Real Tigers (13 page)

“In the eyes of most people, that would still count.”

“That's why we don't let ‘most people' take the important decisions.”

“An interesting slant on the democratic process.”

“Don't pretend to be naïve. It doesn't suit you.”

“Let's stay on topic then, shall we? You decided, without consultation, to hire an old school chum to set an, ah,
tiger team
onto the Service you have ministerial responsibility for. You don't see any conflict of interest?”

“None at all. Consultation would have undermined the whole purpose. When was the last time you didn't have the minutes of a closed-door meeting in your hands before the principals were out of the gates? The slightest sniff of this and you'd have gone to a war footing.”

She couldn't fault his logic.

“Besides,” he said. “As you say, I have ministerial responsibility. Confirming the Service's fitness for purpose is well within my remit. An obligation, even.”

“One minor lapse in protocol is hardly—”

“One minor lapse is more than enough, even if I agreed it was minor. But you had an unauthorised entry into Regent's Park, which in anyone's eyes is a serious breach of security.”

“By a member of the Service. Not by one of your mercenaries.”

“It remains an unauthorised entry. And the young man in question is hardly an agent in good standing, is he? From what I hear, he has his grandfather to thank for the fact that he wasn't drummed out before he'd finished his training. He crashed King's Cross, I gather. In rush hour. At the very least, that's a demarcation issue. Buggering up the transport infrastructure is the mayor's job.”

A line Dame Ingrid suspected he'd used before, or would again, with a bigger audience.

She said, “I'd take issue with his entry being unauthorised. It was approved by one of our Second Desks. Diana Taverner, I believe.”

“And having gained entry, he went walkabout. Let's not split hairs, Ingrid. He was found attempting to access classified information. He should be in a cell. I think we could guarantee him ten years minimum.”

“And what about your merry band of friends? They ‘took' an agent? Kidnapping carries a tariff too.”

He waved a hand as if shooing a wasp. “There'll be a waiver. And it will be signed.”

“You're very sure of that.”

He graced her with a bland smile.

A loose cannon with a floppy fringe
. . . But an important thing about Peter Judd, she reminded herself, was that his affability was polymer-deep. In front of the cameras, in front of an audience, in any kind of best-behaviour scenario, he played the hail-&-well-met card like a pro, as comfortable among punters in an East End corner shop as he was in front of twelve pieces of cutlery at a black tie event. But a very short way below the surface lay a temper that could scorch chrome. It was one of the reasons she knew he'd taken an airbrush to his past. Nobody with his psychological makeup had led a damage-free life.

But right here, right now, he had the upper hand and they both knew it.

She said, “Very well. Wormwood Scrubs for young Cartwright, treble G&Ts all round for the private sector. I assume we can expect to hear that Sly Monteith's about to land some lucrative contract or other? Perhaps he could replace those clowns who did their best to scupper the Olympics.”

“Bitterness is so unbecoming.”

“Are you expecting my resignation?”

He bared a palm, as if to demonstrate no evil intent. Only one palm, she noted. “Heaven forbid.”

“Then what is it you want?”

Unlike many another politico, he didn't waste time pretending he didn't know what she meant. “An, ah, what shall we call it? An understanding. No. An alliance.”

“You're my minister. I answer to you on a daily basis. I'm sure we already understand each other, and as for alliances, there should be little doubt that we're on the same side.”

“Oh, we're all on the same side. But that doesn't mean we don't pick teams. You're a civil servant. I'm a politician. With a fair wind, you might expect to be head of your Service until retirement. But one way or the other, I don't expect to be in this office for more than another year. If I leave it on my terms, it will be because I'm moving into Number Ten. Otherwise . . . Well, political careers have been known to founder.”

“And you're worried yours might.”

“Once the PM decides he's in a strong enough position, yes. He brought me inside the fold to forestall a challenge from the back benches. Any such challenge now would seem . . . ”

“Treacherous.”

“Impolite.”

“And thus unlikely to garner support within the party.”

Judd blinked in silent agreement.

“Unless his circumstances changed.”

Judd blinked again.

It was cool in the office. A fake breeze hummed somewhere, as if it were blowing in off a carpet of ice cubes. But as an undercurrent to that, Ingrid Tearney felt a sudden access of warmth; that of acquired knowledge. Judd wanted to render the Service a sharp kick in the teeth, that had always been clear; a way of both asserting his own current mastery, and revenging himself for a rejection three decades ago. But in addition to that, he wanted—needed—her cooperation. Tearney recognised this ability to layer scheme upon scheme, to allow for maximum benefit. It wasn't so much playing both ends against the middle as securing the middle and flaying anyone within reach with the ends.

She said, “I see.”

“I rather thought you might.”

“So the file Cartwright was sent to steal—that wasn't a random choice.”

“For the purposes of the exercise, one file was as good as any other,” he said smoothly.

“Of course. I'm just getting an inkling of the use you might have put it to if he'd succeeded.”

“Well,” he said. “That was never likely to happen, was it? Not unless security at the Park turned out to be in even more parlous a state than was the case.” He rose suddenly, and carried his empty cup and saucer to the tea tray. With his back to her, he went on, “Besides, there's no need for me to go to such lengths to examine the contents of an old file housed in a department over which I have ministerial control.”

“Subject to the usual limitations,” Dame Ingrid said.

He returned to where she sat, and held a hand out. She gave him her crockery.

He said, “Of course. I'm simply seeking an assurance that all and any information relevant to the security of the nation is brought to my attention. That would inevitably include information relating to the reliability or otherwise of those entrusted with the great offices of state.”

“Which might then be used to ease those same unreliables out of those offices.”

“Well now. Once we've established the unfitness of an office holder, it would be a dereliction of duty not to do something about it.”

