If he stood dead centre of his sitting room, Spider Webb was exactly three paces from the nearest piece of furniture, which itself sat in open space—this was his sofa, which was long enough to lie full-length on, with wiggle room on either end. After another couple of paces, you reached the wall, against which you could lean back and spread your arms wide without meeting obstruction. And while you were doing this you could feast your eyes on the view, which Spider kept behind big glass doors giving onto his balcony: treetops and sky; the trees organised in a neat row because they lined a canal, along which quiet narrowboats glided, decked out in royal reds and greens. Beat that, he thought. This was a catch-all phrase, applicable to whoever happened to be handy, but in Spider Webb’s personal lexicon, it had a specific target.
River Cartwright occupied a one-bedroom flat in the East End. His view was a row of lock-up garages, and there were three pubs and two clubs within chucking-up distance, which meant that even once River had negotiated his way through chavs, tarts, drunks and meth-heads, he’d still get no sleep for the racket they’d make till it was time to roll home for their giros. Which neatly underlined the way things were: River Cartwright was a fucking loser, while James Webb was scaling heights like Spider-Man’s smarter brother.
It might have been different. Time was they’d been friendly. They’d undergone training together, were going to be the next bright lights of the Service, but this was what happened: Spider had been compelled to become instrumental in River’s downgrading to slow horse; and subsequently, many long months later, River had demonstrated his poor-fucking-loser status by smashing Webb in the face with a loaded gun.
Still, that had only hurt for a while. A long while, true, but the facts remained: Spider lived in this apartment, worked in Regent’s Park, and was on Diana Taverner’s daily-contact list, while River sweated out interminable days in Slough House, followed by noisy nights in the arse-end of the city. The best man had won.
Now the best man was meeting Arkady Pashkin in London’s smartest new building in the morning, and if all went as planned, he’d be recruiting the most important asset the Service had seen in twenty years. A possible future leader of Russia in Regent’s Park’s pocket, and all it would cost Webb was promises.
After that, Lady Di’s daily-contact list would look like small beer. Besides, anyone forming a long-term alliance with Taverner was going to end up being Nick Clegged. Snuggling up to Ingrid Tearney was the better bet. Side-by-side with Tearney, he’d be seen as first-anointed. And for all the modernising policies the Service tipped its hat at, that counted for a lot.
Everything to play for, then, and he’d done everything right too—from the moment Pashkin had made contact Webb had played it like the high stakes game it was. And luck had been with him. Roger Barrowby’s security audit had played into his hands, giving him the perfect alibi to outsource security details to Slough House, whose drones would follow orders without their activities registering on the Park’s books. Even the location had been swiftly arranged: Pashkin had asked for the Needle, and it had taken Webb just three days to secure it. The suite’s lease-holder was a high-end trading consultancy, currently brokering an arms deal between a UK firm and an African republic, and only too happy to cooperate with an MI5 agent. The date, chosen to fit with Pashkin’s commitments, had been manageable too. Webb ran his tongue round mostly new teeth, a tangible reminder of River Cartwright’s assault. All the details had fallen into place. If it weren’t for Min Harper’s death, it would have been textbook.
But Harper had died because he’d been drunk, and that was an end of it. There was nothing to suggest any last-minute snags, so all Webb had to do was get his head down and sleep the sleep of the just, full of the easy dreams and anticipations of success that would seem to River Cartwright like memories from another life.
So that’s what he’d do now. Soon. In a bit.
Meanwhile, Spider Webb stood gazing round his bright well-appointed apartment, congratulating himself on his charmed existence, and hoping nothing would fuck it up for him now.
From her office, Shirley watched Catherine Standish enter Ho’s office and close the door behind her. Something going on. And this was the pattern: when Shirley could be useful, some crap job was dumped on her. The rest of the time she was out in the cold.
