Bad Actors (Slough House, #8)(36)
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.
Intermission
Lamb bought two ice creams from the nearby van—double scoops, chocolate flakes, sprinkles—and carried them to the bench where Diana was waiting.
Still halfway through the first, he began the second as he sat down.
“Don’t mind me,” she said.
The remark appeared to puzzle him.
The park was barely that: a scrap of green space wedged between housing estates east of Aldersgate Street. There was a children’s play area, a wooden shelter for drug dealers, and a gate onto a sidestreet where the ice cream van was parked, milking what custom it could from summer’s last flourish—a strictly nine-to-five deal. The jacket you wore in the morning would leave you shivering on your way home. Though Lamb’s jacket would make Diana shiver wherever she was heading: a spongy blue mess a charity shop would spurn.
As she watched, he added to the allure by allowing a dollop of ice cream to land on his lapel, leaving a spatter-trace unnervingly like birdshit. Holding both cones in one hand, he scraped at this with a finger he then licked and rubbed dry on his trousers. Then, mouth full, he yawned magnificently and said: