Lamb lifted the bottle from between his thighs, and re-examined its label. For a moment she thought he was about to draw its cork with his teeth, but instead he leaned over and replaced it next to its neighbours. And Catherine had to fight a sudden urge to grab it and crack its seal herself. Isn’t that what she’d been working up to? She’d been teetering on the edge so long that not to fall would disappoint. Not to drink, not to succumb: that would be an act of betrayal.
But she wasn’t going to do so with Lamb as a witness.
And then something he’d said struck her.
“This happened the previous year, you said. The year before you killed him.”
He looked at her, his skin mottled in the hazy light.
“So why did you wait so long? Friend or not, mentor or not, he was a traitor. He had your asset murdered. For money. So why’d you wait, Jackson? Were you hoping you were wrong?”
The cigarette was back, dancing between the fingers of his hand like a miniature baton he’d failed to pass on. Always, he’d be left holding it.
He said, “I knew I wasn’t. Cartwright responded like it was news he’d been waiting to hear, straightforward confirmation. And where the rest of us saw blood and teeth, he saw opportunity. If Partner was dirty, that could be put to use. And that’s what happened for the next year. He made Partner work for us again, without Partner knowing it.”
“He fed him misinformation,” said Catherine.
“Oh yes. But nothing you could put a pin in and stick to a board. Whispers, just. That a goldmine had opened up in joe country. That we had a new asset in the enemy camp. He couldn’t tell Partner who it was, and Partner couldn’t ask, but let’s just say that when the next round of promotions hit the Kremlin, we’d have a top-shelf source of a quality we’d never had before.”
“Cartwright was targeting someone. Destroying them with a rumour.”
“Someone bound for greatness.” The cigarette was tap-dancing across his digits, but that aside, she’d never seen Jackson Lamb stiller. Even his breathing seemed silent. “You wouldn’t remember the name. A one-time bright spark who Cartwright thought too bright, too sparky. You don’t want the opposition fielding their best players. And any leg you break in the dressing room, that’s time saved on the pitch.”
The last time she’d seen David Cartwright he’d been a scared old man, nervy of shadows. Perhaps it was true what they said about age: that in its darker corners lurk the monsters of our own making.
“The following year I was called back to London. And that’s when it happened.”
When you shot Charles Partner in his bathtub, she thought again. Where I found him.
“Cartwright’s timing was immaculate, I’ll give him that. Moscow wouldn’t believe for an instant that Partner killed himself. The way they saw it, it was proof positive he was onto something, and we whacked him before he could sell it.”
“Did it work?”
Lamb looked away, at the makeshift glass wall. He must have been able to see his reflection shining back at him; a fly’s-eye view of his own gross shape.
“Well, the bright spark was fucked right enough. Molly Doran could probably tell you where he is now, and it’s probably the Russian equivalent of Slough House, but he hasn’t bothered the world since. He must still be wondering what hit him.”
“Quite the little triumph for the Park, then.” Catherine closed her eyes and saw it again: Partner’s body in the bathtub; the contents of his head a red mess on the porcelain. A pulpy mixture, like trodden grapes. Some memories seared themselves on your mind, like a shadow on a wall after a nuclear flash.
“Yeah, that depends, doesn’t it? Because the role he’d been lined up for, that was a biggie. Director of the FSB, which is what they called the KGB after the makeover. Only with boyo shafted, Yeltsin had to turn to his second choice. Care to hazard a guess who that was?”
Her vision shimmered, unless it was the light faltering. “. . . No. No, that can’t be true.”
“Makes you think, doesn’t it?” He sneered. “Maybe David Cartwright wasn’t the mastermind he pretended to be. Unless he had his own reasons for giving Vladimir Putin a leg-up. On Spook Street, it’s hard to know what to believe.”
Catherine stared at him in horror.
“But me, I think it’s the law of unintended consequences. For other examples, see the history of the fucking world.”
Lamb put the unlit cigarette in his mouth again.
“They gave me Slough House once the shitstorm died down, and you know what they say. My gaff, my rules. And you know what rule one is. Nobody messes with my stuff. I don’t know what Frank Harkness is up to, and I don’t care. He left bodies in my yard, and he’ll pay for that. And if the Park’s pulling his strings, they’d better have another puppet ready. Whatever game they’re playing, he’s off the board.”
