It must have rained overnight, because the mews’ cobbles were shiny-wet and glistened in the morning sun, but no; whoever occupied the cottage opposite had been watering the plant-life, soaking the terracotta pots that laid siege to those premises like a Chinese army. And was cottage right, even? John Bachelor had temporarily occupied a number of properties lately—empty offices, friends’ sofas, his car’s back seat—but this was his first cottage, and the word sounded odd, applied in central London. On the other hand: whitewashed walls, a trellis arrangement, and a small tropical forest out front. It was hardly inner city.

He turned off the radio—the PM had just shared his vision of post-Brexit Britain as a culinary powerhouse, its takeaway delivery services the envy of the world—as the kettle reached the boil. Watching such devices perform this function was his career in a nutshell. Though the role was referred to as “milkman,” it mostly involved tea. But yesterday Dr. de Greer—Sophie—had praised the results, and that was the first compliment Bachelor remembered receiving this millennium.

“You’re being funny.”

He really wasn’t.

Bachelor had babysat before, and was familiar with the mindset of the usual Service casualty: someone whose career was an open book, its index busiest under the heading “Grudges, slights and injustices.” So when Lech Wicinski had asked about his availability, he’d jumped straight over the small print to focus on more important matters. “And the per diem aspect, you’d be covering that?” he’d heard himself say, with that inward sense of shame that felt as if someone were turning his corners down. Only once that had been established had the penny dropped. The baby he’d be sitting was Sophie de Greer.

“So I was right.”

“Truthfully?” Wicinski had asked. “I haven’t the faintest.”

But whatever was going on, de Greer had been targeted, and, thanks to Bachelor himself—who’d been the one to point Wicinski at a TV screen—it was the slow horses who’d brought her to sanctuary.

So here he was, in a Service safe house, with no current worries about food or shelter, and in his care an unfamiliar sort of client in that she was young, attractive, and in peril she hadn’t brought upon herself via the familiar triathlon of alcohol, sex and disgruntlement. Also, there was something in her conduct towards him that Bachelor had to take a few stabs at before it registered. Respect. Christ, it had been a long time.

He poured water into the pot, scalding it nicely. She brought out the protector in him, a trait usually summoned by his more elderly clients. Something helpless about her; uncalculating. And they had a ready-made connection, of course.

“I knew your mother.”

“. . . Really?”

“Well, not knew knew.”

He wasn’t sure how much he could say about Bonn. Somewhere, there was a former spook who’d been burned by the KGB, and it had never been clear to Bachelor whether the poor fool had committed the sins he’d been accused of, or whether, rather than having put a foot out of line, he’d simply found the line redrawn beneath his foot. Standard procedure for the time. The Cold War wasn’t all muffins at Checkpoint Charlie. Which this young woman presumably knew, her mother having been a combatant.

“And now you’re in the same line.”

“I wasn’t given a choice.”

This made sense to Bachelor, whose own horizons, he sometimes believed, had been crayoned in by another hand. “Blackmail?”

“Not me,” she said. “My mother. They said . . . They said she’d be turned out onto the streets. And she’s old. And . . .”

And all the things that went with being old. This, too, was an ancient story: a lifetime’s service trampled underfoot. They wore you out, then weaponised your uselessness and aimed it at your children. Dr. de Greer was crying, so automatically became Sophie. He could not comfort her while addressing her by title.

That first night he more or less ordered her to get some sleep: it was amazing, he trotted out, how different things looked in the morning. He’d then taken stock of the safe house, focusing on fridge and kitchen cupboards. No alcohol. Plenty of tinned food, though, and a freezer compartment stuffed with ready-meals. A box of teabags, not quite stale. Still no alcohol. But they wouldn’t starve. As for sleeping arrangements, there was only one bed; he’d settled on the sofa, and had known worse berths. When sleep arrived it came dreamlessly, but when he’d woken he’d lain for an hour or more remembering Bonn, the three or four days he’d spent staring at Sophie de Greer’s unsmiling, unspeaking mother; the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes on. And here he was sharing a house with her living image. Life brought you in circles, if you waited long enough. It sometimes seemed to Bachelor he’d done little with life other than wait through it.

Now they had a routine, Bachelor keeping station by the landing window, where he could clock strange arrivals, hear unusual sounds, be alert for danger; Sophie perched beside him on the top stair, as if they were engaged in a joint effort, rather than one in which he was the knight, she the fair maiden. He was wary of asking questions, knowing that the professionals, when they came for her, would expect to find her intact, but she had no such compunction.

“How long have you been a spy?”

“That’s not really what I do.”

“But you work for the intelligence service.”

He was a milkman, he explained; a long out-of-date joke having something to do with collecting the empties. A care-worker, really. It was strange, he found himself saying, the byways along which a career could take you. She seemed happy to share this insight, and even treat it as a small joke. Which, like his career, he supposed it was.

He made one of her own career, too: “Have you always known you wanted to be a superforecaster?”

Seeing her laugh was a new experience. He’d spent days in Bonn hoping to see that face smile, but Sophie’s mother—raised amidst grim state machinery—didn’t have the muscles to make that expression work.

There was a lot he wanted to know, but nothing he was able to ask. He hoarded what clues came his way, though:

My mother made great sacrifices.

She sent me away. I studied in Switzerland.

I always knew there’d be a debt to pay.

Fragments of a story the professionals would put together. But Bachelor felt he knew her better than the Park’s inquisitors ever would.

When Lech visited on the second day, Bachelor asked when they could expect company—when, in particular, Lamb would be dropping in.

“You’re asking me?” Lech said. “I’m hardly in the loop.”

