Champagne and salmon, caviar and blinis, canapés stuffed with olives.

Or the last slice of pizza fished from a grease-drenched box, and garnished with extra cheese and onion, or at any rate, accompanied by crisps of that flavour.

Even with his face a scarred mask, it was possible to read Lech’s disgust as he watched Roddy Ho shovel this delicacy into his mouth. “I think you’ve just invented the Unhappy Meal.”

“All part of my five-a-day.”

Lech stared. “You’re aware that’s not just counting how many things you eat?”

Ashley said, “Lamb stole my lunch.”

“Yeah, if Slough House had a coat of arms, that’d be its motto.”

“Does anyone know if he ate it?”

“That would be his usual approach,” said Louisa. “Why? What was in it?”

“. . . Nothing.”

They were in Roddy’s office, and on Roddy’s screens was the continuing coverage of the reception at the embassy, this consisting largely of the drivers of various limos moodily smoking. Moodily was how the slow horses read it, anyway, though it was possible this was a nuance bestowed by black-and-white footage. On Bayswater Avenue evening had fallen, as it had on Aldersgate Street. One of the office’s overhead bulbs had blown so the room was dimly lit, and a draught penetrated the cardboard shield covering the broken window. This stirred the dominant odours: the pizza Roddy was eating, the black tea in Lech’s mug, the whispers of long-smoked cigarettes that pervaded Slough House, a constant reminder of their onlie begetter, Jackson Lamb.

Who had had left ages ago. He might come back, of course—Louisa half-believed he slept in his office—but for the moment he was off the premises, having departed in Catherine’s wake. Louisa would have been home herself by now if not for the ever-recurrent fear-of-missing-out that all slow horses were prey to; well, all bar Roddy Ho, who was constantly at the centre of events, if only in his head. And it was possible, she told herself, that among these visitors to the Russian embassy—the liggers and lackeys, hungry for party food and propaganda—she might just spot one Alexa Chaikovskaya, absurd as that might sound. But was it? She’d be old now, seventies at least, but that was hardly a stretch for these former KGB types, some of whom seemed to undergo living mummification, still wheeled out on parades when slippers and a nice cup of cocoa would have been a kinder fate. Chaikovskaya had been a colonel in the eighties, and might have gone on to greater heights. Not that Louisa was up to speed on ranks in the Russian machine. River Cartwright would have known.

Someone was leaving, appearing as a shadow on one of Roddy’s screens, silhouetted in the embassy’s doorway. A woman, not the one on Louisa’s mind, but recognisable nevertheless. Lech said it first:

“Lady Di.”

“Why’d you call her that?” Ashley said.

Louisa and Lech shared a look. “Because everyone does?”

“No, they don’t. Why would they?”

“. . . Because her name’s Diana?”

Their mutual incomprehension would have made everyone present uncomfortable, if that number hadn’t included Roddy Ho.

Onscreen, Taverner stepped inside a cab.

“Black car,” Roddy murmured under his breath.

“Why would she be there?” Louisa asked.

“It’s an official function,” Lech said. “Why wouldn’t she be?”

“I thought she hated that kind of thing.”

“Gotta fly the flag, I suppose.”

“Why did Lamb want us watching this anyway?” Ashley said.

“Did he say he did?” Lech said.

“Well, no, but . . .”

“But he knew we would, once he’d asked Roddy to hijack the coverage.”

“Yeah,” said Louisa. “You think it’s Taverner he wanted us to clock?”

“What, because he reckons she’s up to something dodgy?”

“To be fair, she usually is. Though I’m having trouble imagining it having anything to do with the Russians.”

“On the other hand, there she is,” said Lech. “Strolling out of their embassy.”

“Yeah, right,” said Roddy, rolling his eyes. “Because the best time for a secret meeting is when the place is full of people. Duh.”

“Well, yeah, actually. Duh.”

“I thought Taverner sent an underling along to functions,” Ashley said. “When she wanted her RSVP to be ‘fuck you.’”

