After Stamoran’s departure Diana Taverner studied the disk he’d brought her. Dynamite came in all shapes and sizes, and Stamoran had obviously thought this had the potential to blow a big enough hole in her desk that she’d dig into the reptile fund to defuse it. But then, he’d been a handler, not a weasel. A good handler thought in straight lines, at the end of which a joe came safely home. The weasels were the Service’s planners and strategists; they could take a scenario and bend it in any direction, at the end of which a joe might be strung out in pieces by the side of a road, and the op still branded a success. If not by handlers, obviously. This particular scenario had more curves than Stamoran could see round. It was possible it had more than she’d yet identified herself.
It was true what she’d told him, that a brave government might decide that the mess in question was best dragged into daylight. But it was more true that brave governments were rare, and for most, no time was better than the one that occurred on another party’s watch. To have the contents of the tape made public would involve fallout, even if it did no more than confirm what had long been rumoured. The Prime Minister at the time was beyond damage, true, his reputation long since soiled by his brokering of an illegal war, and his self-esteem bomb-proof, but still, this dirt would not easily be swept away. A psychopath had been used and protected, paid and pensioned off, despite possibly being responsible for ending more lives than he’d saved. Owning up to the state’s sanctioning of such crimes might ultimately be a step towards national redemption, but it was a step most politicians would prefer someone else take, lest in the process they tangle their feet, and smash their teeth on an unforgiving pavement.
For her own part, she thought seeking forgiveness unnecessary, but then, she was First Desk. The luxury of a conscience was for those without the responsibilities she bore.
And she’d imagined David Cartwright had felt the same way, until she’d discovered his habit of annotating the files he consulted in Molly Doran’s archive; obsessively juggling the secret histories he’d helped write, tracing endings never part of the official record. Jottings among which she’d found an oddity: a copied-out sentence from that classified meeting that had discussed Pitchfork’s pay-off, words included in the extract Stamoran had sent her; anodyne in themselves, but with the power to come bouncing down the years as wildly as a rubber ball hurled into a concrete cell.
As carefully as that sentence had been written, Diana had torn it from its margin and destroyed it. The fact that Stamoran had made no reference to it was proof he hadn’t understood what he’d had. He might have recognised that it was dynamite, but had failed to appreciate that dynamite wasn’t designed to be a cause of indiscriminate havoc. Handled correctly, it was a precision instrument.
There always was.
Locking the door behind her, Taverner walked down the stairs and emerged into sunshine, satisfied she’d primed her own explosive charge.
The nearest pub was a heartless space, catering for those who wanted to drink but were disinclined to put effort into it. For Catherine, being here was like stepping back inside one of her own blackouts. This is where the magic happens, she thought, but even within the confines of her head the joke fell flat: Nothing here offered welcome, or whispered sweet come-ons. The magical place—like a children’s playground, its edges smoothed with soft-impact material—lay on the far side of her next drink, and she’d have to be alone to turn that key. If she ever did.
“Are you okay?” Lech asked.
“I’ll have a mineral water. Thank you.”
There was hubbub, though they were the only group there. Sid was with them. She’d been abandoned by the Brains Trust in a motorway service station, without her phone—the contemporary equivalent of sensory deprivation—but she was resourceful, and a functioning adult, so it shouldn’t be that surprising she’d found her way home. Her reunion with River had been brief and low key, and Catherine had found herself having to turn away, though none of the others did.
It had gone 5:30. They were on their own time, which didn’t mean Lamb wouldn’t find a way to make them suffer. But anyway: There was hubbub as Sid went over details of the story she’d already told.
“You sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine. I lost my phone, that’s all.”
“You should have seen wonder boy. Crowbarred that door like it was a jam jar.”
“He usually has trouble with jam jars.”
“What was in the envelope?”
“Money. A burner.”
“Had some ink done.”
