Bad Actors (Slough House, #8)(35)

“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 standin?”

“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?”