“That’s what the word in the Park is, huh?” said Louisa.

“Well, it was recently. Why, when was the last time you were there?”

“Touchy,” said Roddy.

“It’s pronounced touché,” said Lech.

“What is?”

“So okay, for some reason Lamb wanted us to watch this,” said Louisa. “And apart from a bunch of freeloaders turning up for gangster grub and gangster wine, all we’ve seen is First Desk leaving early. Do we feel wiser yet? Because I’m ready to go home.”

“Lightweight,” said Lech. “Can you give me a lift?”

“Which direction?”

“Chelsea.”

Louisa held his gaze a moment, then sighed. “Yeah, okay. Come on.”

“I wouldn’t have guessed Lech lived in Chelsea,” Ashley said when they were gone.

“He doesn’t,” said Roddy.

“I wonder what he’s up to then?”

Roddy shrugged. “Do you do much social media?”

“Normal amount. Why?”

“Do you ever . . . dress up?”

“Not sure where this is going,” said Ashley. “But I’m not following it.” She went to find her coat, and on her way back down put her head round the door again. “Did you see Lamb after lunch, by the way?”

“Don’t remember. Why?”

“No reason.”

But she was scowling as she made her way down the stairs, and kicked the back door harder than necessary before stepping into Slough House’s yard, its walls damply patterned with city mildew, and quietly reeking of loss in the late-summer evening.

Anyone watching Oliver Nash approach La Spezia that evening would have thought he’d been hanging around the Park too long. His every move betrayed an excess of caution. For a start, he made three passes—walking straight by the first time; pausing to study the menu the second; the third, hovering in place, making a play of indecision—which was one too many for a man casing a brothel, let alone a small Italian restaurant off Wardour Street. Before he at last braved the front door he paused to turn his overcoat collar up, and for all the street dazzle of Soho—the neon lights and mirrored windows; the pavements shiny with party-poppered sequins—you’d have thought Nash was stepping into noir, dimming everything to a monochrome rainbow: black and white and grey and white and black.

Once inside, he asked for a table for one, and was taken downstairs and placed in a corner booth. Two others were occupied, both by elderly couples audibly engaged in eating pasta, and by the time Nash was seated—after waiting in vain to be relieved of his coat; he settled for draping it on the banquette opposite—a laminated menu had been slapped in front of him, illustrated with photographs of the dishes on offer. All of this, too, would have puzzled any watcher. Nash’s regular haunts required reservations and appropriate footwear. La Spezia’s kitchen seemed more likely to be graced by a Pirelli calendar than a Michelin star. Besides, Nash was on his own, and dining solo was not his habit. A possible, if unkind, explanation might be that Nash had found somewhere he might indulge himself without witnesses; an arena in which he could not only let his appetite off the leash, but sit back and admire its turn of speed. But the cannier observer would be aware that Nash was studying his surroundings, and making notes on his phone. Oliver Nash was on the job.

 

scruffy but clean

photo of pope

framed football shirt (signed by?)

 

He paused, unable to either make out the name scrawled in Sharpie on the shirt, or recognise the team colours.

 

floor tiled in red and white squares

ditto tablecloths

It wasn’t evident that any of this information mattered, but he was here, and would follow his instincts.

 

staff young Italians, badly needing shaves

 

One such approached Nash’s booth now and asked if he’d made his choice, or at least, so Nash interpreted his monosyllabic enquiry.

“What do you recommend?”

This earned a blank stare.

“What’s the chef’s speci—”

“Fettucini’s good.”

With prawns, though their provenance wasn’t mentioned. The travails of the joe in the field. “Very well. And the bruschetta to start. And a glass of the Amarone.” He squinted at the wine list. “That’s number . . . seventeen. A large glass.”

The young man disappeared through the swing doors into the kitchen, and Nash added brusque service to his list.

