He finished his energy drink, and tossed the empty into the bin. Tracing a plate, assigning an identity to the vague shape behind the wheel, was something he could do in his sleep; such a lowly task he didn’t feel down to doing it himself, so he emailed a screenshot to Shirley Dander: let someone else do some work for a change. Wicinski was still staring, so he leaned back in his chair and swivelled the monitor to show off his success.
“Congratulations,” Wicinski said after a while. “Data theft. Quite the hot-button crime.”
“For national security,” Roddy reminded him.
“Which might have mattered once. But this is a post-Brexit, post-truth, fake news world, and something I’ve noticed is, people are pissed off.” Wicinski smiled, but not in a good way. “Hate figures are the new black. People find a spook like you watching their every move, you’ll be the poster-boy for every anti-government pressure group going.”
And this was exactly the kind of shit the HotRod was used to: the frank admiration disguised as contempt; the derision that masked drooling envy. Life in Slough House, he was surrounded by no-hopers, trying not to let him see they were grabbing for his coattails. Whatever coattails were.
Ho said, “Who’s gunna find out?” Wicinski was starting to irritate him. Also, a bit of meatball or something was lodged between two molars, and with his right hand currently inflexible, he was going to have Voldemort’s own job freeing the damn thing.
“Yeah,” said Wicinski. “That’s what everyone says. Right up until somebody blows the whistle.”
“Last time someone tried something like that, Lamb found out about it first.”
“Yeah? And then what?”
Roddy couldn’t remember. Hadn’t been good, though. And besides, he himself, the Dyno-Rod, was pretty pitiless in vengeance mode too. Not so long back, he’d heaved a would-be killer through a window. Well: details were hazy. But he’d been there, and the would-be killer had wound up dead on the pavement. Do the math.
He returned to his screens. Wicinski’s gaze, he knew, remained fixed upon him: a dark-eyed stare intended to unnerve. Which, okay, was starting to do that, but not because the RodMan scared easy—hell: he’d been sharing a building with J.K. Coe for a year, and he was a genuine psycho—it was more about Wicinski’s past having been wiped from Service records. That was spooky. What they knew he’d done was enough to put you off the guy. So whatever he’d done that someone wanted covered up, well, that must be seriously dark.
The chunk of meatball came loose of its own accord, and Roddy’s mouth filled with what tasted like beef.
Blowing the whistle, he thought. Was that an actual threat? Could be. That was the trouble with the slow horses; they were constantly rattling their cages, checking the bars still held. If it weren’t for Roddy himself, his calming influence, the idiots would have burned the building to the ground long ago.
The stuff he and Lamb had to put up with. Good job he had Wicinski’s number . . . First suspicious move from you and the Rodster’ll tie you in knots, thought Roddy. Lead you down the garden path, drown you in the pond. He could picture himself going over this with Lamb; the older man’s shoulders heaving.
