Bad Actors полностью

Nash, seated, carefully buttered his toast. “There’s a restaurant called La Spezia, off Wardour Street. Sparrow has been seen—by me—visiting its premises, and it’s not somewhere you’d expect to find him. So after a little, ah, surveillance, I asked the very able Josie to do some digging, and she informs me that the under-manager there, one Alessandro Botigliani, is what I believe they call a capo of a branch of these so-called Ultras, affiliated in his case to Lazio.” Nash applied jam, and ferried the result to his mouth. The resulting expression was one frequently sought by Renaissance artists, reaching for tokens of religious ecstasy. Then: “They’re of a far-right persuasion, though there’s grounds for suspecting that ideology, and indeed the beautiful game, is of less concern to them than kicking many kinds of carrots out of opposing fans. A ready-made wrecking crew, as you put it.”

“And Sparrow persuaded them to do his dirty work?”

“Persuaded, paid, blackmailed. Nobody ever accused Sparrow of being unable to get others to grubby their hands on his behalf.”

“I’m sure ten minutes in a basement will have any number of them clarifying the situation.”

“Careful. It was whispers of strongarm tactics that started all this in the first place. Besides, you’re in no position to dictate events. When you failed to surrender yourself, Sparrow pulled strings at the Met. There’s a warrant out for your arrest, Diana. Not to mention an emergency meeting of Limitations scheduled for ten a.m., where your suspension will be ratified and Malahide confirmed as pro tem First Desk. He will, of course, be taking instruction from the Home Secretary, which is to say that Sparrow himself will be effectively controlling the Park by coffee time. And I somehow doubt that an investigation into his own guilt will be top of his to-do list.”

“On the other hand,” Diana said, “should I arrive in person at the Limitations meeting with Dr. de Greer in tow, where she can testify not only to the absence of anything resembling Waterproof having been instigated, but to her own status as an agent of the GRU, hired wittingly or otherwise by Anthony Sparrow in order to influence national policymaking—well. How do you think that would play?”

Nash helped himself to another slice of toast, and seemed to be addressing the array of jam jars rather than Diana when he replied.

“I imagine you could sell tickets,” he said.

Even given his status as quondam First Desk, it had been hours before Claude Whelan had managed to extricate himself from the chaos at the San, and such release only came with the promise of a thorough debriefing once the Park had its ducks in a row. Though judging by the calls the senior agent at the scene had been getting, those ducks were currently in a flap, causing Whelan to suspect that the hostilities he’d divined between Taverner and Sparrow had ignited. Reason enough to keep his head down. He’d had cause to regret becoming involved in dirty politics before.

Driving his own car was out of the question, so after cleaning himself up as best he could in a San bathroom, he squeezed what was left from his former rank and commandeered one of the enemy vehicles, which was grubby but unscathed by combat. As he pootled up the drive towards the broken gates, manouvering round various vans into which cuffed figures were being bundled, he could see torches flickering in the woods beyond the stables as the last marauders were hunted down, and it was as much to the runners as the chasers that he sounded his horn in farewell, a thoroughly uncharacteristic action. On the other hand, everything he’d done in the last few hours had been out of character, as if, having been badly miscast, he’d thrown himself into the part regardless, and was now coming offstage expecting acclaim. He’d received precious little so far. Some things, you had to organise for yourself.

He adjusted the rearview mirror and glanced into it. “So. How did I do?”

In reply, all he heard was the noise of the engine, and the dark road unravelling beneath the tyres.

“Did you think I was talking to myself?”

From the footwell behind the passenger seat, Shirley Dander said, “Got anything to eat?”

. . . John

John

“John?”

His name approached him as if down a long corridor, the door at the end of which was ajar, and as usual his waking feeling was one of fear: What would happen next? It would involve that door opening wide. But there was a soft hand on his shoulder, and Sophie was bending over him. The light breaking through the curtains was the now-familiar glow of the sole streetlight that graced the mews.

“Are you awake?”

It was a whisper, so he replied in kind. “Yes.”

“Get dressed.”

He already was.