But the wine arrived swiftly, as did his starter, and the odours filling the room were promising. There was no piped music, which was a plus—no muzak—though a radio played in the kitchen, a football match. He checked his messages as he ate. Nothing of interest bar a note from Claude Whelan, seeking retrospective confirmation that he, Nash, had approved his, Whelan’s, request to examine phone records pertaining to the hub . . . That wouldn’t have gone down well with Diana. It was possible Whelan was less diffident than Nash had thought. He replied, then scanned the headlines: the PM had just shared his vision of post-Brexit Britain as a cultural powerhouse, its film industry the envy of the world—there was more on the Home Office reshuffle, which some were calling a bloodbath; and there’d been a house fire off the Westway. One fatality, as yet unidentified. He laid his phone aside, and thought back to yesterday’s meeting.

It had been his first summons to Sparrow’s presence, but he was aware of precedents. Some had involved civil servants of forty years’ standing, the resulting interviews curtailing their careers in the time it would take to drink a cup of tea, had such courtesy been offered. Others had learned that their departments were coming under new admin structures more directly controlled by Number Ten; “reforms”—a bastardised word if ever there was one—that were in reality a show of strength from a government whose weaknesses had been on national display over the previous eighteen months. This performance was largely due to the prime minister himself, whose sole qualification for the job had been the widespread expectation that he’d achieve it. Having done so, he was clearly dumbstruck by the demands of office: the pay-cut, the long hours, the pandemic, and the shocking degree of accountability involved. For a man who’d made a vocation out of avoidance of responsibility, this last was an ugly blow. Nash didn’t much care about any of that—the man’s character had been evident for decades, and people still voted for him—but it mattered that, as a consequence, the PM had come to rely on a series of advisers whom no one had voted for. And “rely on” was putting it mildly. While the PM still racked up soundbites on a regular basis, they mostly came out as “gottle o’ geer.” His lips might move, but it was Sparrow writing his script.

Sparrow’s script-writing ambitions stretched beyond the odd political broadcast.

“How do you find Diana Taverner?” he had asked Nash the previous afternoon, before the topic of Sophie de Greer had been broached.

“Diana? She’s an effective First Desk.”

In other circumstances, the prospect of a no-holds-barred discussion of Diana’s ups and downs would have been a thrill, but Sparrow was no gossip. Sparrow was the weasel under the cabinet table, his teeth bared and dripping.

“It’s said she’s close to Peter Judd.”

“Judd was Home Secretary while Diana was Second Desk,” Nash said. “Naturally they worked together.”

“And have continued to . . . associate since. Though Judd has some dubious acquaintances.”

Judd had set himself up as an old-school eminence grise, and was currently stage-managing the mayoral ambitions of one Desmond Flint, who might fairly be described as dubious, Nash thought, but was at least prepared to put himself before the electorate. As for the degree to which Diana was involved with Judd, Nash had wondered about that himself, but was wary of airing doubts in front of Sparrow.

He said, “That’s the nature of the Westminster village. We all bump elbows with some we’d sooner avoid.”

Sparrow received this with his customary lack of expression.

“The Westminster village. Curious to take pride in its parochial nature, don’t you think?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Her associations aside, Taverner’s support for Number Ten has been underwhelming. I’d prefer First Desk to display a little more enthusiasm for the government she serves.”

It did not escape Nash that it was a first-person preference Sparrow was stating.

He said, “If this is to sound me out about a possible, ah, move towards a replacement, I’d remind you that Number Ten has traditionally relied on the guidance of the Limitations Committee in such matters. And as its chair, I have to say Diana commands the Committee’s respect. She can be abrasive, yes, but there’s no reason to question her commitment to the government of the day.”

“Very loyal. But as you say, Number Ten’s reliance on the Committee’s judgement is a matter of tradition. And tradition doesn’t rank highly with myself or the PM. It’s a drag on progress.”

“Some might say—”

“Any such removal would be part of a larger reorganisation. First Desk has a ring to it, but overstates the case. His or her role is simply to carry out policy and instructions delivered by Number Ten. As for the Committee, I see that as being streamlined, but with more responsibility accruing. The PM himself, or one of his advisers, would attend meetings designed to formulate overall policies. The chair would then inform First Desk of instructions arising. Which would lessen the possibility of the Service involving itself in adventures detrimental to the government’s larger aims.”

