Мик Херрон - Real Tigers

Besides, while it cut both ways, every two-edged sword has a handle. Which was what Tearney was grasping now, preparing to wield the blade where it would do her most good.

“I know this isn’t what any of you want to hear,” she said. “But the figures are in on projected spending levels for the next two quarters. There’s good news and there’s bad news. The good news is that the bad news isn’t as bad as it might be.” She paused, allowing a rueful grin to sweep round the table like a Mexican wave, breaking only on the stony reef of Diana Taverner. That was fine. Dame Ingrid knew how to play a room, and isolating the troublemaker was always a good move.

She removed her glasses, which were looped round her neck by a chain, and allowed them to drop onto her bosom. Her wig, today, was the blonde halo—a sure indication, for Dame Ingrid–watchers, of serious intent; its downy appearance meant to soften the blows that were coming.

“There’ll be no recruitment at Desk-support level for the remainder of the financial year. In fact, come the Autumn Statement, we might well find ourselves having to shed those appointed within the last two years—I know, I know, and I’m sorry.” She looked it, too. But this was one of Ingrid Tearney’s natural strengths; what she lacked in comeliness, she made up for in apparent empathy. “But these are the realities we’re dealing with, and it will do none of us any good to kick against them.”

Taverner, of course, was first to ignore that.

“I need admin support.”

“But you’re doing so well without it, Diana.”

“Ingrid, I’m spending half my time chasing up office supplies.”

“I’m sure that’s an exaggeration.”

She was sure it wasn’t. Taverner’s junior had transferred across the river a while back, and for ten months she’d been holding down two roles: acting as her own assistant, as she’d put it in a memo. Given the tendency of Taverner’s assistants to burn out within eighteen months tops, there were those who were anticipating a schizophrenic meltdown soon, but Dame Ingrid wasn’t holding her breath. If Diana Taverner ever self-destructed, she’d find a way of doing so to her own advantage.

She said, “Diana. We all know you’ve been hamstrung by the lack of assistance this past year, but Finance feels it’s better to make sacrifices at office level than to risk having to make them on the streets. I’m sure you understand that.”

Because not to do so would have been tantamount to declaring she’d sooner put the public in danger than make her own coffee.

“And besides, and this is something I was going to bring up anyway, it’s not gone unnoticed what a splendid job you’ve been doing flying solo. Finance was most complimentary about your solution to the, ah, logistical difficulties we’ve been facing with Confidential Storage. Most impressive.”

Dame Ingrid’s use of capitals was a trait all were familiar with. It meant footnotes were following.

She said, “For those of you who don’t know, Diana’s solution to our Information Overload was actioned as of the end of Q1, and I believe I’m right in saying that your own sector’s process has now been completed—Diana?”

Taverner gave the slightest of nods; acknowledging not so much the implied praise as Dame Ingrid’s skill in placing it so neatly. Well played. She could already sense the killer thrust which was surely on its way.

But which was temporarily diverted by one of her fellow D2s.

“This would be the rehousing of operational records?”

“That’s right, George,” Ingrid Tearney said sweetly. “So good of you to pay attention. And as we all know, where Ops goes, the rest of us follow, like children trotting after the Pied Piper. There’ll be a memo circulated, but, in brief, we can expect our on-site paperwork mountains to become, well, molehills in the near future. If it works for Ops, it’ll work for everyone. Operations was always going to be the biggest problem. When Ops go wrong it creates so much paperwork.”

“But not as much as our successes do,” Taverner said through not-quite-gritted teeth.

“Of course, my dear. I didn’t mean to imply otherwise.”

“Of course not.”

Confidential Storage, to use Dame Ingrid’s capitals, had long been an issue. Confidentiality was key, obviously, but the rather more prosaic problem of where to keep everything had grown exponentially. Digitalisation was no cure-all: encryption was one thing, and Ingrid Tearney had enormous faith in Regent’s Park’s ability to render all and any information in its possession incomprehensible—it was, after all, a branch of the Civil Service. But fear of records being, to employ the modish word, disambiguated was a lesser concern: a more alarming threat was the cyber-equivalent of a dirty bomb, a virtual attack that would render departmental records so much spam.

The fact was, this wouldn’t necessarily be a bad thing. There were documented activities from her years at the helm Tearney would happily see reduced to a pixelated mash, but the Limitations Committee, with a ministerial hand on its rudder, insisted all such were preserved under Freedom of Information legislation. So, since a nasty cyber-scare two years previously, sensitive records were kept off-grid, either on air-gapped systems or in transcript form, hence the storage difficulties. Anything deemed unsuitable for database entry was either in Molly Doran’s archive, largely dedicated to personal dossiers, or was the individual department’s problem. For Ops, this one had growed like Topsy. Dame Ingrid’s sly jab notwithstanding, operations always produced paperwork: the more secret something needed to be, the more arse-covering was necessary for when it leaked. And nothing covered departmental arse like reams and reams of paper.

For once, it seemed, Ingrid Tearney and Diana Taverner had been of one mind. A Confidential Storage facility was required, separate from Regent’s Park, and ticking three main boxes: acreage, security, and a potential for plausible damage. In other words, somewhere files could safely be said to have been lost to fire and flood, or eaten by rats, or consumed by mould.

And credit where credit was due, thought Tearney—a firm believer in this principle when it suited her—Diana had come up trumps. Which explained the smile Tearney bestowed upon her now, the smile on the face of the owl before it rips the mouse to shreds.

“One might almost say you’re your own worst enemy,” she said. “You’ve been performing these tasks so efficiently, it might almost seem foolish to assign a deputy you can foist them off onto.”

Diana Taverner nodded, upgrading her Well played to Fine shot . Paper-shuffling and throat-clearing from the others, who recognised a shafting when they saw one. Diana Taverner’s chances of getting an admin assistant were being buried in real time, with Ingrid Tearney stamping down the dirt.

At length, Taverner said, “It’s always nice to have one’s efforts appreciated.”

“You’re an ornament to the hub, Diana. I honestly think the Service would grind to a halt without your input. If it weren’t so early, I’d suggest we raise a glass to you. As it is, we really have to press on now and deal with the rest of these matters.”

Diana said, “So there’s no chance of relief, then.”

Dame Ingrid was one hundred percent concern. “Relief? My dear, you’re not feeling stressed , are you? If you’re feeling stressed , then obviously we’ll have to do something about it.”

“I’m not feeling stressed, Ingrid.”

“You’re sure? There’s a very good medical package available, you know, Diana. Absolutely no stigma attached. Just say the word. We’ll ship someone in to man the hub and damn the budget! All that matters is that you’re fighting fit and in full control of all your very commendable abilities.”