Afterwards, when Bachelor related this non-information to Sophie, she said, “They’re deciding who gets me.”

“Who do you want to get you? I mean, where do you want to be? Do you want to go home?”

“Zurich’s my home. But they won’t send me there. They’ll send me to Moscow.”

“And what’s there for you?”

“Nothing.”

Here, too, he understood her. There was nothing for him in London, but this was where he’d been sent, or at any rate, this was where he was.

When he assured her she wouldn’t have to go anywhere she didn’t want to, she gave a sad smile, and briefly rested her head on his shoulder.

It wasn’t as if he were under any illusions. He was looking at sixty—could feel its breath on his eyebrows—and wasn’t one of those self-deceiving Lotharios whose mirrors were twenty years out of date. His best days were behind him, an even more melancholy thought when he weighed up how feeble they’d been at the time. He’d barely hit his middle years before the mould started showing through the wallpaper, and then there was no stopping it: the capsized marriage, the punctured career, the lack of anything you could mistake for loyalty, support or money.

This, though; this could go on for as long as it wanted. He’d happily while away months coaxing life out of ageing teabags and cooking up suppers from a cupboard-load of tins; spending daylight hours on the landing, Sophie beside him, like a vision dredged out of someone else’s memory. Months hoping not to hear words like:

“He’s coming here, isn’t he?”

It was the afternoon of the fourth day, the cobbles not yet dry from their drenching, and the pair were at their posts, looking down on the mews from the narrow window. One empty tea cup sat by Bachelor’s chair; Sophie cradled the other in her hands. Without her glasses, he noticed—not for the first time—she seemed younger. He would have happily continued to study her, but forced himself to shift his attention instead to the figure she had seen through the window, pausing in the archway to the mews; a bulky mess in a shabby overcoat, lighting a cigarette before stepping into the sunshine.

“Isn’t he?” she repeated.

“Yes,” Bachelor said. “I’m afraid he is.”

Lech said, “Let’s run through that again. You brought in a homemade curry for lunch, and spiced it up with this superpowered chili—”

“A Dorset Naga.”

“A Dorset Naga, right.”

“Which scores, like, 923,000 on the Scoville scale.”

“Okay.”

“Which is the Richter scale, only for chilis.”

“Okay. So you brought this in and left it in the fridge so that if—when—Lamb stole it, it’d blow his head off.”

“Yes.”

“And what do you usually bring in for lunch?” Louisa said.

“I usually buy it.”

“Yeah, okay, and you buy . . . ?”

“A salad.”

“So you usually eat a shop-bought salad until one day you make yourself a curry instead.”

“Well, that’s what he’d expect, isn’t it? The fat bigot.”

Lech and Louisa exchanged a look.

“I mean, obviously I make my own curry.”

They exchanged it back again.

“What?”

“Lamb’s fat,” said Louisa. “And bigotry is his preferred mode of communication, yes. But he’s not stupid. You might as well have labelled your lunchbox ‘Bait.’”

“But he took it!”

“When a rat takes your poison, that’s job done,” said Lech. “When Lamb does, that’s research.”

“I was you,” said Louisa, “I wouldn’t go biting into anything you didn’t prepare yourself.”

And even then, not if you’ve turned your back on it for ten seconds, she mentally added.

“Where is he, anyway?” Lech asked, but no one knew.

They were in the kitchen, because it was that time: Louisa’s need for coffee, always imminent, was at its peak early afternoon, and Lech’s desire to be nowhere near his desk was at its peak most of the time. As for Ashley, neither had gauged her daily requirements yet, because this seemed an unnecessary effort until her ongoing presence had been established. Investing in a fellow slow horse was far from automatic.

Current assessment, though: attempting to kill Jackson Lamb with a turbo-charged curry showed initiative and imagination, indicating that Ashley Khan might be worth getting to know. It was just a pity the same resourceful outlook rendered her long-term prospects negligible.

Roddy Ho entered, opened the fridge, and removed a plastic bottle of radioactive-coloured drink. When he closed the door it slowly swung open again, but he didn’t notice. Instead he leaned against the only length of kitchen counter not already occupied and applied himself to the task of removing the plastic screw-cap with his teeth. This took him, by Louisa’s fascinated count, twenty-two seconds. Then he tilted the bottle back, took a large gulp and shook his head, as if he’d just performed some feat of athleticism out of the reach of lesser divinities. Only then did he address the other three. “’Sup?” he asked.

“You forgot to say ‘dude,’” Lech pointed out.

“Yeah, well, you forgot to say . . .”

They waited.

“. . . Fuck off.”

“Sorry,” said Lech. “Fuck off.”

Louisa kicked the fridge door shut.

“He might just think I like really hot curry,” Ashley said.

“Or you could rely on his famously forgiving nature,” said Lech. “That might work.”

Roddy said to Louisa, “That du—that guy, the one at the embassy? Who wouldn’t look at the cameras?”

“What about him?”

“He left. First thing this morning.”

“. . . And did you catch his face this time?”

“Yeah.” Roddy slurped another mouthful of bright green energy. “He sort of waved, in fact. Weird.”

“So did you run him through the program?”

“Nah. Sent you the clip, though.”

“You’re an absolute star.”

Roddy shrugged. “You can owe me one.”

Ashley, who’d filled the space when she wasn’t talking by looking at her phone instead, raised her head suddenly. “Oh. My. God!”

“What?”

“Red Queen.”

All three stared. “What?”

“Red Queen!” She gestured with her phone. “It’s all over the network. Like, ‘This is not a drill.’”

“So it’s really happening?” said Lech.

“Yes.”

“Not a practice run?” said Louisa.

