Мик Херрон - Real Tigers

“Yeah, Cartwright was asking after him. Sore head?”

“Limited brain function.”

“Anyone noticed?”

“You licensed a small war, Jackson. There are going to be questions.”

“I licensed nothing.” He produced a pair of cigarettes from his pocket, stuck one behind his ear and lit the other. Taverner waved smoke away. Lamb said, “Ingrid Tearney approved yesterday’s outing, and I’m guessing it was her who then changed her mind and sent the troops in.” He waggled the folder. “When she realised exactly what it was Donovan was after.”

“Not the Grey Books.”

“Not the Grey Books. And before you start spinning fairytales, Diana, this’s got your fingerprints all over it. Those soldier boys didn’t find out about Slough House from the phone book. Everything they had, from the names of my crew to Ingrid Tearney’s private number, that all came from someone on the inside.”

Diana let her gaze wander the square, perhaps wondering if Lamb had brought backup. But nobody caught her attention for long. She turned to look at him instead. “Shame. I was rather hoping to convince you it was Ms. Standish did all that. Did she enjoy being . . . ‘kidnapped’? Rather more attention than she usually gets, I’d have thought.”

Lamb said, “You even told me where they were, the whackjob files, when we talked on the phone. Talk about signposting.”

“No discussing Ms. Standish, then? All right, Jackson, yes, hands up to this one. The tiger team was my idea, and I sold it to Judd. I brought Donovan on board, though his method of creating a job vacancy at Black Arrow was his idea, not mine. As was killing Monteith. That’s the trouble with going freelance. You can’t always keep the talent on the straight and narrow.”

“But you had to go out of house, because you needed a third party to bring this to light.” Lamb waved the folder again. “Everything you always wanted to know about the Service’s use of black prisons, but were afraid to ask.”

“Don’t act like you’re surprised.”

“Trust me. I’m not.”

He might as well not have spoken.

“We’ve used them for years, Lamb. Project Waterproof. A way of deporting undesirables without going through all that tiresome legal bullshit. And it hardly makes us outcast among nations. They’ve long been doing it in the good old US of A.”

“Maybe so,” said Lamb. “But I thought we’d denied using them in the UK of E, S, W and NI.”

“That’s the whole point. We’ve denied using them. Most categorically, and in front of Parliamentary Committees. More to the point, we both know precisely who has denied using them.”

“Ingrid Tearney,” said Lamb.

“Whose name’s so plastered over the paperwork, you’d think it was the logo. Flight plans. Transport requisition. Fuel . . . You can’t conjure an international flight out of nothing. And it’s not like these places come round and collect. Have you got a spare one of those?”

Lamb checked his second cigarette was still tucked behind his ear, and said, “No.”

“Too hot to smoke anyway . . . And we’re not talking registered charities here, either. They’re actual prisons. Or used to be. They’re . . . special purpose now. And require payment.”

“In return for the permanent removal from circulation of various miscreants,” Lamb said flatly. It was impossible to tell from his tone whether he approved or not.

“Well, you can’t have a parole hearing if you’ve never been sentenced.” She gave a short, bitter laugh. “I don’t mean to sound judgmental. These are people who, on the whole, we don’t really want loose on our streets.”

“On the whole?”

She shrugged. “There’s rumours Tearney’s used Waterproof to vanish people for personal reasons.”

“Perks of the job.”

“I’m sure the PM will see it that way.”

“He’ll probably ask her to use it on Judd. And this is what the Dunn woman learned that night in New York.”

“The guy who approached her, he was a delegate from . . . Well, let’s just say one of the ’Stans. Some while back, he’d brokered a deal for the use of a couple of his nation’s particularly remote high-security facilities.” She paused. “Their version of high security’s not as high-tech as you might imagine. It mostly involves thick walls and no plumbing.”

“I know,” said Lamb. He lit his second cigarette with the stub of his first, which he then flicked, still burning, at the nearest pigeon. It failed to respond.

“And evidently, some years later, saw the light and felt the need to come clean. Or maybe he just wanted to impress Captain Dunn.”

“Effectively signing her death warrant.”

“We’ve all touched pitch, Lamb. Don’t pretend your hands are clean.”

He didn’t reply immediately. The pair sat watching the discarded stub of his cigarette blackening the already frazzled blades of grass it had landed among. Given time, given time, such a start could burn a city down.

Eventually he said, “So what now?”

“Documentary evidence of the project’s existence is more than a career embarrassment for Tearney. It’s an international incident waiting to happen. So it’ll be blanketed from a great height. Judd will encourage her to retire. That’ll leave a vacancy at the head of the service.”

“To be filled by . . . ?”

“I couldn’t possibly comment.”

“And in return,” Lamb said, “you’ll ease Judd’s passage into Number Ten. Which should be a doddle, what with your having access to all sorts of confidential material. Such as the PM’s vetting file.”

“He’ll be a safe pair of hands, I’m sure,” Taverner said. “We had a meeting yesterday, point of fact.” She brushed her palms the length of her thighs, stretching the linen as she did so. “He assured me that he holds the Service in high regard. That any ideas he had regarding reorganisation, he’s now shelved.”

“He’s a fucking psychopath,” Lamb said.

“All the more reason to have him inside the tent pissing out.”

“This is Peter Judd,” said Lamb. “I’d be more worried about him taking a dump. Besides which, you’re overlooking something. You don’t have the evidence. I do.”

Again, he tapped the folder that River Cartwright had given him.

“Because of course,” he said, “if this all went public—if it found its way to, say, the Guardian— well, that would be different, wouldn’t it? A public explosion instead of a controlled detonation. Tearney would still go, but Judd would be caught in the blast. And without a friendly minister to grease your wheels . . . What do you reckon, Diana? Think you’d still find yourself First Desk?”

Taverner said, “This is not the sort of juggernaut you want to walk in front of, Jackson.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Don’t forget, I have my team to consider.”

“Really? That’ll be a first.”

“They have a natural respect for me.”

“That’s not respect. It’s Stockholm syndrome.”

“How do you think they’d feel if I said we’d just let it go, all those folk trying to kill them? They have a right to know what was at stake.” He scrunched his nose up and sniffed noisily. “Maybe take a vote on it.”

“. . . You have got to be kidding.”

Lamb turned heavy eyes on her, his expression momentarily obscured by the cloud of smoke he exhaled. Then he said, “Of course I’m fucking kidding. Getting shot at’s a day at the races as far as they’re concerned.”

“Jesus, Lamb . . . ”

“And I wouldn’t let them vote on their favourite breakfast cereal.” He extended the folder to her, but didn’t relinquish it when she took hold of it. “But I’m serious about Judd. You’ve got a real tiger by the tail there.”