“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.