“Such a structure might overlook—”

“And there’d be no debate about removing Taverner from office, since she’d resign sooner than suffer what she’d see as a demotion. So you don’t need worry about a conflict of loyalties.”

“. . . Conflict?”

“You’ll be required to stay on as chair for the foreseeable future. I assume that’s what you want?”

Phrased, thought Nash, as if he had been plotting his own advancement.

Sparrow was observing him, head tilted to one side as if in homage to his avian namesake, so he nodded. “When do you plan to announce these changes?”

“I’m sure the moment will present itself. Meanwhile, there’s another matter. As it happens, not entirely unconnected.” He had gone on to lay out the problem of his missing superforecaster, and the role Nash might play in resolving this.

When his main course arrived, it was soundtracked by a roar of approval from the kitchen: a goal, Nash assumed. Certainly his waiter seemed less morose. He paused long enough to assure himself that Nash had noticed the plate in front of him, and then went back through the swing doors, which flapped in his wake, a diminishing series of farewell gestures. Nash speared a garlicky prawn, delivered it to his mouth, and for a moment all other concerns disappeared. Food was a form of magic. But his meal diminished with every mouthful, and before he had finished, the spectre of Sparrow was rematerialising: Deeply out of place here, as much so as Nash himself, and that was the question, wasn’t it? What on earth had drawn Anthony Sparrow to this obscure eatery?

It had been a little over a week ago that Nash had seen him on Wardour Street, mid-evening; satchel on his back and walking with purpose. Nash had been browsing in Foyle’s before heading for a club on Shaftesbury Avenue, but spurred by mischief and the possibility of intrigue had changed direction. The adventure lasted less than a minute, Sparrow turning off the main drag almost as soon as Nash had spotted him, and heading for this restaurant. But instead of the front door he had used the entrance marked for deliveries, which Nash now assumed led into the kitchen. At the time, he had walked on past, abuzz. The notion that he’d stumbled on a secret dining hole, frequented by a Downing Street elite, was a rare prize, a morsel he could dine off for weeks. But care would be needed. Sparrow wanted to be feared, and didn’t mind being hated. He wouldn’t take kindly to having his secrets unearthed.

What was already widely known about him was bad enough. That he was a “disruptor,” a self-described architect of the new future. That it was his habit to call fake news on anything showing himself or the government in a bad light. That it was also his habit to proclaim fake news a good thing, since it forced people to question what they heard. That such contradictions allowed him to claim victory in every argument. That he appeared to be running the country, with half the cabinet terrified of him, and the rest scared stiff. That when Number Ten boasted of approaching glories, it was Sparrow’s pipe dreams the prime minister was passively smoking. That it wouldn’t end well.

Given all that, it had been no surprise that Sparrow in person had proved a charmless bully. But—and here Nash forced himself not to look away from a grim truth—a charmless bully armed with the promise of advancement. This couldn’t be ignored. The last few years had scraped the rosy glow off his investment portfolio, and the knowledge that this was true for many did little to alleviate the matter. There was an opportunity here to ensure that his future continued to feature the right kind of restaurant, and appropriate shoes. And he had never sworn fealty to Diana Taverner. There could be no treachery in witnessing her eclipse.

The doors to the kitchen swung open as another meal was carried to a table, and the volume of the football match grew louder, as did the attention of the kitchen staff. Nash could make out coathooks on the other side of the doors, on which hung several football jerseys, the same design as the trophy shirt on the wall. The doors strobed to a standstill, obscuring the view. He rather liked this place, he decided, and on impulse added to his list surprisingly enjoyable atmosphere. Again, not something he’d expect Sparrow to be susceptible to. Nash pondered that for a moment, wondering what he might be missing.

Then he caught the waiter’s eye, and ordered more wine and a chocolate delice.

