While she’d been talking Lamb had finagled a cigarette from some recess or other, and he lit it now with a plastic lighter. For a moment it looked as if he might toss this over his shoulder, but he changed his mind. Wreathed in smoke, he said, “Bold talk from a woman whose idea of a master plan was to use the Thursday Murder Club as a hit squad. So here’s a hint from a street fighter. The mad shit never works. That’s the reason it’s called mad shit. No, what you should have done, once you decided to take a crack at Judd, is arranged to meet him at night by a river, then put a bullet in his head and his body in the water. Instead you went all—what did you call it?—chess with menaces and here we are.” He took the cigarette from his mouth, studied it, then put it back. “You had a go at Judd not because he’s at his weakest, but because you are. And you fucked up, so guess what? Not only does he still have your dick in his pocket, he’s also pissed off at you. So I’d say your future’s very much in doubt. Even without me.”
“If you were good at reading futures, you’d have had a long hard look at your own by now and done something about it. Weaning yourself off takeaways and a sixty-a-day habit would be a start. So forgive me if I look elsewhere for career guidance. Besides, are you seriously taking Judd’s side? He tried to have you killed once. Or had you forgotten that?”
“Trust me, I hadn’t. And nor has it slipped my mind that your own hands weren’t clean on that occasion.”
“You think you can do this job with clean hands? You know better. You of all people.” The look she gave him might almost have held pity. “Because nine times out of ten, you and your kind are the rubber gloves we wear when a dirty job needs doing. And there will always be dirty jobs need doing, no matter who’s hosting parties in Number Ten. But let me remind you, nobody made you pick up sticks and play soldiers, and the small print’s always been there, right in front of your eyes. You see many spooks going on to careers in the City? Noticed any former joes in line when they’re dishing out directorships? No, they don’t put up statues to spies and they don’t save them seats in the Lords.” She waved a hand. “This is the best you can hope for. A tidy grave in a sheltered spot. And you knew that when you started, and if your crew didn’t that’s on you, because you should have told them. So don’t come bleating to me about one dead and one at death’s door, because that’s not a bullet point on my CV, it’s a footnote in an appendix. One for the historians. I’ll read it when I’m dead.”
“Too long, didn’t listen. You finished?”
“Nowhere near. You’re a street fighter, and that must have come in handy in your day, but don’t confuse the corridors I walk with your Berlin alleys of yesteryear. The shit shovelled over fancy linen in Whitehall is a lot more fucking toxic than anything your KGB oppos dipped their umbrellas in, and I’ve survived that for longer than you’ve been past it. So don’t think all you need do is issue a few vague threats and I’ll crumple like last week’s lettuce. Because I’m the one who’ll say when I’m ready to go.” As Taverner stood, her arm brushed a low-slung branch, unfurling a curtain of raindrops. “A lettuce is an edible plant. You get them in salads. Standish’ll fill you in.”
“I saw one in a burger once.” He sniffed. “How long do you think you’ve got before Judd spills his wagonload of shit? And how do you think the new-broom PM’ll react? Stand by you proudly? Or throw you under the first passing train?”
“Judd has a credibility problem, and I’ll solve him long before he solves that. Having him blacken my name would be like having Truss call someone unpopular, or Farage call them a cunt. I’ll take my chances.” She surveyed the graveyard, perhaps mentally assigning plots to colleagues. “Because there is nobody I will not flay alive to stay in charge, and you know why? Because I’m not only the best person for the job, I’m the only one who knows how to do it. Who understands that there’s no need to justify myself to anyone, because there are times when what I have to do is unjustifiable. That’s always been First Desk’s lot. No rules, no guidelines, simply objectives. Whether it’s Pitchfork way back when or whatever I have to do tomorrow, all that matters is the objective, and the objective is always the same. To stop buses being bombed.” She looked him in the eye. “Which is what I do, Jackson. And if I have to trample the occasional warm body to do that, so be it. Your people were unlucky, but if they weren’t unlucky to start with, they wouldn’t have been your people. So let’s write this off as a no-score draw, shall we?” She gave a faint smile. “I run a shop for serious people. You’re in charge of a bunch of clowns. So you hurry back to Slough House and pull the blinds down and do your mourning, but don’t worry about winding your clocks any more. I think you’ll find that’s an unnecessary effort, if you catch my drift.”
