“You’re the one with the problem.”
He was sounding less and less like hired help, and in other circumstances Judd would have called him on it. Other circumstances, though, included those in which he hadn’t recently been the object of an assassination attempt.
But he was a political animal to the bone. Never let them see your fear. He’d let it show the other night; luckily there’d been no one there, the fool at the wheel and his companions apart. Taverner, though, was a different prospect. Show her weakness and she’d stop snapping at your ankles and start tearing your throat instead. Other people’s weaknesses were her weakness. In their presence, she could barely contain herself.
He’d said to Welles, “I’ll talk to her. But you come with me.”
Welles had hesitated. “I can’t.”
“Can’t?”
“It’s to be just the principals. You and Taverner. With Jackson Lamb as your referee.”
Lamb. Whom he had sent Seb to quieten, once, and had never seen Seb again.
Nor had anyone else.
“I don’t like the sound of that.”
Welles said, “Who would you prefer, the Lord Chancellor? You’re holding a stick of dynamite you keep threatening to shove up First Desk’s arse. She’s fresh off blackmailing a former spook to put a bullet in your brain. It’s not like there are legal niceties to be observed.”
“I’d prefer a neutral party to be there.”
“It’s a backstreet deal. I’d have thought you were used to those.”
“Remind me whose side you’re on?”
“There’s an invoice in the post.”
He’d nearly ended the call. But Welles was right: He was used to backstreet deals. And even when he hadn’t held the strongest hand at the table, he’d always acted like he had, which made the difference. Taverner’s crude attempt on him had given him a sleepless, frightened night, but in the end it had been both those things: crude, and an attempt. Of them both, she had most to fear. Which meant that what he needed to do now was brush his hair, shine his shoes and wear his wickedest smile. This was politics; it was the art of the deal. You showed up with your game face on, or you packed your bags.
To River, now, he said, “Where precisely are we going?”
“Notting Hill.”
“God. I should have brought the crossword.”
They were idling at a junction; judging by the traffic they’d be thirty minutes in the car yet, easy. The camera above the lights wasn’t trained on them, not exactly, but it was watching nonetheless. River noted it without comment. Before they reached their destination, they’d have passed from the monitored world to the unmonitored, courtesy of Roderick Ho. Provided Ho had done his job, that is, though River wasn’t too worried. He’d be the last man alive to offer praise to Roddy Ho, who was a prick.
But he was at least a prick who knew what he was doing.
What am I doing?
Dude, I am taking inventory.
(He checked his watch. It was 7:45.)
Taking inventory, because the Rodster needs his tools.
So: phone, wallet, keys: check. Laptop—obviously. (When did the Rodmeister go anywhere without his magic carpet? Be like Thor without his hammer, Captain A without his shield.) And then there was the stuff that lived in his car, because having a car was like having an extra cupboard, with wheels, and you never knew when lightning would strike, and you needed a wardrobe change. So there was freshish clothing, plus necessities—shaving gear, hair gel, toothpaste and brush—and let’s not forget the old condoms, which were in fact pretty old condoms. He should check the use-by. But anyway, all of that close to hand, plus a certain amount of collateral wastage—pizza boxes, empty crisp packets, energy drink bottles awaiting recyclage, because the Rodster was all about the recyclage; show him a planet, he’d be first in line to save it.
All good so far, but lacking a certain something. Let’s move on to the boot.
Blanket, because you never knew when a picnic might be called for, plus a few spare pairs of trainers, because you need the right footwear for the mood. Carrier bag with some other carrier bags tucked inside it, in case he ever needed a carrier bag. Seven forty-six. An old raincoat he wasn’t sure where it had come from and a framed photograph of Scarlett Johansson he’d bought at a street market: forgotten that was there, he should really hang it up. That stuff the Highway Code says you should have, including a hazard triangle and a high-vis jacket.
Spare tyre.
Jack for changing tyre with.
Bingo.
Hustling his manly frame into the jacket, snatching up the jack, Roddy left the HoMobile and took to the streets.
Catherine said, “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“It was a reasonable—”
“Have you any idea what it’s like? Day after day? Resisting the temptation?”
“Well, some—”
“Because if I ever slip, it won’t be in a pub on Whitecross Street. I’ll—I’ll fly to the Caribbean. I’ll sit on a beach and watch the sun sink into the sea. Drinking something with an umbrella in it.”
Which she wouldn’t. If she ever fell, she would splash into a local puddle, drinking whatever was nearest. And then whatever was nearest to that.