The second gin and tonic is the key. In this instance what it unlocked was a disinclination to go home, a disinclination that left Whelan poised, empty glass aloft, imagining that the picture he presented to the approaching waitress was one of attractive dishevelment. Another drink wouldn’t hurt. Nor would a dish of smoked almonds. Behind her visor the waitress smiled, thinking about something else, and he smiled too, thinking about her. A large figure slid out of nowhere and occupied the chair Catherine Standish had vacated with the grace of a nesting hippo. “And a large scotch.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very large.”

“Yes, sir. We have—”

“Whatever’s most expensive.”

Which caused some confusion, but Whelan gave a reassuring nod, and she left to fill the order.

Jackson Lamb glared round benignly, like a momentarily appeased tyrant, settling into a kingdom that hadn’t yet realised was his.

Whelan said, “Do you make a habit of following your staff?”

“It’s more of a hobby, really.” His gaze settled on Whelan. “But dodgy looking geezers hanging round bus stops, who wander off after my joes, well. Them, I keep an eye on.” He arched a raggy eyebrow. “You never know who’s got form when it comes to harassing a working girl.”

So intent had he been on following Standish, on not alarming her by his presence, it hadn’t occurred to Whelan that he should have been checking his own wake.

The almonds arrived. Lamb scooped a grubby handful almost before they were placed on the table, and poured most into his mouth. His gaze remained on Whelan throughout.

Who said, “Well, you’re here. I was planning on speaking to you anyway. So this saves us both time.”

“Good to know. When I’ve saved enough, I’ll put the clocks back.”

“You took a call on Monday afternoon.”

“‘Took a call?’”

“Answered your office phone.”

“Doesn’t sound like me.”

“The call lasted two minutes thirty-seven seconds.”

“Can’t have been a dirty one,” said Lamb. “My stamina’s shot to pieces these days. I’ve had sneezes last longer.”

“I see you haven’t changed.”

The waitress brought their drinks. Lamb kept his gaze on Whelan, but Whelan gave her an appreciative look.

“Seems like I’m not the only one,” Lamb said.

Wherever he was going with that, Whelan wanted none of it. He said, “Sophie de Greer.” Lamb’s expression didn’t alter. “The name of the woman who called you.”

“I’d say you were well informed,” Lamb said. “If you weren’t full of shit.”

“This won’t help.”

“I’m not trying to help. I’m hoping you’ll fuck off and injure yourself.”

“Help you I mean.” Whelan reached for his glass. He’d rather be reaching for a weapon, he thought, ridiculously: When had he ever held a weapon? But there was something about Lamb: even facing him across a table felt like facing him across a trench. “All I’m doing is establishing the facts. And if you carry on being obstructive, my report will reflect that.”

“And I’ll get my wrists slapped.”

“Treat it like a game, that’s fine. But this is coming from all the way upstairs. If you don’t cooperate, things will get uncomfortable.”

Lamb lifted his glass and examined it for a moment. He’d asked for very large, which was what he’d been given, in bar terms. But if he’d poured this amount for himself, anyone watching would assume he was on the wagon. Without drinking, he said, “So tell me about this Soapy Gruyere.”

“Congratulations, you’re half right. She’s Swiss.”

“Someone has to be.”

“And a political appointee. As you well know.”

“I may have come across the name,” Lamb conceded. “Isn’t she Number Ten’s new weather girl?”

“The term you’re reaching for is ‘superforecaster.’”

“‘Superforecaster.’” Lamb shook his head in an exaggerated lament. “Still, I suppose the Swiss had to diversify from their more traditional pursuits. Chocolate, cuckoo clocks. Gay porn.”

“. . . Gay porn?”

“Well what did you imagine a hard-on collider was?”

He was going to have to take charge of this conversation before Lamb turned it into a lads’ night out. “She’s disappeared.”

“Wonder if she saw that coming?”

“And you’re the last person she called before it happened.”

Lamb shrugged, and used his free hand to help himself to more almonds. The ones that didn’t reach his mouth scattered, some falling into Whelan’s lap.

