Joe Country полностью

The walkway round Regent’s Park’s rooftop was narrow, and cradled by the overhanging tiles of a steeply angled roof on one side and an eight-inch wall on the other. A route allowing for maintenance work, it had never been intended for casual use, but the view it offered meant that most of the Park’s regulars made the occasional foray up here, a tradition memorialised by the innumerable cigarette ends trodden underfoot. Diana Taverner led the way from the access door to the building’s north-east corner and paused by a squat turret, an outlet of some sort, from whose wire grille a metallic odour drifted. Snow was starting to pattern the tiles. Between a gutter and the overhang, a spider was tuning its web.

Behind her, Oliver Nash said, “Is this really necessary?”

“I like it up here,” Taverner said, not looking round. “Reminds me what’s at stake.”

“A very London-centric attitude, if you don’t mind my saying so.” He was hanging back as much as he could without it looking like he was doing so.

They weren’t that high, but they were high enough. There were few soft landings in the city. The view was metal and glass, weeping concrete, a distant splash of golden stone. From where she stood, Taverner could read the date carved into the brow of the building opposite: 1893. Many older constructions carried such badges. Newer ones didn’t, as if less sure of their place in history, or the future. Buildings are more vulnerable than they used to be. One of the reasons she was here.

“Diana?”

“Would you rather go back down?”

His every feature screaming Yes, Oliver Nash shook his head. “Let’s get on with whatever game you’re playing, shall we? Before we both freeze our balls off.”

“Nicely put.” She turned. “I want to trigger the Fugue Protocol.”

“. . . I see.”

It rather seemed he didn’t.

“Oliver?”

“The Fugue Protocol. And that’s, um, that’s . . .” He stopped. “You’ll have to forgive me.”

“Of course.”

“I’m normally on top of my brief.”

“Yes.”

“It’s just that there’s such an awful lot of—”

“We have wi-fi, Oliver. If you want to verify your standing orders, go right ahead.”

“Thank you.”

With a show of reluctance, he produced his phone. Diana watched while he called up the Service intranet, entered his code, and burrowed into his office’s backstory: duties and expectations, liabilities, known unknowns. His appointment, unlike hers, had not arrived ballasted by a decade’s preparation.

“The Fugue Protocol,” he said at length. “Yes, I remember now.”

Funny how you always remember right at the end, a little voice squeaked inside her.

“A home-soil operation, with no oversight.”

“That’s correct.”

“You want to go under the bridge.”

“There. Anyone would take you for a lifer.”

“There’s no need to mock.”

“Just lightening the mood. Are you up to speed with the implications?”

He was still squinting at his phone, its text a little undernourished for close reading. “And you don’t wish to provide a reason why.”

“That would be the nub, yes.”

Nash pursed his lips. “Somewhat unorthodox, don’t you think?”

“It’s precisely orthodox. That’s why it’s a protocol. With a specific procedure attached.”

“Designed for extreme levels of emergency,” he said. “For use in conditions of extreme secrecy. So in the wrong hands—forgive me. In the wrong circumstances, a tool for any manner of black mischief.”

“I’m in this post because I’m trusted, Oliver. This is one of those moments when you have to rely on that trust, and let go of the tiller.”

He looked out over London’s rooftops, perhaps seeing in their boxed and fluted shapes, their haphazard geometry, the same thing she had seen a moment ago. The very modern problem cities shared: that they were always left out in the open.

“I trust you. What I’m less . . . sanguine about is the current state of the coffers. No oversight means an uncontrolled spend. And we are not currently in a position where I’m comfortable with that.”

“The whole point of the Fugue Protocol is that it supersedes such considerations.”

“Not to mention bypassing the steering committee. And the Minister. Which is the reason you’re seeking to trigger it, am I right? No oversight. That’s the key here.”

“The protocol exists for a very good reason.”

“As do its safeguards.” He was looking at his phone again, scrolling through the standing instructions. “Misuse carries severe penalties, Diana.”

“Yes, thank you. I’m aware of that.”

“And yet, it says here, I have to say this out loud. Wilful and deliberate misinformation—wilful and deliberate, that’s a tautology, yes? No matter. Wilful and deliberate misinformation in response to the listed questions could result in prosecution. Being First Desk won’t help you.”

“If I weren’t First Desk, I couldn’t trigger the protocol. It’s a bespoke arrangement.”

“Yes, well. Are you sure you want to do this?”

I’m standing on a roof on a January morning, she wanted to say. How serious do you need me to get? But she simply nodded, and waited for him to find the pertinent section of text.