“So,” said Lamb. He surveyed the gathering. “To answer Cartwright’s impertinent little whine five minutes back, what we do now is find out if Dozy, Beaky and Titch were at that same Travelodge with Harkness. And if not, where are they now? That sound like it falls within your skill set, grasshopper?”
He was looking at Roddy Ho, who gave a twitchy smirk in response. “Yeah, sure.”
“How splendid. Wrap it up by teatime and I’ll see about getting you a gerbil, to replace that girlfriend of yours.”
Shirley scowled. “How come he gets special treatment?”
“Fact of life, Dander. Us minorities pull together.”
“. . . You’re a minority?”
Lamb looked pained. “I’m half lesbian on my mother’s side. Or does that count for nothing?”
That was then. Now, River stood and approached the photocopy on the wall. Jay Featherstone—Frank Harkness. He’d inherited some of his father’s looks; the mole on his upper lip was his own, but the colouring was hand-me-down, and the general facial structure, his shape, his essence, was there in his father’s features. Along with what else? All his life, he’d thought he’d inherited his ambition from his grandfather, and the stories the O.B. had plied him with throughout his youth. He hadn’t known that being a spook was a dynastic thing. That his father lived in those same shadows.
Half without meaning to, he slammed his fist side-on against Frank’s face. A little payment on account, though Frank’s expression didn’t change, and all River gained from the moment was a throbbing in his hand.
He knew Coe was watching as he returned to his desk, just as he knew that if he glanced Coe’s way, Coe would be focused on something else.
River sat down again, and got on with brooding.
If you want your enemy to fail, give him something important to do. This stratagem—known for obscure historical reasons as ‘The Boris’—was one Di Taverner set store by, and if Oliver Nash wasn’t exactly an enemy, he was the kind of ally you wanted ground into submission whenever possible. Technically, the Chair of the Limitations Committee argued First Desk’s case before Treasury and the Cabinet in general; in practice, as one of Diana’s predecessors had pointed out, Chairs can wobble. Sometimes you had to saw a length off a leg. And Di Taverner had no qualms about cutting Nash off at the knees, but there were ways and means. It made sense to balance the cruel with the kind.
Nash made his entrance with his usual lack of aplomb; dexterity he might have in spades when it came to diplomatic wrangling, but in actual physical terms, he had the grace of a boat going sideways. Lady Di had visions of him crashing through her glass wall, gifting the boys and girls on the Hub a legend they’d never forget, but apart from a brief tussle with the visitor’s chair, and a nudge to her desk which rattled its drawers, he made harbour without incident. Despite the weather, he looked warm. It occurred to her that he always did, but then, he carried enough padding to make an Arctic outing plausible.
Seated, comfortable, he spoke. “This morning.”
“I thought the vicar spoke well,” she said. “Nice balance between service for his country and tactful lack of detail. You know Cartwright’s neighbours thought he was in Transport?”
“Wonder what they made of the acrobatics. A disgruntled commuter paying his disrespects?”
“Families,” said Diana. “I put it about that the grandson’s a little . . . emotional.”
“A little emotional? What would having a breakdown look like? Digging the corpse up and doing a waltz?”
She allowed him a small nod.
“So who was he, Diana? And what was he doing at Cartwright’s funeral?”
“His name’s Frank Harkness, and I have no idea.”
“One of us?”
“An American.”
“Oh, Christ. CIA?”
“Former.”
“
“Unlikely. The head of CIA’s a voice of sanity in the US at the moment. Then again, it’s all relative. Would you like coffee, by the way? I should have asked.”
“Thank you. And maybe a biscuit? I skipped lunch.”
Nash’s battle with his waistline was approaching mythical status at Regent’s Park, though ‘battle’ might be overstating it, given Nash’s half-hearted approach to hostilities. His strategy mostly consisted of carrying on as normal and hoping the situation would improve. Besides, his definition of ‘skipping’ didn’t differ wildly from ‘postponing’; lunch might have been omitted from his diary, but an afternoon biscuit frenzy would soon have things back on track.
While waiting for the promised refreshments to arrive, he said, “Several people warned me about taking on this role, you know. They seemed to think there were easier ways of securing a seat in the Lords.”
“Oh, we’re on the side of the angels, Oliver. You just have to remember that angels do God’s dirty work.”
Nash nodded. “So if I wanted to know what was going on without knowing anything I’d have cause to wish I didn’t, how much would you tell me?”
