“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.
“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
“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.”
