Bad Actors (Slough House, #8)(34)

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?”