“No.”

“Actual Red Queen. Actually happening.”

“Yes! How many times?”

Lech said, “Okay, I’ll bite. What’s Red Queen?”

“Duh,” said Roddy.

Catherine appeared in the doorway, with a suddenness which might have been alarming if it weren’t a firmly established trope. “What’s going on?”

“Red Queen,” Roddy said importantly.

She looked at each in turn. As always, her over-neat appearance, the long-sleeved, mid-calf dress, the lace collar and cuffs, the buckled shoes, lent her the appearance of, not necessarily a governess, but of an illustration of a governess in an out-of-print children’s book. Of the four looking back at her, two underestimated her for that very reason. “Red Queen,” she repeated, instinctively reproducing the capitals. “I don’t know what that means.”

Roddy rolled his eyes. “Double-duh.”

Ashley said, “It means—”

“No, really,” said Lech. “I want to hear Roddy explain it.”

“Me too,” said Louisa.

“Yeah, no,” Roddy said. “It’s her story, not mine.”

“That’s okay,” said Ashley. “You can tell them.”

“Yeah. You can tell us, Roddy.”

“Well, it’s like—it’s like Red Queen. You know?” He looked at Ashley, shaking his head. “Unbelievable.”

“Ho, you’re a waste of bandwidth,” Lech said.

“Amusing as this is,” said Catherine, “a little clarity would be nice.”

“Red Queen’s what they call the Candlestub Protocol on the hub,” Ashley said. “Sort of a nickname.”

And now she got the shocked silence she’d been expecting.

“Candlestub,” Catherine repeated at last. “Well well.”

“Ding dong,” said Lech.

“Taverner’s gone?” said Louisa.

“Candlestub’s a suspension,” said Catherine. “Not a dismissal. Or that was the original protocol. It might have been amended.”

“What are the triggers?” Louisa asked.

Catherine frowned, recalling. “The usual. Conduct unbecoming. Criminal activity. Misuse of powers.”

“So strike three,” said Lech.

“Who’s on First?” Roddy asked. Then: “What?”

“If First Desk leaves office unexpectedly, dies or is otherwise incapacitated, interim control passes into the hands of the most senior Second Desk,” Catherine said, with the air of one quoting. “That’s traditionally been Operations. But in the case of a suspension, the chair of Limitations takes the helm. In other words, Oliver Nash. Under close supervision of the Home Office.”

“Well, this’ll be a train wreck.”

“Though not necessarily the Home Secretary herself.”

“Small mercies.”

Louisa looked down into her empty coffee cup, as if reading the future in its grounds. Diana Taverner had been around forever; had been Second Desk (Ops) when Louisa signed on, and First Desk in all but name during Claude Whelan’s tenure, whose ending she’d helped engineer. Her suspension from duty would send shock waves through the Service. And Lamb had, variously, been in Taverner’s coterie, confidence and crosshairs. If she went, there was no guarantee he’d survive her departure. And if Lamb went Slough House fell, and there’d be no safe harbour for any of them. And where was he, anyway?

She hadn’t spoken aloud, but Catherine partially answered her. “Lamb was meeting her this morning. I’ve no idea what about.”

Lech and Louisa glanced at each other.

“Though I daresay some of you have a better idea than I do. If Taverner’s suspension is fallout from whatever you’ve been up to lately, I’d be seriously worried. If she goes, everyone involved is on shaky ground. And if she stays, well. I don’t expect she’ll be looking back fondly on this episode, do you?”

Louisa said, “Nothing we’ve done has anything to do with Taverner.”

“In that case, you must be feeling particularly relaxed right now.”

She wasn’t used to Catherine being acerbic.

Roddy said, “Told you,” and they all looked at him. “Taverner,” he said. “At the Russian embassy yesterday. Taking a secret meeting, like I said. Simples.”

“First Desk, spying for the Russians?” said Catherine. “That’s quite the merry-go-round.”

Her eyes had grown dark, but no one dared ask.

Somewhat numbed, they set about returning to their rooms, Louisa first rinsing her cup out; Roddy hunting for the plastic top of his unfinished energy drink; Lech putting something in the bin. Ashley paused on the landing. “I’ve never asked why it gets called Red Queen,” she said. “Instead of its proper name.”

“Oh, I’d have thought that was obvious,” said Catherine.

“‘Off with her head,’” said Oliver Nash.

“There’s a process to be undergone,” said Toby Malahide. “Underwent? Either way, we’re hardly hauling her off to the guillotine.”

“No, I meant that’s why they call it Red Queen. You know. Alice in Wonderland.”

“Hmph.”

Malahide was one of that army the Civil Service call upon when asked to put a body in harm’s way: it wasn’t that he was expendable, necessarily; more that his ingrained sense of entitlement rendered him impervious to damage. Early sixties by a mortal calendar, but managing to exude the impression that he’d overseen the Siege of Mafeking, he was the Home Secretary’s choice of point-man for what might turn out to be a tricky undertaking, one of those shitstorms that blow up out of nowhere. The Limitation Committee’s hurried assembly, its single-issue emergency meeting, its unanimous decision that Diana Taverner be relieved of her duties pending investigation of rumours that the illegal Waterproof Protocol had been instigated: all this demanded a degree of arse-covering that would require even the PM to up his game. The stake was worth playing for. If the story proved true there’d be an opportunity to overhaul the Service, the kind of power-grab that doesn’t come along every Parliament. But if it wasn’t true, and worse still didn’t stick, Taverner would burn everyone associated with its having been suggested in the first place. Hence the need for a Toby Malahide. The Home Secretary regarded herself as the consummate politician, and if this was based on little more than the fact that she was indeed Home Secretary, it was generally agreed that she at least offered a synthesis of two main schools of political theory, inasmuch as if she ever became involved in a conspiracy, she’d find a way to cock it up. But nobody disputed her ability to put a large public schoolboy-shaped barrier between herself and impending consequences when the situation demanded.

