a call to Lamb’s number from de Greer’s mobile—a bit of harmless fun; or at any rate, any ensuing harm would befall Claude Whelan, which amounted to the same thing. But now there was a possibility she’d loosed a cannon. And she had enough to worry about without conjuring extra problems out of nowhere.

Still, upsides: Lamb wanted to meet in the open air, which would make a change from spending her day in a series of sterile offices.

And let’s face it, like everyone else, she could do with a break.