In a rare moment of tact, Lamb recognised when someone needed the last word, and said nothing. Instead, he watched her out of sight, then rewarded himself with a slow grin. He had Service cover. He even had an operating fund.
Neither of which he’d have got, if he’d told her the truth.
Retrieving his phone from his pocket, he called Slough House.
“You still there?”
“Yes, that’s why I’m answering the—”
“Get your arse to Whitecross. And bring your wallet.”
Snapping the phone shut, he watched as the wayward duck returned, coming to a skidding halt on the canal’s glassy surface, shattering the reflected sky, but only for a moment. Then it all shivered back into shape: sky, rooftops and overhead cables, all in their proper place.
Ho would have been happy about that.
“You took your time,” Lamb said.
River, who’d arrived first, knew a Lamb tactic when he heard one. “What did I need my wallet for?”
“You can buy me a late lunch.”
Because it had been a while since his early lunch, River surmised.
The market was packing up, but there were still stalls where you could buy enough curry and rice to feed an army, then stuff it so full of cake it couldn’t march. River paid for a Thai chicken with naan, and the pair walked to St Luke’s and found a bench. Pigeons clustered hopefully, but soon gave up. Possibly they recognised Lamb.
“How well did you know Dickie Bow?” River asked.
Through a mouthful of chicken, Lamb said, “Not well.”
“But enough to light a candle.”
Lamb looked at him, chewing. He kept chewing so long it became sarcastic. When he’d at last swallowed, he said, “You’re a fuck up, Cartwright. We both know that. You wouldn’t be a slow horse otherwise. But—”
“I was screwed over. There’s a difference.”
“Only fuck ups get screwed over,” Lamb explained. “May I finish?”
“Please.”
“You’re a fuck up, but you’re still in the game. So if you turn up dead one day, and I’m not busy, I’ll probably ask around. Check for suspicious circumstances.”
“I can hardly contain my emotion.”
“Yeah, I said probably.” He belched. “But Dickie was a Berlin hand. When you’ve fought a war with someone, you make sure they’re buried in the right grave. One that doesn’t read Clapped Out when it should say Enemy Action. Grandad never teach you that?”
River remembered a moment last year when he’d had a glimpse of the Lamb who’d fought that war. So despite Lamb now being a fat lazy bastard, he was inclined to believe him.
On the other hand, he didn’t like Lamb slighting his grandfather, so said, “He might have mentioned it. When he wasn’t telling me Bow was a pisshead who claimed to have been kidnapped by a non-existent spook.”
“The O.B. told you that?” Lamb cocked his head. “That’s what you call him, right? The old bastard?”
It was, but how Jackson Lamb knew passed all understanding.
Aware that River was thinking this, Lamb gave his stalker’s grin. “Alexander Popov was a scarecrow, sure,” he said. “What else did grandpa tell you?”
“That the Park put a file together,” River said, “to see what it revealed about Moscow Centre’s thinking. It was mostly fragments. Place of birth, stuff like that.”
“Which was?”
“ZT/53235.”
“Why doesn’t it surprise me you remember that?”
“There was some kind of accident there,” River said, “and the town was destroyed. That’s a detail that sticks in your mind.”
“Well, it would,” Lamb said. “If it had been an accident.” Scraping the last of his curry from its foil container, he shovelled it into his mouth, oblivious to the look River was giving him. “That wasn’t bad,” he said. With a practised flick of the wrist, he sent his spork spinning into a nearby bin, then sponged the remaining sauce up with his last hunk of naan. “I’d give it a seven.”
“It was deliberate?”
Lamb arched his eyebrows. “He didn’t mention that bit?”
“We didn’t go into great detail.”
“He probably had his reasons.” He chewed the naan thoughtfully. “I’m pretty sure your gramps never did anything without a reason. No, it was no accident.” He swallowed. “You’re still too young to smoke, right?”
“I’m still not stupid enough.”
“Get back to me when you’ve had a life.” Lamb lit up, drew in, exhaled. Nothing about his expression suggested he’d ever considered this might be harmful. “Z whatever you called it was a research facility. Part of the nuclear race. This is before my time, you understand.”
“Didn’t realise they had nuclear capability before your time.”
“Thanks. Anyway, to our best understanding, Moscow Centre decided it harboured a spy. That someone on the inside was feeding information about the Soviet nuclear programme to the enemy. Who would be us. Or friends of ours.” Lamb became still. For a few moments, the only thing moving was the thin blue trail of smoke aching wistfully upwards from his cigarette.
River said, “And they destroyed it?”
Lamb said, “Did gramps never mention, all these secret history lessons he’s been giving you, how fucking serious it got? Yes, they destroyed it. They burnt the place to cinders to make sure whatever was happening there stayed hidden.”