Meanwhile, Diana Taverner, having somehow caught wind of her predicament, had disappeared into London’s brilliant parade. Her last phone call put her on City Road; her last card payment had her stepping onto a bus. But she hadn’t been on that same bus three stops down the road, when the first Dog on the scene boarded it. “So where is she now?”

“I’m told we’re working on it,” said Nash.

The Park was in a flurry, though you wouldn’t have guessed with a casual glance. The boys and girls of the hub were at their workstations, and there was hush, or what passed for it in an office environment. The usual suspects had shucked their footwear, and were padding around in stockinged feet; the local hardware issued its ambient hum. But Nash, a familiar here, recognised a fractured normality. The figures by the doorways were Dogs, officers of the Service’s internal security division; their presence on the hub spoke of the potential for heads to be thrust upon spikes. An edge had opened up the full length of the building, and all who worked there were balanced upon it. And Nash was acutely conscious of having wielded the shovel that broke the ground.

Malahide continued to harumph. As was common with the breed, he retained a certain bafflement that the position of First Desk had been allotted to a woman; the current complications could have been averted had anyone noticed this earlier and put a stop to it. “Because what the devil does she think she’s playing at? It’s admin, that’s all. A temporary suspension, as laid down in Service Regs, and applied with haste—admittedly—but in absolute accordance with procedure.” He spoke with the confidence of one who’d been in possession of the finer detail for five minutes, and without appearing to remember that Nash himself had supplied this. “What’s called for next is a hearing, at which she’ll be asked to stand down—that’s what the reg demands, that she be ‘asked’—while an investigation is carried out.” He shook his head. “And she decides to play hide and seek. She might as well have signed a confession.”

“That’s jumping the gun,” Nash said. They were in the office adjoining First Desk’s: occupying Diana’s territory would have felt an act of lèse-majesté, or at any rate premature. “Diana is innocent of wrongdoing until proved otherwise. Rather what our justice system is based on.”

“Well, if we’re talking about the justice system, old man, she might argue that one cryptic reference in the Times is hardly enough to base a prosecution on in the first place. Yes, yes. I know.” He waved away Nash’s rejoinder: that the word “waterproof,” in that context, was tantamount to an air-raid siren. “Point is, this might be hush-hush”—and here he made an expansive gesture, taking in the office, the hub, the Park, the secret world—“but it’s still government-issue. Which means appearances matter.”

“It’s not even certain she’s taken flight. Her diary’s clear for the next few hours. For all we know, she’s taking personal time.”

“Which would presume she’s ignorant that Candlestub’s been implemented.” Malahide waggled his eyebrows. “But she dumped a perfectly good phone in a bin on City Road, which is hardly the action of an unflustered woman. No, she’s aware of what’s going on. Which isn’t to say there’s not a hokey-cokey being danced down the usual corridors. And we don’t need a little birdie to tell us”—and here, the eyebrows saw action again—“who’s calling the steps. Mark me, this is Number Ten’s gnome-in-residence ploughing on with his land grab. No, if Taverner wants to fight her corner, she’d better turn up to do it. Otherwise, she’ll find all that’s left of her empire is a six-foot plot by a drainage ditch. Do they do table service here, by the way? Generally take a stiffener round about now.”

Nash said, “We should formulate a plan of action. Clearly, an investigation into Waterproof has to begin even in Diana’s absence.”

“Top of the list is this de Greer woman, I suppose. There a file on her or anything?” Malahide, who’d taken the chair on the operational side of the desk, opened a drawer, glanced into it and slammed it shut again. “If she has been rendered waterproof, I don’t suppose there’ll be much in the way of paperwork. But there’ll have been instructions. Somebody must know something.” First rule of the Civil Service, his tone implied. “We need to speak to everyone Taverner’s spoken to since the woman disappeared. Before then, in fact. In the days leading up to.”

Nash’s instructions on that score had been specific. When he’d relayed Whelan’s belief that Sophie de Greer had been quietly bagged and delivered to the San, Sparrow had said, “And that’s the spit we’ll roast Taverner on. Meanwhile, forget about it. Because if Taverner finds out we know, she’ll have de Greer disappeared again, probably for good.”

Now, Nash said, “We have access to her calendar, and her staff. We can start interviewing right away.” Standing by the open door, he surveyed the hub again. He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen it without Diana present, and it was hard to believe he’d never do so again. But in time, if Sparrow’s promises meant anything, all of this would fall under his own purview, and whoever rose to First Desk status in Diana’s wake would have all the governance of a ship’s figurehead: proudly leading the way, but wholly directed by other hands. Long used to the spoils and spills of political life, what surprised him most was not that it was Sparrow who’d brought Diana low—he was familiar with the Whitehall edict that it’s those you have most contempt for who do the most damage—it was more that, gazing out at his kingdom-to-be, he felt, for the first time in what might have been forever, a lack of appetite.

“Right time to be woolgathering?”

“Steeling myself for what’s to come.”

“Just the usual day’s work,” said Malahide. “Seeing who’ll be first to chuck their boss under a locomotive.” He ran a hand over his balding head. “Ever felt this was something you’d fancy for yourself? First Desk, I mean? Head of the whole shebang?”

“Lord, no,” said Nash. “I’ve always done my best work behind the scenes.”

When Taverner’s phone rang, it could only be one caller.

