Bad Actors полностью

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.