Whelan said, “You were in your office all afternoon?”

“Usually am.”

“And Ms. Standish takes your calls when you’re not there.”

“Does she? I’ve often wondered what she gets up to when I’m out.”

“How did you come to know Dr. de Greer?”

“I didn’t.”

“Because there’s some suspicion that the Service is involved in her disappearance. And the fact that she called you rather lends weight to that notion.”

Lamb balanced a nut on a thumbnail and flicked it into the air. Whelan expected it to drop into his mouth, but Lamb apparently didn’t: the almond disappeared somewhere behind him. “So your main item of evidence is something that didn’t happen. Dream this one up in your mother’s basement, did you? Because it has all the hallmarks of a conspiracy theory. And the sad bastards who fall for conspiracy theories always see more than what’s really there.” He leaned forward. “It’s like that fable about the blind men who think they’ve found an elephant. When what they’ve really got is a length of rope, a wall and an old umbrella stand.”

“I think we’ve heard different versions of that.”

“And what you’ve got, Claude, is several handfuls of crap you imagine adds up to an elephant.”

“You haven’t asked how I know about the phone call.”

“I don’t need to.” He smiled, unless it was a leer. “The Park’s always had an unlimited supply of elephant shit. Comes from being so close to the zoo.”

All of this, and the drink still untasted in his hand.

Whelan took a sip from his G&T. “Whatever’s going on, I plan to get to the bottom of it.”

“Save your strength for getting into that waitress’s knickers. I mean, you’ve no chance of that either, but at least you won’t get too badly hurt.” Lamb paused. “On the other hand, hassle my joes and I’ll take it as a declaration of war.”

A spurt of anger cascaded through him, as hot and wet as a stomach bug. “Joes? Your ‘joes’ are a bunch of wrecks. That Wicinski character should be behind bars if what I’ve heard’s true. As for what’s her name—Dander?—it’s not treatment she needs, it’s a padded cell. Slough House isn’t a department. It’s a psychiatric ward.”

If his outburst shook Lamb, he didn’t show it. “As ever, you’re missing the big picture. It’s my psychiatric ward. And it’s off-limits. Whatever you think your jurisdiction is, it runs out well before it reaches mine.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Only arseholes and idiots make threats. And I’m not an idiot.” Lamb got to his feet with a suddenness belying the weight he carried. Not to mention the glass in his hand: the surface of his whisky trembled, but no liquid sloshed over the sides. “Dander’s treatment’s none of your business. But thanks for the drink.” It barely resembled a drink, the way he put it away; it might have been a thimbleful. And then he was gone.

As it turned out, it was the fourth gin and tonic that was actually the key. Because by the time Whelan had drunk it, by the time the frightening bill arrived, he had replayed the encounter several times over in his head, and come to the firm conclusion that Lamb had been lying about the phone call.

And while he wasn’t entirely certain that Lamb had also caused Sophie de Greer to vanish, he had an inkling of where he might have put her if he had.

If the regularity of Diana Taverner’s meetings with the PM suggested a stable relationship between Number Ten and the Service, such stability was of the kind a folded-up beermat beneath a wonky table offers—it would do at a pinch, but sooner or later you’re going to need tools or a new piece of furniture. If this crisis point had lately seemed closer at hand, that, Diana suspected, was due to Anthony Sparrow, whose own position seemed secure enough. The prime minister makes me look like Greyfriars Bobby, Peter Judd had once told Diana, and it was true that the PM’s sense of loyalty was most observable in its application to his own interests, but it was also the case that he had, in the past, defended Sparrow against the slings and arrows of an outraged media. Loyalty, then, was not beyond him, even if most observers reckoned this had more to do with his belief that The Godfather was a guidebook than adherence to a principle. Whatever the cause, Sparrow seemed a fixture, his untouchability reinforced by the fact that, unlike cabinet ministers, he didn’t rely on the electorate’s approval, so the PM could be reasonably sure that irrelevancies like public opinion and the national good weren’t unduly skewing his advice.

