The woman three rows ahead had apparently lost herself in prayer. Or perhaps she had simply given up hope of silencing the background murmur.
“The Grey Books,” mused Lamb. “That’s the creepy shit, right?”
“We’re an intelligence service, Mr. Lamb. We keep records on everything. Even, as you call it, the creepy shit.”
“And now this tiger, whoever he is, wants a peek.” Lamb fished the cigarette from behind his ear, glared at it, and put it back. “And all he has in his corner is Standish. Does he seriously think he can use her as a lever?”
Tearney said, “We value our operatives. It’s a moral imperative that we safeguard them from harm.”
“Yeah. Besides, if you give him what he wants, you’re putting Peter Judd’s balls in a vice.”
“You have a gift for the pithy phrase.”
“So I’ve been told.”
Tearney’s own gift was for serenity, it seemed. Talking low, indecipherable to anyone more than a whisper away, her expression had barely changed throughout their discussion. A witchy figure, it was often said, but that wasn’t a view Lamb subscribed to. Witches got under your skin. Dame Ingrid was more witches’ ground staff: she’d keep the broomsticks in order, though you couldn’t trust her not to sabotage them if she felt it was in her interests.
Now she said, “It’s not my policy to bow to hostile demands, but it seems the simplest course in the circumstances. The material this man’s after is worthless. Once he has his hands on it, and your agent has been released unharmed, he’ll be taken care of.”
But Lamb was following his own thread, and wasn’t about to let it get tangled with hers. “Of course,” he said, “it’ll have to be under the bridge, won’t it? Here’s Judd, sanctioning an attack on his own Service that ends with his old mucker dead and a tiger team off the leash. Assist in a cover-up, and you’re a co-conspirator. But let the tigers get away with it, that puts Judd deeper in the shit.”
“You have an agile mind, Mr. Lamb. I don’t think anyone ever denied that.”
“And it’ll be that special bespoke shit. The kind only you know where the shovel is.” He leaned heavily back against the bench. “Long story short,” he said, “that’s why I’m missing my takeaway. You want my crew to deliver the goods to this guy. Off the books. To make sure you’ve got the Home Secretary where you want him.”
“Well, it is one of your own you’ll be rescuing. Besides,” Tearney said, “there’s something appropriate about your, ah,
“Yeah, I know they do,” said Lamb. He scratched his thinning hair, then examined his fingernails suspiciously. When he’d finished, he said, “Judd’s man wasn’t the only one using Slough House as a drain rod.”
“Given the nature of the operation, I can hardly order you to undertake it.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Though if you decide you’d rather not play ball, your department will be history by this time tomorrow.”
“Please. Don’t tempt me.”
He leaned forward, ran a finger round his neck, peered at it, and wiped it on his trousers. Then he looked at Dame Ingrid.
“I assume we’ll be collecting the material without the cooperation of those currently holding it?”
She nodded.
“Still. In the current climate, that’ll probably be workfare teenagers or rent-a-cop has-beens.”
“Either way, it’s a live operation and you play by the rules. Your first priority is ensuring that this man acquires what he wants without drawing undue attention.”
“Just so we’re clear on this,” Lamb said. “My first priority is bringing my joe home.”
He held her stare until she looked down and fiddled with the clasp on her bag, prior to departure.
“And put Cartwright in a taxi,” Lamb added.
“He can catch a bus,” were her final words.
He didn’t watch as she left St. Giles but remained facing the altar. The cigarette had reappeared in his hand, remarkably unbent given its travels, and he rolled it between his fingers as he sat. It was true what he’d told Tearney, he didn’t spend much time in churches, but he’d set fire to one once, way back when, behind the Curtain—he recalled the acrid taste of woodsmoke on his tongue, the way it had roiled upwards into the Soviet dark, melting the falling snow. How long do memories last? This one had been with him half his life, and carried on for what seemed like minutes. That noise, that bang, was the first of the rifle shots, as the soldiers realised what he’d done. And then it was merely a book slapping the floor, dropped by one of the elderly readers browsing the paperbacks.
His mobile rang, and the old woman looked round in fury.
“Sorry,” he mouthed. “Booty call.”
He slipped the cigarette between his lips as he left the church, phone trembling in his hand.
Back at Slough House, the natives were restless.
