“Sod off, hashtag features.”
“That was my plan,” said Louisa. “But Lamb wanted a list.”
“He always wants lists. I think he’s smoking them.” Lech glanced at the cardboard shroud around the window by his desk, and said to Roddy, “I see you’ve installed air-con.”
“Yeah, well, I see you’ve installed . . .”
They waited.
“. . . Stupid marks on your face.”
“I can’t work out,” said Louisa, “whether he’s better at repartee or driving.”
Recalling Roddy’s driving talents, Lech rubbed a bruise or two before picking up the topmost of Louisa’s printouts. “They have these three or four times a year,” he said. “They bring in some lecturer from the homeland, who bores the locals rigid for a couple of hours, then everyone gets pissed. Taverner has half the hub watching the footage in case any celebrities show.”
“Does that ever happen?”
“Molly Doran got excited once. Some living waxwork turned up, she said he’d debriefed Philby back in the day.”
“She’s collecting the set. One hundred spooks you must see before you die.”
“Before they die, more like.”
Roddy said, “You think that’s Lamb’s plan?”
They looked at him.
He said, “All these old spooks.” He raised one eyebrow, or thought he did. He was actually raising both. “You think Lamb’s bumping them off?”
Louisa approached Roddy’s desk, leaned across it and stage-whispered into his ear. “You’re not supposed to know about that.”
“. . . Okay.”
“Best to pretend you never said it. You with me, Rodster?”
“. . . I’m with you.”
She patted his cheek softly. “Smart boy.”
“. . . Uh, Louisa?”
“What?”
He nodded at the nearest monitor. “Black car.”
Louisa looked at the screen, looked at Roddy, looked back at the screen, and then looked at Roddy again. “Keep up the good work,” she told him, and left the office, followed by Lech.
Home again, Whelan found the landline handset winking at him, but when he checked it was a cold caller, concerned about his financial arrangements. It was nice that someone cared. He pressed delete anyway.
After a protracted vigil in Briefing Two—an antiseptic chamber whose chief feature was the number of available sockets: they studded the walls, and lurked beneath little trapdoors in the floor—he’d been startled by the almost noiseless appearance of, inevitably, Josie-from-the-hub.
“Lord, Josie, my dear, how are you—”
And then that excruciating moment when he’d leaned for a hug, and she’d pulled back to the same degree.
“Of course, no, sorry sorry sorry—”
It would have been better without the apology. That way, they could both have pretended the moment had never happened.
Recovery was achieved in a politely brittle manner: It was good to see him, how had he been, how was retirement? He’d attempted refutation—not
“The phone records? A bit raw, I’m afraid, but Diana said you were in a hurry?”
“Oh yes, very much, thanks. I’m sure I’ll make sense of them.”
Whether he would or wouldn’t being beside the point by then. All he wanted was to get out of the building.
He signed for the thumb drive while Josie recited some boilerplate about not copying or transferring the enclosed material, and swore on his neverborn children that it would be returned upon completion of his investigation: a “standard security measure,” though he wondered whether it wasn’t also budget-driven. His visitor’s lanyard, too, she needed back. She walked him up the stairs, and he felt like an inconvenient neighbour, or barely tolerated uncle. One you’d not seat next to your daughter, if you all ended up in the same taxi.
Old, yes, god. Replacing the receiver he said, aloud, “I’m sorry, Claire,” and his wife’s name made itself at home; busied itself in plumping up cushions and straightening the magazines on the coffee table before disappearing into the airy stillness of the house.
He made a pot of tea and a butterless sandwich—he’d forgotten to take a new packet from the fridge. One of a hundred small hurdles to trip over, daily. But the tea was fine. Semi-refreshed, he reached for his laptop and plugged the new drive in to discover that it contained two hundred and seventeen files, a number of them very large. It was impossible not to sigh. Had he really promised Nash he would see this through? Or had he simply agreed to poke around a little, and see if anything stirred?
