Мик Херрон - Real Tigers

“Bitterness is so unbecoming.”

“Are you expecting my resignation?”

He bared a palm, as if to demonstrate no evil intent. Only one palm, she noted. “Heaven forbid.”

“Then what is it you want?”

Unlike many another politico, he didn’t waste time pretending he didn’t know what she meant. “An, ah, what shall we call it? An understanding. No. An alliance.”

“You’re my minister. I answer to you on a daily basis. I’m sure we already understand each other, and as for alliances, there should be little doubt that we’re on the same side.”

“Oh, we’re all on the same side. But that doesn’t mean we don’t pick teams. You’re a civil servant. I’m a politician. With a fair wind, you might expect to be head of your Service until retirement. But one way or the other, I don’t expect to be in this office for more than another year. If I leave it on my terms, it will be because I’m moving into Number Ten. Otherwise . . . Well, political careers have been known to founder.”

“And you’re worried yours might.”

“Once the PM decides he’s in a strong enough position, yes. He brought me inside the fold to forestall a challenge from the back benches. Any such challenge now would seem . . . ”

“Treacherous.”

“Impolite.”

“And thus unlikely to garner support within the party.”

Judd blinked in silent agreement.

“Unless his circumstances changed.”

Judd blinked again.

It was cool in the office. A fake breeze hummed somewhere, as if it were blowing in off a carpet of ice cubes. But as an undercurrent to that, Ingrid Tearney felt a sudden access of warmth; that of acquired knowledge. Judd wanted to render the Service a sharp kick in the teeth, that had always been clear; a way of both asserting his own current mastery, and revenging himself for a rejection three decades ago. But in addition to that, he wanted—needed—her cooperation. Tearney recognised this ability to layer scheme upon scheme, to allow for maximum benefit. It wasn’t so much playing both ends against the middle as securing the middle and flaying anyone within reach with the ends.

She said, “I see.”

“I rather thought you might.”

“So the file Cartwright was sent to steal—that wasn’t a random choice.”

“For the purposes of the exercise, one file was as good as any other,” he said smoothly.

“Of course. I’m just getting an inkling of the use you might have put it to if he’d succeeded.”

“Well,” he said. “That was never likely to happen, was it? Not unless security at the Park turned out to be in even more parlous a state than was the case.” He rose suddenly, and carried his empty cup and saucer to the tea tray. With his back to her, he went on, “Besides, there’s no need for me to go to such lengths to examine the contents of an old file housed in a department over which I have ministerial control.”

“Subject to the usual limitations,” Dame Ingrid said.

He returned to where she sat, and held a hand out. She gave him her crockery.

He said, “Of course. I’m simply seeking an assurance that all and any information relevant to the security of the nation is brought to my attention. That would inevitably include information relating to the reliability or otherwise of those entrusted with the great offices of state.”

“Which might then be used to ease those same unreliables out of those offices.”

“Well now. Once we’ve established the unfitness of an office holder, it would be a dereliction of duty not to do something about it.”

He carried her crockery to the table and carefully arranged the empty cups and used saucers in as efficient a tableau as possible. Then he returned to his chair and sat once more, smiling pleasantly.

She said, “Have you any idea how many times over the past half century the Service has been asked to consider doing what you’re suggesting?”

He pretended to give it some thought. “I would guess at least once during each administration. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. The important thing is that we both know whose team we’re on.”

“I see.”

An important thing perhaps, but promises of future cooperation were easily given. If the worst that happened here and now was that she be allowed back to the Park to lick her wounds, Ingrid Tearney would count the day a victory. But she knew as well as she knew her own mind that, having manoeuvred her into a corner where she could hardly fail but to indicate surrender, Judd would take it one step further and demonstrate his power. Victory, she had once heard someone say, was about ensuring your opponent never again put head to pillow without thinking with hatred on your face. Tearney, who had never married, had thought this over the top, but had little difficulty accepting it as one of Judd’s credos.

It was of small consolation, in such circumstances, to be proved right almost immediately.

Peter Judd picked up a small metal implement from the table by his chair—a cigar-cutter, or some equally ridiculous tool—and examined it with an air of absent-mindedness. For such a dedicated politician, it really was a beginner’s tell.

He said, “This Slough House place. Amusing name. I gather it’s a decrepit set of offices near the Barbican.”

She nodded.

“Somewhere you can send the rejects.”

“It’s not always politic to fire people.”

“Isn’t it? Can’t say I’ve ever found that a problem.”

It was true that he’d never seemed to worry about lawsuits, whether relating to employment or paternity issues.

“And that’s where this Cartwright chap was assigned.”

She saw little point in replying when it was clear he knew the answer.

Judd sighed to himself as if enjoying a private little moment of pleasure, and replaced the metal tool on the table where it belonged.

“Well, it’s obviously unfit for purpose if its aim was to retrain the morons,” he said. “So let’s close it down.”

“Slough House?”

“Yes,” he said. “Close it down. Today.”

Jackson Lambdidn’t believe in omens. When he got a feeling in his gut, it was generally because of some mistreatment he’d subjected said gut to, though frankly the thing was so inured to his lifestyle, he’d probably have to pour weed-poison into it to provoke a serious reaction. Nevertheless, he didn’t like the way the day was shaping up. Cartwright getting arrested at the Park was a serious fuck-up, even for the boy wonder; Lamb didn’t doubt Lady Di had meant every word when she’d said they could kiss him goodbye. And while he could contemplate a future without River Cartwright in it with a degree of equanimity, Catherine Standish would have plenty to say on the subject if she ever turned up. And Lamb had learned long ago not to piss off whoever made your morning tea.

If she turned up . . . His gut aside, facts were starting to accumulate. The odds on Cartwright doing something monumentally stupid on any given morning were evens; the chances of Catherine Standish going AWOL were lower. That the two things had happened at the same time meant there was a connection, and if Lamb had to place a bet, he’d put it on cause and effect. Cartwright had learned something about Standish’s disappearance that had set him haring off to the Park where he’d hit a brick wall, full tilt.

Time for an older, wiser mind to take charge.

He farted, and settled into Catherine’s chair.

Lamb didn’t often come into this office. The rest of Slough House he prowled at will, poking into nooks and late-night corners, but Standish’s office he left alone. If it contained anything she genuinely didn’t want him to find, he probably wouldn’t find it without causing structural damage. And by the time he was drunk enough to find this prospect appealing, he was usually beyond putting a plan into action.