On the other hand, what Sparrow had been doing cosying up to Vassily Rasnokov on a mini-break in Moscow would bear investigation. At the very least, a direct question or two.

She’d had time to call back at the Park before heading to Number Ten, and there had verified that no report had been filed by Sparrow regarding an encounter with Rasnokov the previous month. He had, though, been in Moscow: the occasion had been a “fact-finding mission,” its duration three days, and the official calendar indicating twenty-seven meetings, their subject—and presumably their object—trade. But what rattled her more than the possibility of a covert encounter being buried between appointments was that Rasnokov had let her know about it. That he was making mischief was evident, but whether the plaything was herself or Sparrow had yet to be determined. What other mischief he might have orchestrated while in London remained as yet unknown.

Speaking of mischief, her phone rang en route—her secondary phone; the one only her caller knew about.

“Is this important? Only I’m heading for Downing Street.”

“I remember the feeling,” said Peter Judd. “But best-laid plans and all that.”

“Save the lost-leader lament for your fan club. Those of us who know you well are still thanking our lucky stars.”

To the country at large, Judd’s tilt at Number Ten had ended in an inexplicable withdrawal from centre stage some years previously. To the better informed, the inexplicable element was Judd’s continued existence.

“Now now,” he said. “Let’s not forget our common cause.”

Diana spent several hours a day trying to forget precisely that.

Because a while back she had broken one of her own rules, stepping into a web without being certain she was the spider, and had accepted financial backing from a cabal led by Judd, thus untying herself from official, unsympathetic oversight. In her defence, the Service had needed the support. The case for the prosecution was more succinct: holy shit. Because as things stood, deep behind a Service op that had seen a Russian assassin murdered on Russian soil lay Chinese money, and most nights Diana lay awake for hours, counting how many different shitstorms might rain down if the story leaked. Her only comfort was that it was no more in Judd’s interests to conjur up such an apocalypse than it was in her own. But she remained in Judd’s tar-baby embrace, and judgment, she knew, was waiting down the tracks.

For the moment, though, his demands were specific to the day. “I was hoping for a little support. In the form of an endorsement.”

“An endorsement,” she repeated. “For your man Flint? One of us has clearly lost their mind.”

“Just a few words about how the capital needs a firm hand on the tiller. That sort of thing. And you’d be backing a winner, which gives one a nice warm glow, I find.”

“You seriously expect your straw man to take the mayor’s job?”

“Someone has to.”

“While using the fact that he didn’t catch the virus as a character issue?”

“Well, his opponent did.”

“It was a virus, Peter. Anyone could get it.”

“And as I’ve just pointed out, his opponent did.” His tone was the familiar one of a patient bully explaining the obvious. “I’m not saying it’s a sign of moral probity. But if it was, Desmond won.”

“And if it had been the other way round . . .”

“I’d be pointing out what a survivor he is. And not a pampered, scaredy, mask-wearing chicken.”

“You realise some idiots believe the pandemic was caused by gay marriage? This is no better than that.”

“Yes, well, once we established we’ve no time for experts, it’s open season, isn’t it?”

“Not really, no. Let me be quite clear. No way in hell am I supporting your candidate for mayor. And if he stands for anything else, I won’t support him for that, either. Not for worst-dressed rabblerouser. Not for seediest looking sockpuppet. All understood?”

“I’ll put you down as an undecided. Meanwhile, how’s business your end? Any more special operations planned?”

“The Service currently has its hands full maintaining equilibrium. Like most other organisations. So your cabal—”

“Our cabal.”

“—will have to content itself with the quiet life.”

“I do hope you’re not expecting us to fade into the background. You’ve opened a door that won’t easily shut. You can’t pretend you didn’t know what you were doing.”

“I don’t have to pretend I wasn’t aware of your dark passengers, Peter. You’re the one brought them on board.”