He carried her crockery to the table and carefully arranged the empty cups and used saucers in as efficient a tableau as possible. Then he returned to his chair and sat once more, smiling pleasantly.

She said, “Have you any idea how many times over the past half century the Service has been asked to consider doing what you're suggesting?”

He pretended to give it some thought. “I would guess at least once during each administration. But let's not get ahead of ourselves. The important thing is that we both know whose team we're on.”

“I see.”

An important thing perhaps, but promises of future cooperation were easily given. If the worst that happened here and now was that she be allowed back to the Park to lick her wounds, Ingrid Tearney would count the day a victory. But she knew as well as she knew her own mind that, having manoeuvred her into a corner where she could hardly fail but to indicate surrender, Judd would take it one step further and demonstrate his power. Victory, she had once heard someone say, was about ensuring your opponent never again put head to pillow without thinking with hatred on your face. Tearney, who had never married, had thought this over the top, but had little difficulty accepting it as one of Judd's credos.

It was of small consolation, in such circumstances, to be proved right almost immediately.

Peter Judd picked up a small metal implement from the table by his chair—a cigar-cutter, or some equally ridiculous tool—and examined it with an air of absent-mindedness. For such a dedicated politician, it really was a beginner's tell.

He said, “This Slough House place. Amusing name. I gather it's a decrepit set of offices near the Barbican.”

She nodded.

“Somewhere you can send the rejects.”

“It's not always politic to fire people.”

“Isn't it? Can't say I've ever found that a problem.”

It was true that he'd never seemed to worry about lawsuits, whether relating to employment or paternity issues.

“And that's where this Cartwright chap was assigned.”

She saw little point in replying when it was clear he knew the answer.

Judd sighed to himself as if enjoying a private little moment of pleasure, and replaced the metal tool on the table where it belonged.

“Well, it's obviously unfit for purpose if its aim was to retrain the morons,” he said. “So let's close it down.”

“Slough House?”

“Yes,” he said. “Close it down. Today.”

Jackson Lamb
didn't believe in omens. When he got a feeling in his gut, it was generally because of some mistreatment he'd subjected said gut to, though frankly the thing was so inured to his lifestyle, he'd probably have to pour weed-poison into it to provoke a serious reaction. Nevertheless, he didn't like the way the day was shaping up. Cartwright getting arrested at the Park was a serious fuck-up, even for the boy wonder; Lamb didn't doubt Lady Di had meant every word when she'd said they could kiss him goodbye. And while he could contemplate a future without River Cartwright in it with a degree of equanimity, Catherine Standish would have plenty to say on the subject if she ever turned up. And Lamb had learned long ago not to piss off whoever made your morning tea.

If she turned up . . . His gut aside, facts were starting to accumulate. The odds on Cartwright doing something monumentally stupid on any given morning were evens; the chances of Catherine Standish going AWOL were lower. That the two things had happened at the same time meant there was a connection, and if Lamb had to place a bet, he'd put it on cause and effect. Cartwright had learned something about Standish's disappearance that had set him haring off to the Park where he'd hit a brick wall, full tilt.

Time for an older, wiser mind to take charge.

He farted, and settled into Catherine's chair.

Lamb didn't often come into this office. The rest of Slough House he prowled at will, poking into nooks and late-night corners, but Standish's office he left alone. If it contained anything she genuinely didn't want him to find, he probably wouldn't find it without causing structural damage. And by the time he was drunk enough to find this prospect appealing, he was usually beyond putting a plan into action.

The desk was neatly organised, which was no surprise. Front and centre was a pile of reports that should, by rights, have been on Lamb's own desk when he'd arrived this morning; by now, he'd have pawed them out of their pristine state, and spilled enough of one beverage or another onto them, in lieu of actually reading the damn things, to warrant their being reprinted before they were shuffled into secure folders and shipped off to the Park. The knowledge that they'd receive equally scant attention there had never prevented Standish from rendering them as professional-looking as possible. It was one of the ways Lamb could tell she didn't have sex any more.

He picked up the reports, weighed them reflectively as if gauging the intelligence they contained, then dropped them into the wastebasket. “Prioritise,” he murmured to himself. Then he stood and moved around the small office.

A faint smell of blossom lingered in the air, or had done until quite recently. The culprit wasn't hard to find: a small muslin bag hanging from the window frame. Lamb tugged at it gently between thumb and forefinger, but not gently enough not to snap the thread it hung from. Letting it fall, he continued his circuit. Two sets of filing cabinets. A coat stand from which a linen tote bag dangled, alongside an umbrella. All of it like a Disneyfied version of his own office: smaller translating into cosier; neater into cleaner. Well, cleaner into cleaner too, to be honest. She'd been here as recently as last night, but already the room was subsiding into a museum piece. He had the strange sensation that, given another twenty-four hours, everything would be laced with cobweb.

Get a grip . . .

There was no point turning the office over, because he already knew there were no clues here. Standish had called him twice after leaving last night, indicating that whatever had happened happened after she left Slough House . . . Still, he went through her desk anyway, on principle. The spare keys to her flat were missing, which gave him a moment's pause before he remembered Louisa Guy had checked her place out. There was nothing else of interest except, in the bottom drawer, a bottle-shaped object wrapped in tissue paper so old it crinkled to his touch. He pulled it free. The Macallan. Seal unbroken. After studying it a moment he rebundled it, and stuffed it back in the drawer.

He looked up to find Louisa leaning on the door frame.

“What?”

“Looking for something?”

“If I was, I'd have found it by now.”

He fell back into Standish's chair, which registered its discomfort with a sharp
twang
.

Louisa said, “You don't think she's drunk somewhere.”

“No.”

“You're sure.”

Instead of replying, Lamb fumbled in his jacket pocket and produced a cigarette. He lit it eyes closed, and wheezily inhaled.