Dead Lions полностью

But it gave weight to Lamb’s hypothesis. If you were laying a trail, you wanted it followed to the end. Mr. B, or whoever gave him his orders, had wanted his departure registered, and would doubtless be surprised it had taken this long. But then, they couldn’t have known it would be Slough House doing the field-work. Regent’s Park had access to surveillance from all national airports, and could run it through state-of-the-art recognition software. On Aldersgate Street, they had Shirley Dander running stolen tape through an out-of-date program.

“A morning flight,” Shirley said. “To Prague.”

“When?”

“Seven hours after he was dropped off in Upshott. Why go all the way there if he was catching a plane next morning?”

“Good question,” said Catherine, as a way of not answering it. “Okay, we know where he went. Let’s find out who he was.”

That wasa good thing.

Webb laid his phone neatly on his desk: he liked things aligned. Then he smoothed his hair. That too.

That was a good thing he’d said to Louisa Guy, and had meant it. Anything that happened before tomorrow he wanted run past him first. If he had one skill—and he had bags of the damn things—but if he had one skill above all, it was averting disaster.

On that bad bad night when Min Harper had died, for example, Spider Webb got the news early. So he’d been on the scene before Jackson Lamb. Averting disaster was about good timing. Then he’d walked to the Embankment and sat facing the dark galleries on the far bank and thought hard for as short a time as possible. Strategy was nine tenths reaction. Study any situation too long, you can think yourself into paralysis.

He’d called Diana Taverner. “We’ve got a problem.”

“Harper,” she said.

“You’ve heard.”

She suppressed a sigh. “Webb? I’m Second Desk. On your best day, you’re a gopher. So yes, I heard about Min Harper getting killed before you did.”

“Getting killed?”

“Being knocked over. It’s a verb.”

“I’ve been monitoring the situation.”

She said, “Excellent. If his condition changes—”

“I meant—”

“—do let me know, because we can put a positive spin on it. ‘MI5 agent comes back to life.’ That would boost recruitment, don’t you think?”

When he was sure she’d finished Webb said, “I meant I’ve talked to Nick Duffy. He’s been on the scene since first thing.”

“That’s his job.”

“And he reckons it’s clean. That it’s what it appears to be. An accident.”

Silence. Then: “His exact words?”

Duffy’s exact words had been, No way of telling until we’ve run all the angles. But he smells like a brewery, and it’s not like it was hit and run. The driver remained on the scene.

Webb said, “Pretty much, yes.”

“So that’s what his report will say.”

“It’s the timing I’m worried about. With the Needle thing coming up—”

“Jesus Christ,” Di Taverner said. “He was a colleague, Webb. You worked with him. Remember?”

“Well, not closely.”

“And don’t you think, before you start worrying what impact his death’ll have on your career prospects, you should consider what impact it might have on mine?”

“I have been. I’m thinking about both of us. Once Duffy’s report pegs this as a traffic thing, we can mourn Harper, obviously, but we can also get on with the job in hand. But if his death comes under scrutiny, his last days will be under the microscope. And if Roger Barrowby gets wind we were running Harper off the books while this audit’s in full swing—”

“ ‘We’?”

Webb said, “I logged our conversation, of course I did. I had to. When it comes off, and we have Arkady Pashkin as an asset, our asset, then everyone between Regent’s Park and Whitehall will want a slice of the credit. Especially—well, you know.”

Ingrid Tearney, his silence spelt.

“Best to have it clear from the get-go who’s done all the work.”

What he was hearing now was Diana Taverner thinking.

Mobile pressed to his ear, Webb looked up. No stars, but there rarely were in London: you had the weather, you had the light pollution, you had all the heavy artillery a city threw at the sky, and these things generally won. Except that didn’t mean the stars weren’t there.

At last she said, “What are you asking?”

“Nothing. Not much. A quick call.”

“To?”

“Nick Duffy.”

“I thought you said he was happy?”

“He is. He is. All we need is for him to put that in a report, even an interim one. To make sure everyone stays calm until the Needle job’s done and dusted.”

More silence.

“And we’ve pulled off the intelligence coup of the—”

“Don’t push it.” She thought more. “There’s no chance Harper’s death has anything to do with this op?”

“It was an accident.”

“But what if it turns out to have been a very good accident that has something to do with this op?”

“It won’t. Pashkin’s not even in the country yet. And if anyone had wind he’s planning to join our team, well, it wouldn’t be Min Harper bearing the brunt. He was only … He was a minor cog.”

“A slow horse, you mean.”