Judd’s TV appearances hadn’t diminished in number since he’d left office, a career turn some commenters had described as his fall from grace. But grace wasn’t something he’d ever aspired to, and its absence hadn’t hindered him. Besides, the notion that he was a spent force only held weight if you heeded the current wisdom, and wisdom was no longer an asset when making political predictions. The paths to power of current world leaders – paths including conspiracy to assault, knee-jerk racism, indeterminate fecundity and cheating at golf – were so askew from the traditional routes that only an idiot would have dared forecast future developments. It wasn’t unfitting, then, that Judd’s popularity as a political pundit continued. Judd might not have been an idiot himself, but his core supporters were a different story.
She was in her office, its glass wall frosted for privacy. On the hub, the night crew was settling into business, prepared to respond to the routine emergencies of national security. One of these, she considered, was even now unfolding: Judd had gone ahead with what he’d hinted at, and was throwing his weight behind the Yellow Vest movement. There were those who’d regard this as tantamount to pitching in with the Nazi party. But then, Nazis had a lot of support these days. That old thing about learning from the past didn’t always mean studying monstrous historical movements to ensure they never happened again. It could indicate an intention to perfect their trajectories, in the hope that they’d triumph next time.
Along with Judd’s hint had come veiled threats.
And when you’d painted yourself into a corner, it was best to let the paint dry before leaving the room.
Earlier that afternoon, she’d had a meeting with the Ops team, one of whose ongoing low-level engagements was infiltration of the Yellow Vest movement: nothing too significant; a couple of youngsters distributing leaflets, stacking chairs and generally making themselves useful. An eyes-on approach, with the potential to upgrade to dicks-out if the situation demanded. But Diana had announced that she was pulling the plug.
Others around the table had exchanged puzzled looks.
‘Is that wise? All signs suggest that the movement’s gaining ground, not withering away.’
‘And we have a tightrope to walk,’ Diana said. ‘Our remit is security, and that doesn’t include an overzealous policing of dissenting voices.’
‘But—’
‘I wasn’t inviting discussion. I was stating strategy.’
‘If you say so.’
‘I’m pretty certain I do. I’m pretty certain this is me, doing just that.’
The mood had brightened when she’d gone on to outline the new funding, but the instruction had left her feeling treacherous, and she’d been glad when the meeting was over. A necessary move, though. It would give her a little breathing space while she decided what to do about Judd, about Cantor too. That a decision would be reached, a solution found, was a given. She’d wandered into the briar patch, true, but she hadn’t lasted this long at the Park without learning to trust her abilities. Even unelected, Judd remained a big beast in the political jungle. But Diana had done her growing up on Spook Street, where big beasts numbered among the daily kill.
He moved fast, though, she’d give him that. She hadn’t expected him to be putting down a public marker so swiftly. On the other hand, if it turned out he’d made a catastrophic error of judgement in backing Desmond Flint, he’d deal with it in his usual fashion: by pretending it hadn’t happened. It was astonishing how obediently the public trotted along after him when he did this.
Josie had interrupted her contemplation just before the shift change.
‘You were asking about Thomas Doyle. Recent hire with the Dogs.’
‘Yes.’
‘He’s left us already.’
‘That was quick.’
‘He came to the end of his probationary period. There were question marks, like that episode with Molly Doran, but he’d probably have passed if he’d made the right noises. But he evidently didn’t want to. Handed his notice in.’
‘I see.’
‘Do you want me to follow up?’
Diana said, ‘Send me his file. Such as it is.’
‘Of course. And there’s an update on that death by fire outside Leicester. The former Park agent. I’ll send that too.’
‘Please do.’
When Josie left, she’d switched the news on, surfing her way to Channel Go from the more serious bulletins. And now she’d switched it off, having caught Judd’s contribution.
Emails from Josie were in her box: Tommo Doyle’s file, and a news report on the death of one Struan Loy.
