“Piss break,” said Lamb.

He stood and stretched, releasing a dandruffy shower of ash, then shambled towards a nearby clump of bushes.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Diana said, and turned away, head reeling. It hadn’t been a proper flashback—Lamb hadn’t even been there—but he’d evidently debriefed those involved. Sophie de Greer, a Russian plant? The daughter of a former KGB colonel, hired by Number Ten’s foremost advocate of disruption? Sparrow would have a rueful little chuckle about that, once he’d beheaded everyone in sight. Assuming, that was, he’d had no prior knowledge of her actual identity.

Though it seemed likely he’d only been alerted to who she was by Vassily Rasnokov, a few weeks ago in Moscow.

And seemed certain that his unleashing Claude Whelan on Diana herself was more than the knee-jerk harassment she’d thought it.

Judging by the volcanic shaking of Lamb’s shoulders, he was done with his comfort break. He was still zipping up as he headed back. “See, the thing about coffee,” he was starting to say.

“Where is she now?”

“It’s rude to interrupt.”

“Where is she now?”

“Remember that place in Chelsea?”

“What? That’s a Service safe house—”

“Okay, boomer. It was a gift from Judd’s cabal, remember? Given how very much you’re keeping that off the books, you’re in no position to object.” He was smoking again, or possibly still. It was hard to picture Lamb without a lit cigarette. “And I had to put her somewhere.”

“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.”

She let that settle for a moment, then said, “If you’re right, the real reason for Rasnokov’s visit had nothing to do with de Greer.”

“Give that woman a banana.” Lamb drained the cup and tossed it over his shoulder. “Rasnokov’s like everybody else, he’s doing his job but looking out for himself. Baiting you in the embassy, that was work. Whatever else he was up to, that’s what we really want to know. What’s in the bag?”

“. . . Excuse me?”

He nodded at her leather tote. “You’ve come from the Park, you’ve spent all morning on this. Don’t tell me you weren’t reading the output on your way here.”

Diana looked at him. “It’s Park product. You’re not cleared to see it.”

“Ha-de-fucking-ha.”

She reached into her bag and produced a block of paper, half an inch thick.

Arrival details from Heathrow, the luckless Pete Dean’s surveillance reports, interviews with cab drivers and paperwork from the Grosvenor, including itemised billing, room service orders, channels viewed (Sky Sports, CNN), phone calls made (none), newspapers required (Times, Telegraph), and the contents of his bin post check-out.

“And there’s video on the laptop.”

“Haven’t seen a good movie since Sleeping Booty.”

Cigarette plugged into his mouth, he lowered his gaze.

It was as if he’d left the stage for the duration, becoming all function for the minutes it took him to digest the paperwork. Diana thought of the boys and girls on the hub, their faces lit by the glow of their screens as they absorbed information. Lamb’s light seemed to come from within, as if it were only at such moments that he burned real fuel. She wouldn’t want to disturb him. Couldn’t be sure who he’d be if he were startled out of his reverie without warning.

Instead, she watched the park enjoying this last burst of summer. It wouldn’t last. Autumn was bringing its weight to bear, and would have the usual effect—when autumn descends on the city, its adjectives drop away like leaves from a tree, until all that remain are the obvious: London is big, its roads are hard, its skies are grey, its noise is fierce. Months to go before that picture softened. She wondered if she’d still be in her job then. Lamb’s story had handed her a weapon, but Sparrow came well protected, and it was clear he viewed her as a threat. One he intended to deal with. My advice would be, spend your remaining time as First Desk concentrating on more important issues.

The rasp of Lamb’s lighter brought her back. He thrust the papers at her, and she pattycaked them into a neatish pile on her knees. “Well?”

“Man likes a drink.”

“That’s all you’ve got?”

“What do you want, his horoscope?” He exhaled, and his head was wreathed in smoke. “How did he look at the party?”

“Not like someone who’d been on the whisky all night, if that’s what you mean.”

“Despite having two bottles sent to his room within thirty minutes of his arrival. Any hookers delivered with them?”

“It’s not that kind of place.”

He gave her a sardonic look. “They’re all that kind of place.”

“We have a file on him. Obviously. Twelve-year-old Balvenie’s expensive, but it’s his preferred brand, and two bottles is not without precedent. I’ve seen you put a bottle away before heading out for a drink.”

“Thanks for reminding me. It’s getting on for that time.”

He stood and stretched and yawned all at once. It was like watching a building collapse, backwards. When that was done, he said, “One and a half litres over a two-day stay. Yeah, okay. Not entirely unheard of, in my experience.”

“Wide as that most assuredly is.”

“I’m impressed he eats the bottles, though,” said Lamb. “That’s hardcore.”

And he padded away, leaving Diana busy with the paperwork again; confirming that whatever Rasnokov had done with the two empty bottles of Balvenie, they hadn’t ended up in his bin.