It had struck her, threading through the maze of alleys round Bank, that it had been years since she’d worked the streets. As First Desk, her view was usually sci-fi: the city seen via CCTV, or from satellite footage or thermal imaging; as a moving backdrop through tinted windows, from a back seat. Easy to forget the pavements sticky with gum, the air thick with street-food smells; the sickly sweet aroma of burnt caramel drifting from the parks . . . London’s signature perfumes, signs that the city was hauling itself upright again. Breathing them in, she felt her own spook identity reassert itself too, now she was alone and hunted. Red Queen. Someone was hoping to chop off her head.

Meanwhile, her phone was ringing, her secret phone; the one only her caller knew about.

“I hear you’re having a little local difficulty,” said Peter Judd.

The fact that he knew this already surprised her not one whit.

She’d had enough cash to buy a hat and scarf from a tourist boutique; they wouldn’t withstand a second look from a Dog, but to the idle onlooker she wasn’t the same woman she’d been ten minutes ago. Phone to her ear, she was on a business call. There wasn’t a human soul within half a square mile who wasn’t, or if there were, they were looking for her.

“Anthony Sparrow saw an opportunity,” she told him. “And he jumped on it with both feet.”

“You have a counter-plan?”

“I have a current intention. I’m going to use his head as an ashtray, and feed the rest to my neighbour’s cat.”

“Delighted to hear you have everything under control.”

As she stepped out of the alley maze, her unease grew. This was how joes must feel, plying their trade on unfriendly streets. The Park would be in confusion now: Candlestub was an admin issue, suspension “without prejudice,” but you didn’t have to be Michael Gove to recognise an opportunity to put the knife in. Effectively, a Sit Vac notice hung on her office door. The hub would be crippled by speculation, Oliver Nash’s committee would be staking claims, and Sparrow would be enjoying the chaos—but it was the street talent she had to worry about. With that in mind, she’d binned her phone, or the one the hub knew about; had cracked her credit cards and dropped them down a drain—only the newer reissues could be traced whether in use or not, but she was taking no chances. She needed to stay free. Once they took her to the Park, once she’d been formally stripped of status and forbidden contact with anyone with a security clearance high enough to open an Easter egg, her future looked dim.

“What’s amusing,” Judd went on, “is that they’re after you for something you haven’t done, rather than any of the things you have.”

“Did you just call to gloat, Peter? Only I’m pressed for time.”

“Actually, I was hoping to hear I’d been misinformed. If you end up in the Tower, it’s not going to reflect well on me. It would be selfish of you to have your career go up in flames when I’m preparing for an election.”

A bus was crawling lazily along Threadneedle Street, a taxi fuming in its wake. For a moment, the possibility arose of flagging it down, waving her Service card in the driver’s face . . . The resulting piece of street theatre would be on YouTube before the laughter died down.

“I need money,” she said.

“Leave the country money, or one last bottle of Pol Roger money?”

“I’m not running. I plan to take this piece of shit off at the ankles.”

“I love it when you talk violent. Makes me regret the path not taken.”

The path had in fact been taken, but only a few times. And if Diana didn’t look back on the episode as a mistake, exactly, she’d long since barred and chained the gate leading to it.

She needed to get to Chelsea. When it came to taking down Sparrow, his Russia-planted appointee was the smoking gun of choice.

Judd had the tone of one stroking his chin. “Some investments are best flushed, you know. As soon as the stock starts to fall.”

“And some investors get caught in the blast when what they thought was a bust goes boom.”

“Now, that’s not an especially accurate—”

“I need some fucking money.”

“There’s my girl. You know Rashford’s?”

“On Cheapside?”

“Talk to Nathan. He’ll be behind the bar.”

She felt a slight loosening of the tension that had been gathering in her chest since the words first reached her. Red Queen. “Thank you.”

“Consider it a hedged bet. And Diana? Joking aside, if this actually happens—if you’re out on your ear?”

“You’ll stand by me when everyone else has fled?”

“That’s sweet. No, I’ll splash every last detail of our association across the national breakfast table. Without you I’ve no skin in the game, but I can embarrass all kinds of fuck out of the government. Their own intelligence service, funded by Chinese capital? Even the PM’ll have his work cut out, lying his way past that.”

“Peter—”

“I realise that means suspension will be the least of your worries, but I’ve never been the sentimental type. I hope you understand.”

Understand? She’d have been alarmed if he’d pretended otherwise.

Judd, imagining himself dramatic, ended the call.

Keeping her phone to her ear, continuing a conversation that was now the only observable thing about her, Diana headed for Cheapside, her hat shielding her from the capital’s digital voyeurs.

They’d opened the door before he’d knocked, he’d walked in scattering ash in his wake, and just like that the house was his: a little darker for his presence, less safe. Underneath the smoke, he smelled of coffee. A creamy smear on his lapel was recent. This probably counted, in Lamb’s world, as box-fresh.

He revolved on the spot, taking in his surroundings, and by the time he was facing them again, a new cigarette had appeared in his mouth. It was pointing downwards when he spoke. “Fancy a walk?”

“. . . Sorry?” said Bachelor.

“Oh, did I say ‘fancy a walk’? I meant fuck off. Me and Mystic Meg have things to discuss.”

Bachelor had known Lamb by reputation, but the reality was higher definition. Like when you’ve heard about a lorry ploughing through a front window, and then see it happen. He glanced at Sophie, and Lamb caught him at it.

“You need permission? Christ, it’s been three days. Your cycles can’t be in synch already.”

“I’m supposed to be watching over her.”

“Yeah, and one day this might be a musical. Meanwhile, take a turn around the block.”

