Then she yelped in sudden shock when someone spoke.
“Oh, sorry, I didn’t—”
“No. I was miles away, that’s all.”
“Okay. Sorry,” Shirley Dander said again. And then, “You might want to see this.”
“You found him?”
“Yes,” Shirley said.
Webb said, “Sure. Give him the tour.”
“He’s calling the shots?”
“He’s a rich man. They like to take control.”
Because Webb was oh-so-used to rich men’s foibles. The corridors of power were where he left his shoes out overnight.
Louisa said, “Okay. Just thought I’d check.”
“No, that’s good. That was a good thing.” He hung up.
Her vision blurred then cleared. She’d been patted on the head by Spider Webb. But that, too, was part of the deal: to take whatever shit came her way. Just so long as she remained on the job.
Through the lobby’s glass doors, she watched three buses trundle past; the third an open-topped double-decker, from which tourists peered raptly, admiring buildings, the park, other traffic. There was always a temptation to imagine tourists had no life other than the one you saw them leading; that they were constantly wowing at landmarks and wearing inappropriate shirts. Which was something Min had said, that she would remember every time she saw a tour bus.
She turned to Marcus. “It’s not a problem.”
Marcus rang upstairs. “We’ll see you outside.” He disconnected. “They’re coming now.”
Waiting on the pavement was a lesson in rich man’s timekeeping:
Marcus said, “Oil deal. Right.”
“What?”
He said, “Come on.”
Cars passed uncounted.
“He’s negotiating an energy deal with the British Government? Off his own bat?”
“He owns an oil company.”
“And Securicor own armoured vehicles, but you don’t see them parading down the Mall on Remembrance Day.”
“I assume you’re making a point.”
“That there’s a world of difference between private ownership and national interest. You think the Kremlin’s enthusiasm for private enterprise extends this far? Dream on.”
Louisa hadn’t wanted Marcus Longridge, but that too was part of the deal. But she’d hoped he’d glide through it silently: keep his mouth shut; carry bags. Not feel the need to speculate, or not do so out loud.
“Did you read that profile? This isn’t someone who’s gunna buy a football team and marry some pop stars. He’s got an eye on the big chair.”
To carry on not answering would look deliberate. She said: “So why’s he want to meet with Spider Webb?”
“Other way round. Why wouldn’t Webb want to meet with him? Guy with a shot at the Kremlin, Spider’s got to be creaming his pants at the thought of being in the same room.”
Now Louisa couldn’t help herself. “Webb wants to
“Be my guess.”
She said, “Because that’s the first step to political office, isn’t it? Sell yourself to another country’s intelligence service.”
“It’s not about state secrets,” Marcus said. “Agent of influence, that’d be his role. And what’s in it for him is Western support when he makes his move.”
“Right. A profile in the
“Twenty-first century, Louisa. You want to strut on the world stage, you’ve got to be taken seriously.” He scratched the tip of his nose with his little finger. “Webb can get Pashkin in the room with people. The PM. A royal. Peter Judd. Trust me, that’d count with Pashkin. He’ll need all the international coverage he can get if he wants to make waves back home.”
“Twenty-first century, Marcus,” Louisa agreed. “But still the middle ages here and there. Pashkin starts bigging himself up at Putin the Great’s expense, he’ll find his head on a stick.”
“You get nowhere if you don’t take risks.”
The lift doors opened, and Pashkin appeared, Piotr and Kyril at his heels like wolfhounds.
“End of,” she said, and Marcus shut up.
The first floor office was noisier than Catherine’s. You noticed the traffic more; could see faces on the buses that trundled past in an unbroken stream for minutes at a time, before vanishing for half-hours at a stretch. But those weren’t the faces the two women were studying now.
“It’s him all right.”
It was him. Catherine had no doubt about that.
Shirley’s monitor was frozen on a split screen. One half showed a still from the CCTV coverage she’d stolen from DataLok: Mr. B on his westbound train, his posture indicating a freakish stasis even allowing for it being a photograph. Behind him, a young woman was caught in the act of movement; an incomplete thought working across her features. But Mr. B sat docile and concentrated, like a shop dummy on a daytrip.
The other picture showed the same clothes, same expression, same bald head. And Mr. B was once again the still centre of his world, though this world was blurrier, more active. He was standing in line, while all around him people were caught in a motionless bustle, hauling luggage across shiny floors.
“Gatwick,” Shirley said.
“How very low profile,” Catherine murmured.
