London Rules полностью

At the same time, he could hotdog it with the best of them. Your typical maverick. Best of both worlds.

Like he’d told the guys: ‘So sure, they sent someone to take me out. And look where it got them. Next time, they’ll know to send two.’

And the guys had exchanged a look.

So now he finished his pizza, except the anchovies, and as he sat licking his fingers it occurred to him that nobody had yet told him what had happened to Kim, his girlfriend. Now he’d explained that the document he’d shown her wasn’t even classified – seriously: the Dyno-Rod, passing on secrets? C’mon – she was surely cleared of everything except curiosity, and since when was that a crime? But they were leaving him in the dark.

Or maybe …

But there was a corner of his mind Roderick Ho preferred not to visit, and he backed away from it now. It was a corner where different decisions had been made, and different destinations reached; one which, if he’d spent more time there, might have meant he’d be a little more slow horse, a little less the Rodster. It would have meant he’d asked more questions when Kim came into his life, and had more people around to help answer them … But there was no going back. This was who he was now, and Kim was his girlfriend, right? Kim was his girlfriend. And if he was partly in the dark right now, well, that was the thing about the secret world. A lot of it was just too … secret.

Roddy shook his head. It would all come out in the wash, he guessed. Meanwhile, he supposed he’d have to stay here so nobody got too worried about him. He smiled to himself. Who is this guy? is what they’re wondering, he thought. Some kind of Bond–Q combo? Scouts the Dark Web by day, and come nightfall goes clubbing with an uber-foxy chick, tossing villains through windows?

Who is this guy?

That’s what they’re wondering.

In the room next door, the two guys were sharing a meat feast. They didn’t speak much, but at length one of them paused to say, ‘Who is this guy?’

And they both shook their heads, and carried on eating.

Claude Whelan was back in Downing Street, in one of the cubbyhole incubators. The PM had kept him waiting – not a great sign – but the time had been swallowed by a call from Di Taverner, with an update from the hub. When a funeral-suited PM arrived at last, his face was red with exertion. ‘I’m in Cabinet all morning, no time to change later. This is awfully form-fitting. It doesn’t make me look fat?’

‘I really don’t …’ Whelan made himself stop; start again. Nothing would happen until this bridge had been crossed. ‘Black is slimming.’

‘It’s supposed to be, but when I stand sideways … Tubby is a cruel word, isn’t it? But you hear whispers.’

‘You look … prime ministerial.’

He looked like a side of ham at a wedding, but nobody wanted to hear that.

‘I should get more exercise,’ the PM brooded. ‘But all the chaps I played tennis with … Well.’ His face assumed a Shakespearian cast. ‘It’s the ones who make dodgy line calls turn out to be snakes in the grass. That’s telling, don’t you think?’

‘I think we’ve more important things to discuss.’

The PM sighed theatrically. ‘You think I don’t know that?’ He undid the lowest button on his jacket and released a breath. ‘Zafar Jaffrey’s in custody. It’s still a rumour, but a true one, yes?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘I wanted to know he was a safe pair of hands, and it turns out he’s involved with some underworld fixer. Really, Claude?’ It sounded like he held Whelan responsible. ‘It’s like a bad Michael Caine movie.’

Technically, the PM was too young to remember any other kind, but now wasn’t the time.

‘Perhaps. But the Gimball news is going to eclipse everything else for today at least. As things stand, you’re ahead of the curve. Make a statement now, and it’ll be the first anyone knows about it.’

‘A statement? I don’t even know what he was up to yet. He’s what? A secret ISIS supporter? I don’t believe it, Claude, the man follows Warwickshire—’

‘It’s his brother.’

‘So his brother gets killed in Syria, which was his own stupid fault by the way, and that means Zaff, what, converts to the cause?’

‘His brother didn’t die.’

‘Oh.’

‘His brother was the reason he needed a false passport.’

‘Oh.’ The PM drew a breath in, and rebuttoned his jacket. ‘We all thought he died.’

‘His own family thought he did. Hellfire missile, drone-fired, August 2016. Young Karim wasn’t the target, but he was known to be near the impact, and there was a body unaccounted for.’ Whelan shook his head. ‘There’s a ninety-five per cent accuracy reading on these strikes. Karim fell into the five. It happens.’

‘So he what, just walked away?’

‘We don’t have the details. What we do know is, he got in touch with his older brother four months ago. In France at this point, living rough. He played the prodigal card. All he wants is his old life back, because now he’s seen what it’s like, it turns out jihad isn’t a bed of roses.’

‘Yes, well, I could have told him that. Anybody could have told him that.’

‘And Zafar agreed to help him.’