‘Office space, mostly. A few luxury apartments. But I have this thing, call it a principle. I don’t deal with Russian money.’
‘That must make you very proud.’
The small figure appeared again briefly, in the space between taller bodies. The room had filled since Lamb arrived, and Old Miles himself squeezed in now, to general hubbub. The shop had closed its door for the last time. It was a sad moment, but sad moments were to be celebrated as much as happy ones, or half the liquor in the world would go undrunk. And there were no better friends than old comrades to share such moments with. This, or something like it, formed the basis of a short speech. Cheers were attempted, and glasses raised. Through the window came another burst of chanting, as if distant strangers were old comrades too.
‘You were a joe, weren’t you?’ Smith said, once the clamour had subsided. ‘That why you’re here? You miss the old days?’
‘What I like about the old days is, they’re over,’ said Lamb.
‘And you know what? I think I’ve just worked out who you are. You’re Lamb, aren’t you? You’re Jackson Lamb.’
Lamb’s face was expressionless. But after a moment, he nodded.
‘… Ha! Jackson Lamb! If I’d known I’d be meeting a legend I’d have brought my autograph book.’
‘If I’d known this was a date I’d have freshened up.’ Lamb farted, possibly in compensation, and took a last drag of his cigarette before the tube fell from the filter, scattering a Catherine wheel of sparks across the floor. Lamb ignored every part of this process apart from the inhalation: when he breathed out again, it was as if he were conjuring a storm cloud.
Smith stepped on the small fire, extinguishing it. ‘Jackson Lamb. Didn’t you once—’
‘Whatever I did or didn’t once, I don’t now.’ He produced another cigarette. ‘Or did the whole “secret” part of Secret Service pass you by?’
Chester Smith pressed a finger to his lips. ‘Mea culpa. But imagine the awe a desk-man feels for the field agent.’
‘I’m a desk-man myself these days. And you’re, what do you call it, an investment opportunist? Property consultant? Or does wanker cover it all?’
‘Now that’s classic. “Does wanker cover it all?” Priceless. Here, let me get that.’ Producing a lighter, Smith snapped a flame into life. ‘And I’m not exactly a civilian. I lunch with Oliver Nash once a month. A club off Wigmore Street. He keeps me in the loop.’
Nash was chair of the Limitations Committee, which oversaw the Service’s spend, so technically kept Diana Taverner on a leash. It was no surprise he dined off the stories that came his way. He was every joe’s nightmare: a career bureaucrat with an operational veto.
Lamb said, ‘How very considerate of him. Does he print a newsletter, or just use a megaphone?’
The lighter went back in Smith’s pocket. He said, ‘You know your Service carried out an assassination last month?’
‘Megaphone it is, then.’
‘One of the GRU creeps involved in that Novichok business. Whacked her on home turf, somewhere in the Volga. That’s what I call taking it to the enemy.’ He swirled his empty glass. ‘Word is, Putin’s spitting teeth.’
‘He’s always spitting teeth. If not his own, someone else’s.’
‘You sure you couldn’t squeeze a small one out of that?’
‘I hate freeloaders.’ But Lamb poured a tiny amount into the proffered glass, once he’d made sure his own was full.
‘Thank you.’ Smith toasted the picture on the dartboard, and broke softly into song. ‘“Rah-rah-rah Putin, homicidal Russian queen.” Gay porn lost a superstar when he went into despotism, right? Could have been the new Joe Dallesandro.’
Lamb grunted.
‘That man he tried to have poisoned. Here in England.’
‘What about him?’
‘He was a swapped spy. Out of the game. He—’
‘I know how it works,’ said Lamb. ‘I’m not the fucking janitor.’
‘But welcome to the brave new order, eh? No holds barred. Don’t get me wrong, three cheers for Lady Di. I mean, I’m all for peace and love and all that, but only once the body count’s even. Otherwise we run the risk of being Russia’s bunny.’ He swallowed his drink in a single draught. It’s possible that sarcasm was intended. ‘I’m sure he’ll have rolled a head or two back home, won’t he? The Kremlin’s Gay Hussar. Assigned some locals to Siberia. What you might call the Naughty Steppes.’ He glanced slyly at Lamb saying this. ‘But that won’t be enough, will it? The Park carried the fight to him, he’ll bring it on back. Couldn’t look his photographer in the face otherwise.’
‘Well, you carry right on not selling him flats. That’ll take the wind out his sails.’
‘Wouldn’t be surprised if he weren’t behind that lot, come to think of it.