De Greer put a hand on Bachelor’s arm. “John? It’s okay. I’ll be fine.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Lamb beamed. “There, we’re all happy. Now get your fucking skates on.”

“I won’t be far away,” Bachelor said.

“Don’t spoil the moment.”

They watched through the window as he trudged across the cobbles and under the archway, leaving the mews.

“Wrap him one more time round your finger, he’s gunna burst like an overripe condom.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Condoms. Rubbers. The man puts one on his—”

“He’s very nice. He’s been taking care of me.”

“He might as well be wearing an Emergency Exit sign. Soon as it’s necessary, you’ll go straight through him. Of course, he hasn’t worked that out yet.” The cigarette between Lamb’s lips rose to point upwards. “Your mother. Alexa Chaikovskaya. She was old school KGB, right?”

“In the secretarial division.”

“And rose to colonel. Shows an admirable dedication to sharpening pencils.”

“She’s in a home now. With nurses, carers. She’s not in good health.” De Greer bit her lip briefly. “They told me she’d be turned out on the street. If I didn’t do what they asked.”

“Impressive,” said Lamb. “The lip chewing. You take lessons, or does it come natural?”

“Fuck you.”

“That’s better. Now, while Sir Galahad’s off imagining all the ways you might fall on his sword, why don’t we drop the crap? You work for Vassily Rasnokov. He dangled you in front of Number Ten’s chief gremlin, who’s just the type to be impressed by the superforecaster credentials, and next thing we know you’re shaping government policy.”

“Shaping?” De Greer shook her head. “I was adding my voice to a prevailing chorus, that’s all. Helping steer Rethink in the direction it was already headed.”

“Course you were.” Lamb rummaged in a pocket and found a disposable lighter. “Sparrow already had it in for the Civil Service, didn’t he, because of the cash mountains waiting for whoever replaces it with private contractors. But a little encouragement never hurts. Set a mole to writing briefs for a cabinet already a few boats short of a ferry company, you’d be entitled to think job done. But Rasnokov’s more ambitious than that, don’t you think?”

“What I think is, you’re not like I’d pictured,” she said.

“Yeah, they photoshopped a thigh-gap in my publicity stills,” said Lamb. “Imagine my distress.” He clicked his lighter, then did it again. When it failed to respond with more than a dry scratch, he tossed it over his shoulder. It took a nick from the wall and dropped to the carpet. “Got a light?”

“Smoking’s a disgusting habit.”

“Spying’s pretty gross too. But I try not to be judgemental.” He found another pocket to rummage in. “So where was I? Oh yeah. Your boss. He was well aware of Sparrow’s general approach. The man calls himself a disruptor, right? Tossing imaginary hand grenades around, and thinking that makes him Action Man. So my first thought was, in planting you, Rasnokov was playing him at his own game. Simply causing chaos. Put you in place, then cause maximum embarrassment by burning you.”

If the words startled her, it was only for a moment.

“Join in any time you like,” Lamb said.

“Are you recording this?”

“Fuck, no. I’m barely paying attention. I mean, you might think you’re the hottest property since Anthony Blunt was keeping Her Maj’s nudes well hung, but I’ve better things to do than debrief entry-level spooks. My lunch won’t eat itself.” From a pocket he extracted a second lighter, which sparked encouragingly, but didn’t hold its flame, and he was about to send it the way of its twin when de Greer relieved him of it. After shaking it vigorously she clicked once, and Lamb leaned forwards, the tip of his cigarette touching the flame.

“Don’t mention it,” she said.

He breathed out smoke. “But when your boss burned you, he did so to the one person guaranteed to keep it under wraps. Sparrow himself. So it’s not like he was running some half-arsed honey trap. Unless you’re about to tell me you’ve a sex-tape ready to leak.”

De Greer tucked the lighter into his breast pocket and stepped back. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

“Just as well. I leak a bit myself these days, tell you the truth.” Lamb removed his cigarette from his mouth and studied the lit end for a moment. “Even so, your boss’s little bombshell must have had Sparrow shitting himself, which sounds like a good day’s work to me, and we’re not even on the same side. But look what he did next. Came all the way to Blighty to whisper similar sweet nothings in Diana Taverner’s ear.”

“Perhaps he fancies her.”

“Stranger things have happened. For instance, I got a phone call on my way back to the office just now. Want to guess what it told me?”

“You’ve been mis-sold PPI?”

“That someone’s pulled the emergency cord at Regent’s Park. Not many able to do that, but I’m guessing the PM’s number one bitch-slapper is among them.” Lamb took a long drag, then flicked the still burning cigarette the length of the room. It bounced off the curtain with a shower of sparks. “And that’s what this is really all about. Rasnokov wasn’t trying to embarrass Sparrow out of his job. No, he wanted Sparrow declaring full-on war with the Service, before the Service realised he’d invited a Kremlin pointy-head into Downing Street. And just to make sure things really kicked off, he followed that up by priming First Desk, letting her know that he’d had a private hobnob with Sparrow back in Moscow. Like lighting the blue touch paper at both ends. Because he doesn’t care who wins, he just wants to see both sides taking lumps out of each other while he carries on with his own scheme.”

De Greer, nodding thoughtfully, crossed the room to stamp on the sparks smouldering on the carpet.

“So congratulations seem to be in order. You were slotted into place to stoke up a little not-so-friendly rivalry.” Lamb slid a hand between two buttons of his shirt, and began to scratch. “And it looks like you’ve managed to ease Diana Taverner out of her job.”