“We both know how much protection that will offer you should our arrangement become public. Which there’s no need for, obviously. As things stand.” The implicit threat hovered a while, underlined by Judd’s leavetaking: “What was it Fu Manchu used to say? ‘The world shall hear from me again.’”

She dropped her phone into her bag as the car arrived at Downing Street.

Where the small, irregularly shaped room she was shown to was a drab brown chamber, its walls bare save for various versions of the queen’s portrait, ageing in ten-year jumps. These were spaced at uniform intervals, making it hard not to notice there was no room for another, unless it was to be hung on the door. In the centre of the room, two long-backed chairs sat either side of a coffee table, on which was a cafetiere, freshly made, and two cups. Diana filled one, knowing she’d be waiting a while yet, the PM being one of those who believed that punctuality shows weakness. On the mantelpiece, a carriage clock ticked, its noise curiously elongated between the not-quite parallel walls. Downing Street was more than the warren it was labelled; there was a physics-bending aspect to it. Take it apart, room by room, and there’d be no way of putting it together again: you’d have spaces left unfilled, leftover rooms too big to fill them. Though those empty spaces would be handy for sealing up unwanted occupants . . . When the door opened to admit Anthony Sparrow, Diana thought, for a blurred moment, that she’d summoned the devil.

He grunted a greeting. “The PM’s got something on. You can brief me on his behalf.”

“‘Something on’?”

“It happens. He’s running a country.”

“This isn’t party business. Are you sure you’re an appropriate stand-in?”

“A petty distinction,” he said, pulling a chair back and flinging himself into it. “I’m taking this meeting, end of. Start talking.”

Sparrow was a scruffy dresser, and this evening wore jeans and a red T-shirt under a sandy-brown combat jacket. He carried satchel rather than briefcase, and as with many aspects of his behaviour seemed to dare anyone to comment on it. While Diana ran through the weekly business—the threat-level checklist; budgeting issues; whispers of a hushed-up cyber-attack on a German bank; more budgeting issues—he stared at the nearest portrait of ER, the tenor of his thoughts suggested by the curl of his lip. He had, as an unkind sketch writer once commented, a face only Wayne Rooney’s mother could love: faintly squashed, as if he’d spent years pressing it against a window. On the other side of the glass now, he was making up for lost time. Anyone who thought power was about anything other than settling scores hadn’t been paying attention.

When she’d finished, he said, “That it?”

“As much as you’re allowed to hear. The PM might delegate his duties, but I’m not about to breach confidentiality issues.”

“We’ll be taking a look at those guidelines.” He stood. “It’s a timewaste, having him fill me in after every briefing.”

She said, “Since we’re both here, I’ve a few issues.”

“Make them quick.” He was already reaching for his satchel.

“You’re concerned about the current whereabouts of Dr. Sophie de Greer.”

“That’s a question?”

“I understand you asked Oliver Nash to have my predecessor look into the matter.”

“The authority I wield comes from Number Ten. When I want things done, I don’t ask. I issue instructions.”

“That’s enlightening. But you might as well hear this from me first. Whatever fantasy you’ve concocted, the Service has no involvement, or interest, in Dr. de Greer’s whereabouts.”

“I’ll await Nash’s report. Anything else?”

“Yes. You were in Moscow last month. Who did you talk to?”

“A lot of people. Most of them Russians. They’re thick on the ground there, funnily enough.”

“Any topics of interest I should be made aware of?”

“Depends how interested you are in this country’s future. I was heading up a trade delegation. Keeping the beaches open.”

“. . . I’m sorry?”

“An observation. The real hero of Jaws was the mayor, because he kept the beaches open. That’s what this government is doing. Keeping beaches open.”

“I’ve heard the PM say so,” said Diana. “It’s no huge surprise he got it from you. But the Russian I had in mind is called Vassily Rasnokov. He’s not on your appointment list, and he’s not your average beach bunny. Any contact with him, I should have known about.”

“You personally? What is he, your pen pal?”

“He’s First Desk at the GRU. Do you need me to explain what that is?”

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.