Nash, who spent half his life in the Park these days, had made his standard harrumphing noise. “So then. Matter resolved.”
Taverner said, “I’ll speak to HR. Have his papers drawn up. And a report filed with the Met, obviously.”
Which had alarmed Pynne, but not as much as it did Nash.
“No, I’m not sure that’s wise.” His mouth twisted: nasty taste. “It’s a touchy subject down the corridor, viewing pornography at work. Ended a promising career, let’s not forget. One of the PM’s closest allies.”
“Well she should choose her allies more carefully. Sticky fingers aren’t a good look anywhere. Round the Cabinet table, they’re a positive embarrassment.”
“Be that as it may, public awareness that a member of the security services was watching porn,
“Which will strengthen his hand,” said Pynne.
“Leaving aside the somewhat unsavoury image that brings to mind,” said Lady Di, “care to elucidate?”
“If we sack him but don’t inform the police,” said Pynne, “he’ll know we’re frightened of the publicity. So he might go public himself. Claim innocence.”
“Whereas if we keep him where he is,” said Nash, “he’ll stay quiet. For fear we’ll inform the Met if he misbehaves.”
“Fine,” said Lady Di. “He’s a slow horse. Thank you, Richard.”
So all was well. Maybe he’d finessed it, but it was the right outcome.
He said to Hannah, “You’re right. Forgive me. I worry about you, that’s all.”
“There’s no need, Richard. Really. We’re good.”
His pilfered hour was up. Without quite planning to, he leaned and kissed her cheek.
She smiled and squeezed his arm. “See you soon.”
He headed into the station. When he looked back she was still standing there, waving at him. He waved back, and disappeared from sight.
Then Hannah walked round to the Embankment, and into the small park behind the Savoy, where Peter Kahlmann—real name, Martin Kreutzmer—was waiting with a bouquet of roses.
“Peter!”
“I like to spoil you.”
And he did. In flagrant contravention of every espionage protocol she’d ever read about, or seen in films, Peter would show up at undercover trysts bearing boxes of chocolates, or abduct her as she left work, and whisk her off to a West End show: best seats in the house. If the Peter Kahlmann she described to Richard Pynne was a worn-out salaryman, the reality was a favourite uncle, the one who’d got down on all fours and pretended to be a bear. The risk was, someone would notice he really was a bear after all. Because if Regent’s Park discovered that Kahlmann was actually Martin Kreutzmer, then what had been assumed to be a minor fun-and-games op would have been escalated to Serious Business, for Martin was a name on Spook Street, and anything he was invested in demanded a closer look.
Yet here he was, handing out roses in the snow.
“They import them from Africa.”
“They’re lovely. The perfect accessory for a clandestine meeting.”
“Everyone will assume I’m a dirty old man,” he said, taking her arm. “They’ll write their own story, and pay no attention to who we really are.”
They walked through the park, collars up against the cold.
“So,” he said. “What did Young Lochinvar want?”
“He’s still worried about that analyst,” said Hannah. “The one who ran your cover name.”
“A development?”
“I don’t think so. He’s a worrier, that’s all.”
“Nobody’s perfect,” he assured her.
She told him all she’d gleaned from Pynne lately: about Diana Taverner, and her struggle to keep hold of the Service’s steering wheel.
“They have so many committees,” she said. “So many meetings. And the budget’s tight. Richard thinks she’s worried control will be taken away from her, and vested in a board. She’s spent years waiting to take over, he says. And now they’re looking to change the whole power structure.”
“But she’s a survivor.”
“You know her?”
“I know the type. When the game stops going their way, they change the game. She’s waiting for her moment, that’s all.”
Hannah said, “I think Richard knew this analyst.”
“Were they friends?”
“I don’t think he has friends.”
“Apart from you,” said Martin.
That made her laugh.
They parted on a lane leading up to the Strand, Hannah cradling the flowers as if they were an infant. Like any fond lover Martin Kreutzmer walked backwards the first few steps, extending his farewell, but his smile faded once he’d turned. On the Strand he headed left, for Trafalgar Square, where a murmuration of tourists, undeterred by the cold, weaved around one another in constant motion. Martin liked the pointless busyness of it. He found it conducive to thought.