Rashford’s was open to the public, but liked to give the impression it wasn’t. Occupying the third and fourth floors of a building on Cheapside, its sole entrance was sandwiched between plate-glass windows whose mannequins’ blank stares were aimed at the well-heeled passerby: winter coats their current garb. The door was propped open, but the red-carpeted staircase, with its polished brass handrail, seemed less an invitation than a glimpse of forbidden pleasure. Diana, who kept herself informed of who was drinking where, knew it had enjoyed a brief vogue between lockdowns, its speakeasy vibe chiming with the panicked pleasure-seeking of the times. This afternoon, it seemed deserted. The carpet swallowed any sound her heels might have made, but the staircase seemed full of empty echoes nonetheless.

At the top of the fourth half-flight were a pair of glass doors, and behind them a wide room, lit by dusty daylight and the one or two tassel-shaded tablelamps. A lone man sat in a red-leathered booth, absorbed in his phone. It wasn’t too late to turn and run. Judd was barely trustworthy, and might have decided to play a joker. The Dogs could be heading here even now. But she pushed through the doors regardless and found herself standing by a long, curved bar. Its tender moved sleekly towards her, dropping the cloth he’d been holding onto a tap. “Good afternoon, and how can I help you?” Though the way he said it, the look he gave her, he already knew.

“I’m looking for.” The name escaped her. Her memory was a series of corridors, lined with lockers; keys hung in each, with labels attached. Nathan. “Nathan.”

“Ms. Huntress?”

That sounded right.

He’d done this before, she could tell. Had an envelope prepared, tucked under the till. She wondered, briefly, what strands tied this man, or this bar, to Peter Judd; bound them tightly enough that it only took a phone call and there was cash to hand. “Thank you.”

“No problem. And let Sir know we look forward to his company again soon.”

Feeling more like a joe than ever she went back through the glass doors, envelope in hand, and stopped on the landing to make a quick count: five hundred, in tens and twenties. Had she not done that, she’d have met them on their way up: three of them, by the sound of it; their tread muffled on the staircase carpet. Friends or colleagues, out-of-towners or local wetheads: any of these would be making noise. Would be laughing with each other, already picturing that first glass being passed across the polished bar.

Diana turned and headed up the next flight.

At the top of which was a second bar, shrouded in darkness, its doors locked. There was no more red carpet; a sign reading staff only was taped to the wall beside the next flight of stairs. Someone had made a sad face out of the O. The crew of three—face it, they were Dogs—went into the lower bar; she could hear Nathan greeting them over-enthusiastically as she moved quietly upwards. There were two doors at the top. The first warned about unauthorised admittance, and was locked. The second opened, but was a cupboard. She saw brooms, a pail, a ziggurat of cleaning fluid bottles, and a plastic-wrapped palette of light bulbs, their ghostly faces Munch-like in the gloom. A metal box on the wall probably shielded fuses. If it did, and she pulled wires about, she might set off an alarm, and in the ensuing confusion grow wings, or become invisible. But it was padlocked: a flimsy piece of hardware, maybe two quids’ worth. She looked in her bag, found a pen, slid it into the closed hoop of the flimsy padlock and pushed hard. The padlock broke. Dropping its parts into her bag, she opened the box to find, instead of fuses, several rows of keys, which, like those in her memory, were labelled; one read Roof. She took it, closed the cupboard, and paused before slipping the key into the first door’s lock. Voices. Nothing of clarity, though if Nathan were cooperating, the Dogs would already be standing next to her. The Roof key opened the first door, and she stepped through it onto another staircase, then locked it behind her. The noise as the tumblers fell was louder than a stolen goose.

She forced herself to wait in the darkness, breathing through her mouth to make less noise. Someone was coming up the stairs. The doorknob turned and the door rattled, Diana’s darkness momentarily broken by its outline, sketched in light. There was a pause. It happened again. Then the second door was tried, and its contents silently inventoried: cleaning fluids, broom, pail. Those mutely screaming lightbulbs. A metal rattle as the box was opened. She braced. Anyone on their game would join these dots: a locked door, a row of keys. A Dog discovering which key wasn’t there would kick her door down in a second or two. She counted them. And then someone was heading downstairs again. She gave it another moment, then found her phone. By its light she went up eleven stairs, unbolted the next door, and stepped onto a flat stretch of roof.

Diana hadn’t spent long in the dark, but London’s light was still at first staggering; buildings seen from unaccustomed angles, the smell of the Thames on the sunlit wind. She thought what every joe thinks, after a close encounter with discovery: I’m alive. And then she regarded the burner phone in her hand, with its single contact listed, and tapped out the only number she had by heart.

Catherine had the sense of following an instruction she’d written for herself, possibly in a dream. It’s not complicated. The phone is on his desk. Sometimes it rings. She was at her own desk, and Lamb was who knew where? If he’s out and it rings and I hear it, I’ll answer it. If I get there in time. And as she reached the receiver a strange thought occurred: How many more times would she answer a ringing landline? It almost never happened anymore.

“Where is he?”

“I have no idea.” She’d heard Diana Taverner’s voice often enough to recognise it. “Can I take a message?”

Silence. Or not quite: for some reason Catherine could hear an airy nowhere breathing loudly in her ear.

Candlestub had been initiated, and in all likelihood—she did not, whatever her colleagues thought, have total recall of the Service handbook—she should terminate this call, then report it. First Desk was tainted. But there were occasional advantages to being a slow horse, one of which was, it was unlikely that anyone would follow up her actions, so instead, she waited for Taverner’s response.

“I need some help.”

