Bad Actors (Slough House, #8)(59)

“How did you even get in?”

“I might have had a set of keys cut.”

“Jesus . . . Who’s babysitting? Louisa Guy?”

“She’s not really the maternal type. I was worried she’d take her out on the pull, and maybe sell her to an Arab. So no, I’ve got John Bachelor there. You’ll remember him. I mean, he’s fucking useless, but at least . . .” Lamb gazed into space, and briefly went cross-eyed. “No. I’ve got nothing.”

Diana was fighting an impulse to bury her face in her hands. “De Greer handed herself in?”

“For her own safety. She’d been watched for days. She thought at first it was the Park, but she said the watchers were a bit rubbish.” He exhaled a series of abbreviated clouds: dots and dashes; unaddressed messages. “Which didn’t rule you out, but she wasn’t to know that.”

She said, “Sparrow was in Moscow last month. He encountered Rasnokov at some do. I think Rasnokov told him he’d been played, that de Greer was a plant. So whoever they were, that pair on the common, they could be working for Sparrow.”

“Makes sense. He’s a politico, they think a cover-up’s a first resort.”

“But why would Rasnokov throw his own joe to the dogs?”

“It’s not like we’d chew on her bones,” said Lamb. “She’d get a P45 and a severance payoff. Probably do Start the Week and a centrefold for the Mail.” He grimaced. “Besides, blowing her cover would be the point of the exercise. What does more damage, fiddling about inside a foreign government, or fiddling about inside a foreign government and having the whole world know? It’s the difference between laughing behind someone’s back and making them the joke in a Christmas cracker.”

“People will write it off as fake news.”

“People write everything off as fake news. Doesn’t mean nothing happens. Besides, he sent Claude looking for her. And while it’s tempting to say that’s because he doesn’t want her found, he’s likely got something else in mind. Your predecessors had a protocol we don’t like talking about.”

“Waterproof,” said Diana.

“Yeah. I seem to remember it’s cropped up before.”

Diana was beginning to think she’d never hear the end of it. It was Lamb himself who’d ended Ingrid Tearney’s career by threatening to make public her Waterproofing of a troublesome former agent, a threat he’d had no need to make good on. Tearney hadn’t realised that, whatever else he might be, Lamb was no whistleblower. On the other hand, Diana reflected, had the threat of exposure not worked, he’d doubtless have resorted to more direct measures.

He was still talking. “And if Sparrow can suggest that’s what’s happened here, that you had de Greer disappeared before she could stage-manage an international spook scandal, then that’s the bigger story and you’re the bad guy. Worst case scenario, from his point of view, it all gets wrapped inside an official inquiry, and by the time the report’s made public we’re too busy locking down Covid-25 to give a toss. And best case . . .”

“I’ve triggered an illegal abduction, possibly murder, to preserve the Service’s reputation.”

“And you’ll be hung, drawn and quartered,” said Lamb.

“But for that to hold water,” Diana said slowly, “de Greer would have to disappear for real. You think he planned to kill her?”

“Only if he’s an idiot. Rasnokov might burn a joe to get a job done. But kill her, and he’d tear your playhouse down.”

“But does Sparrow know that?”

Lamb said, “Be interesting to find out,” and ground his cigarette underfoot. “Where’s Rasnokov now?”

“Halfway back to Moscow.”

“He came all this way just to pull your pigtail?”

“I’ve been wondering about that myself.” Wondering? She had half the hub working on Rasnokov’s secret itinerary, without even being sure he’d had one. Maybe that was all he’d been after: London Rules, rule one, para (b). After covering your arse, light a fire under someone else’s. She said, “He was here a day and a half before we knew about it.”

“Face the fucking strange, no wonder you’re twitchy. You’ve had your opposite number playing in your sand pit. And now you’re worried he had a quiet dump.”

“Sometimes I get sick of all the games.”

“Picked the wrong career then,” said Lamb. Then: “What’s bugging you most?”

“I don’t see why he stuck his head above the parapet. He must have known we’d clock him at the reception, but he’d already trailed his coat in the dust. He posed for a photo out shopping in Harrods.”

Lamb spent a moment watching an aeroplane pass overhead. Then said, “Leaving aside the possibility he was just snooking your cock, maybe it’s not you he was hiding from.”

“Meaning?”

“If he’d skipped the reception, he could have come and gone without you knowing. But he had to be at the reception, because as far as Moscow’s concerned, that’s why he was here. So when he fills in his timesheet, he’ll write, ‘Took the Park for a walk down Regent’s Street,’ and ‘Teased Taverner’s prick over blinis and vodka.’” He picked up his final coffee cup. “As far as they’re concerned, you’re his mission. But for him, you’re his alibi.”