“Shit,” River said. “It was his idea, wasn’t it? Leading me onto the range? And leaving me there?”
“Jonny—”
“Wasn’t it?”
“He might have suggested it.”
The jeep had no doors. It wouldn’t have been a second’s work to tip the bastard out.
“Tommy Moult, man,” Yates said. “He knows everything happens in Upshott. You think he just sells apples from his bike, but he knows everyone. Everything.”
River had worked that out already. He said, “He made sure I was there. And saw what I saw. Made sure I’d be freed in time to do something about it.”
“What you on about?”
“Where was he? This morning?”
“Church end.” Yates rubbed his cheek. “You really a secret agent?”
“Yes.”
“Is that why Kelly—”
“No,” said River. “She did that because she wanted to. Deal with it.”
The jeep cornered, braked sharply, and they were at the flying club, with its toytown airstrip, and empty hangar.
River hit the ground running.
Roger Barrowby had gone white, which gladdened Diana Taverner’s heart. Her morning was new-made. Ingrid Tearney was out of the country; as Chair of Limitations, Barrowby could claim First Desk, but it looked like the only snap decision he’d be making was which direction to throw up in. The arch comments were history. He should have stayed in bed.
She said, “Roger, you’ve got four seconds.”
“The Home Secretary—”
“Has final say, but she’ll base that on our best info. Which you now have. Three seconds.”
“An agent in the field? That’s all it comes down to?”
“Yes, Roger. Like in wartime.”
“Jesus, Diana, if we make the wrong call—”
“Two seconds.”
“—what’s left of our careers will be spent sorting the post.”
“That’s what keeps life interesting on the hub, Roger. One second.”
He threw his hands up. Taverner had never seen this cliché happen before. “I don’t know, Diana—you’ve got half a message on a mobile from a slow horse out in the sticks. He didn’t even cite his protocols.”
“Roger—you do know what Code September means?”
“I know it’s not an official designation,” he said peevishly.
“I’ve run out of numbers. Whether this is real or not, keep it from the Home Sec any longer, and you’re in serious dereliction of duty.”
“Diana …”
“Roger.”
“What do I do?”
“Only one thing you can do,” she said, and told him what that was.
They’d been talking for ten minutes, but nothing meaningful had been said. Arkady Pashkin was sticking to Big Picture topics: what was going on with the Euro, which way Germany would lean next time one of the partners needed bailing out, how much money Russia’s World Cup bid cost. Spider Webb had the air of a dinner party host waiting for a guest to shut up about their children.
Marcus seemed more serene but was watchful, his attention divided evenly between Kyril and Piotr. Louisa remembered Min—she barely ever stopped remembering Min—and how he’d distrusted this pair on sight. Partly because that was his job, but partly because he was Min, and yearning for action. Her mouth filled, and she swallowed. Pashkin dragged the topic onto fuel prices, the ostensible reason for the meeting, but Webb still didn’t look happy. It wasn’t going the way he’d intended, Louisa thought. All he’s managed is
Until a high-pitched looping wail came from everywhere at once; above, below, from outside the doors. It didn’t pierce so much as throb, and its message was immediate and unmistakable. Leave now.
Marcus turned to the huge windows as if to spot approaching danger. Webb got to his feet so suddenly his chair hit the floor. He said, “What’s that?” which Louisa decided was the stupidest question ever. Which didn’t stop her echoing it: “What’s happening?”
Pashkin, still seated, said, “It sounds like the emergency we discussed yesterday.”
“You knew about this.”
Reaching into his briefcase, Pashkin produced a gun he handed to Piotr. “Yes,” he said. “I’m afraid I did.”
The hangar looked bigger in the Skyhawk’s absence. The doors hung wide, and sunlight fleshed out its corners, drawing attention to everything that wasn’t there. Those bags of fertiliser headed this list. There was a faint spillage where they’d been, as if one of the bags had a rip in it, but that was all.
Behind him, Yates said, “She went up earlier. I saw her go.”
“I know.”
“There’s something wrong, isn’t there? With the plane?”
Except it wasn’t only in that one place—sinking to his knees, River scanned the floor from as low an angle as his battered frame would allow.
Another jeep pulled up outside, and he could hear the clenched barking of an officer. New arseholes were being torn.
Across the concrete, a faint trail of crumbly brown dust snaked away to the side door.
He had the feeling he was on the end of a long piece of string. And the bastard at the other end kept tugging.
Yates said, “If Kelly’s in danger …”