She wished she’d recorded that. Diana Taverner, seeking her help. The woman who’d done her best, some years ago, to drive a double decker bus through her sobriety: Tell me, Catherine. Something I’ve always wondered. Did Lamb ever tell you how Charles Partner really died? Now could be the moment to discover what it felt like, pressing a heel down on someone else’s throat, but even as that thought stirred she was listening to Taverner, mentally prioritising the tasks ahead. Was it habit or weakness that made her act like this? In the end, she supposed, it didn’t matter. You played the part you were given, and it was never in her to be a bad actor.

The call over, she stood for a while in Lamb’s musty office, trying not to picture the possible calamities Taverner’s requirements might provoke.

Then she phoned Lamb, and put him in the picture.

“Okay, you can uncover your ears now.” Lamb put his phone away. “Where were we?”

“I was easing your First Desk out of a job,” said de Greer. “And you were offering congratulations.”

“That right? Could have sworn you mentioned a cup of tea.”

“You may have mistaken me for your housemaid.”

“Nah, she’s shorter, and wears a leather basque.” He stood abruptly and headed into the kitchen, leaving her no choice but to follow. “Attacking the Service was your brief, wasn’t it? Reminding Sparrow the Park’s a little too independent, with Taverner at the wheel.” He located the kettle, flicked its switch, and leaned against the counter. “So when Rasnokov let him know he was nursing a viper to his tits, he was nicely primed. Sparrow knew the Park would rip him to shreds first chance it got, so he went straight on the attack.”

De Greer reached past him, turned the kettle off, and lifted it from its base. “Sparrow already hated the Park. A smoking ruin, he called it.” She filled the kettle at the sink, then put it back and flicked its switch once more. “And he hates Taverner the way all weak men hate powerful women.”

“Only he tried to deal with you first,” said Lamb.

“He had people following me,” she said, dropping teabags into a pot. “They were so bad at it, I thought they were your people at first. Slough House.”

“Only they were even worse,” said Lamb. “Which, fair dos, I wouldn’t have seen coming either.” He opened the fridge, eyeing de Greer speculatively. “You look to me like a MILF.”

“. . . I beg your pardon?”

“Milk in first?” He removed a carton. “Or have I got that wrong?”

She took two mugs from a cupboard and set them on the counter. Lamb divided about a twentieth of a pint equally between them and the surface, and said, “You think he was planning on having you killed?”

“No. I think he was hoping to convince me to deny I was a plant.”

“How hard would that have been?”

“Maybe not as much as you might think.”

“Depends on what he was offering, right? Head girl in the PM’s pole-dancing troupe?” He reached for the kettle as it boiled. “And what would Rasnokov have made of that?”

“He’d have thought I was doing my job.”

“But instead you jumped into our arms when Sparrow’s thugs tried to snatch you.”

“If that’s what they were trying to do. They seemed a little . . . uncoordinated.”

“Compared to my lot,” said Lamb. “Who managed to get arrested and run themselves over.” Steam furrowed the air as he poured water into the pot. “Still, better the dickheads you know. Bring that.” He marched back into the sitting room, leaving de Greer to carry teapot and mugs.

By the time she’d done so, Lamb had kicked his shoes off and arranged himself on the sofa in what might have passed as an alluring pose in someone with inoffensive socks. “Your disappearance must have given Sparrow a fright. One thing worse than having a tarantula appear in your cornflakes is having it vanish again. I mean, where the fuck’ll it show up next?”

“If you’re trying to flatter me, you’re not doing a very efficient job.”

“I leave seduction to the professionals. Speaking of which, you planning on screwing Bachelor? Because the excitement might kill him. And you could get him to do whatever you want by just dropping ‘hand-job’ into the conversation.”

De Greer lifted the teapot and filled both cups.

“But here’s me bimbosplaining,” said Lamb. “Anyway. Sparrow recovered, because next thing we know he’s playing the waterproof card and sending a former First Desk out looking for you. Which puts Taverner in the hot seat. So far, so very Westminster. When you’ve got a guilty conscience, scream loudly and point at someone else.”

“They prefer to think of it as reframing the narrative.”

“Whatever they call it, it’s done the trick. Because the Park’s overflowing with Biro-bashers, and according to my Miss Havisham, Taverner’s hiding on the roof of some wine bar off Cheapside.” He slurped some tea, and scowled. “That’s gunna taste better coming back up.”

“The teabags are very old.”

“Anyway, point is, you’re in demand. Diana needs you to prove you’ve not been waterproofed, and Sparrow needs you so he can, yeah, reframe your narrative. Well, that or bury you somewhere. And as for me, you know what I want?” Lamb put his cup down. The hand that had held it was now wielding a cigarette. “I want to know why you made that little startled movement when I said Rasnokov burned you. Because if that was always the plan, then why the surprise?”

“I wasn’t surprised.”

“But you twitched.”

He pulled the lighter from his breast pocket, and tossed it at her. She caught it, shook it, clicked it, and lit his cigarette. Then said, “How many of these do you get through?”

“I’m supposed to keep count? They’re called disposables for a reason.”

She clicked again, and as the flame burst into life held it up, so she was staring straight into it. An act of self-hypnosis, perhaps. She said, “How much do you know about Rasnokov?”

“My Top Trumps set’s out of date. But I know he can plot round corners.”

She laughed softly. “This was never Rasnokov’s plan, Mr. Lamb. Back when he was what you’d call a joe, he had a handler. And it’s her he still looks to for his brightest ideas.”

“‘Her?’”

“My mother.”

Through the window, a figure appeared in the mews: John Bachelor. For a moment he wavered on the threshold, as if keeping balance on the cobbles were as much as he could focus on. And then he reached out and knocked on the door, and Sophie de Greer faded back into the nervous, twitchy victim he was expecting before going to let him in.