He did so.
“One. Is there a clear and present danger—that’s an American phrase, isn’t it?” He shook his head. “Really, I’m not sure we should be borrowing—oh, never mind. Not the issue.” He cleared his throat. “Is there a clear and present danger, or has a credible threat been made, to the government and/or its constituent parts, by which I can only presume is meant persons holding offices of state?”
“No.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Really? I was rather expecting you to say yes there.”
“There are further questions, Oliver.”
“Oh. Right. Yes.” He glanced about, as if expecting a prompt from the wings, then raised his phone to his eyeline again. “Two. Is there a clear or present danger, or has a credible threat been made, against the person of Her Majesty and/or any member of the royal household, most particularly, but not limited to, immediate family members?”
She said, “Define threat.”
“That’s not an answer. We both know what threat means. Danger to life and limb.”
“I’d have thought a greater latitude was implied.”
The height, the cold, the falling snow: all of these things sharpened Nash’s tone. “Diana. Are you in possession of information suggesting that an attempt may be made on the life or liberty of a member of the royal family? A yes or no answer is required.”
“. . . No.”
“You don’t sound certain.”
“I’m alert to the severe penalties you mentioned. What if the danger were reputational?”
He eyed her suspiciously. “That would be a political matter.”
“A political threat.”
“Which falls outside the bounds of the protocol. Your office is apolitical, Diana. You know that.”
“Of course.”
“Is this the reason you initiated this charade? You believe there’s been some kind of non-physical threat to a member of the royal household?”
She thought for a moment, then nodded.
“If you have information regarding anything of the kind, any political shenanigans, it’s your duty to bring it to Committee. I shouldn’t have to remind you of this.”
“And I shouldn’t need to remind you that sources need protection, and that the Committee has been known to leak.”
“Not while I’ve been Chair, it hasn’t.”
“Forgive me, Oliver. But my memory goes back further than the last six months. If I bring my concerns to the Committee, they’ll require verification, and that will mean giving up my source. Which is not acceptable.”
“I can’t authorise you to go free range.”
“Pity.”
“And there’s no sense in me reading the rest of these questions out, is there? I’m not authorising the protocol on those grounds, and you have no other grounds to offer. Is that correct?”
She nodded.
“I can’t help thinking there’s something going on here, Diana.”
“It’s the Secret Service, Oliver. There’s always something going on.”
“I’ll have to minute this.”
“Of course.”
“And it’s going to look a little . . . sensationalist of you. If you don’t mind my saying so.”
“Do what you have to do.”
“I’m going in now.”
“Good idea.”
She let Nash lead the way back, but paused before following him onto the staircase. Behind her London yawned, then hunched its shoulders. The snow was falling harder, and the sky was iron grey.
The morning had grown old before its time.
And before long, the afternoon was giving up the ghost.
“Let me drive,” Shirley said.
“We’re taking shifts, remember?”
“But you’re going so slowly!”
“We’re in a traffic jam,” River pointed out.
There were three of them. J.K. Coe was in the shotgun seat, staring out of the passenger window. Shirley was behind River, and gripping his headrest: he could feel her tension.
“If you’re not gunna get a move on,” she said, “at least play some music.”
But every radio station so far she’d vetoed on grounds of being lame. And the only CD he could find was called
“It’s like travelling with a teenager,” he said.
“Is not!”
River glanced sideways, but Coe was wired into his iPod, and might as well have been back in Slough House.
The M4 was at a standstill not twenty miles clear of Hillingdon: a lorry had shed its load across the westbound lanes. Radio reports hadn’t specified what this was, but River was guessing quick-drying cement. No fatalities, apparently, which Shirley did not take well. Causing her inconvenience should be a capital offence.
Even on the motorway, snow was starting to lie. The country to either side was disappearing under its cloak: a landscape of lumpy fields and pissed-off cattle.
This wasn’t what an emergency dash was supposed to look like.
Back at Slough House, he’d gone straight to Lamb’s room, the others in his wake. Lamb was at his desk, shoeless, his electric heater pumping out an exhausted warmth that filled the air with the smell of fried dust.
“Louisa’s in Wales. I’m going after her.”
“Did I wake up in a fucking romcom?” said Lamb.
“I think she’s in danger.”
“Because that would explain the snow,” continued Lamb. “And the lack of black faces.” He slid a hand inside his shirt. “Come to think of it, did I wake up in Wales?”
