Joe Country полностью

“No thanks.” She looked at the monitor displaying the central London streetmap. “You’re running a surveillance.”

He nodded. Man of few words.

“From your own house.”

He nodded again.

“That’s not strictly allowed, is it?”

He shrugged. Then decided a fuller answer was called for. “I don’t always play by the book,” he said.

Flyte nodded, as if she’d heard that about him.

“It’s kind of interesting, actually,” he said. “That little, uh . . . that avatar—”

“The pile of shit.”

“Um, yeah. He’s somewhere he shouldn’t be.”

shall not, until investigations have been completed to the satisfaction of this department, have contact with colleagues

Flyte said, “That’s not far from the Park.”

“Yeah.”

“One of your crew?”

“That’s right.”

She shook her head, momentarily lost in admiration.

And she was awesome, thought Roddy. The blonde hair, the dark blue eyes, the creamy skin: she could have played a robot on Westworld. Not to mention walk straight into Ho’s Hos, no audition required. Bump an existing member, even. As it happened, he knew for a fact there were no dodgy photos of her on the internet. A very careful lady.

He wondered whether it was too soon to call her babes. Kim—his ex-girlfriend—had liked it when he called her that. An empowerment thing.

She said, “You’ll have heard I’m no longer in the Service.”

Roddy gave his curt but meaningful nod again.

“No. What I meant was, you’ll have heard I’m no longer in the Service.”

Oh—kayyy . . .

She said, “Sometimes it’s best to have certain stories get around. If it’s generally thought I’m no longer on the job, then I have greater . . . flexibility.”

Roddy nodded again. Emma Flyte’s flexibility was something he’d given thought to in the past; the fact that she was here, now, talking about it, made the day special.

“But it also means I have to work behind the lines. Using resources I don’t have to account for. Doing things I might have to deny later. Are we on the same page here, Roddy?”

“Sure thing.”

[Babes.]

“And seeing how you’re one of those guys who doesn’t play by the rule book, well. Maybe you could help me out with something.”

And this was his moment. This was where he’d shine. So he forgot about his Rules of Cool, laid aside his trademark Treat-’em-Mean protocol, and instead flashed on the maximum wattage Roddy Ho bedroom smile, way before she’d done much to deserve it.

Because sometimes, just turning up was enough.
“Babes,” he said. “I can help you out with anything.”

And the look on her face told him that, as usual, he’d said exactly the right thing.

Lamb said, “Once upon a time, I was Charles Partner’s joe.”

Catherine closed her eyes, and felt the dark sparkling: all her glass. All her bottles. And now Lamb among them, like a dragon nestling in someone else’s gold, ensuring that it would never be pure again. She’d have to get rid of them, every last one. And she wasn’t sure she was ready to do that.

He was right, the bastard. The bastard was right. This fortress, the one that might so easily topple and crush her, she’d built it because of what Diana Taverner had said.

Tell me, Catherine. Something I’ve always wondered. Did Lamb ever tell you how Charles Partner really died?

She forced herself to speak. “This isn’t something I want to talk about.”

“Who cares? You were off your face at the time. Anything that didn’t escape your attention came in a glass or had its hand up your skirt.”

“I was sober when he died. When you killed him.”

“I’m talking about the year before.”

And now she opened her eyes.

She was on her sofa, facing a bookshelf obscured by bottles; a view so distantly familiar it was a postcard from her past, when she had no control over the direction her evenings would take. When she might find herself trapped by a drunken bore; so boring, she’d find him a fascination; so drunk herself, she’d sleep with him.

“I was running joes of my own by then. The Wall was down and all kinds of nasties came crawling out. It was a full-time job keeping up with the acronyms. And there were the retirees, the assets, those we’d recruited from the other side, so they could risk their lives and betray their country. Starting to see a theme here?”

She didn’t want to be involved. Didn’t want to hear this; wasn’t going to participate.

“There was one we called Bogart. Middle-ranking Stasi officer who’d come to us long before cracks started appearing. This wasn’t someone looking to save their skin. Or get rich. Remember that. It’s important later.” He picked up his phone, which was still resting on the arm of the chair, and stuffed it into his coat pocket. When his hand came free again it was holding a cigarette.

She said nothing.

“You’re not gunna tell me I can’t?”

“You foul my living space just by being here. Cigarette smoke’s not going to make a difference.”