Louisa said, ‘And you know who this someone is?’
‘His proxy was a Dog called Tommo Doyle. But the man himself’s some kind of media playboy. Like a Bond villain, without the cool name.’
‘Which is …?’
‘Damien Cantor.’ He looked at Ho. ‘Box of tricks all powered up, is it?’
‘Always,’ said Roddy.
‘Except when it isn’t, you mean. Okay, go fetch me Damien Cantor.’
Roddy looked momentarily confused.
‘Information relating to him,’ Catherine explained.
‘And tell him to be quick about it,’ Lamb said.
But Roddy didn’t need that translated, and shuffled off to his laptop.
‘I’ve read about Cantor,’ Catherine said. ‘He’s the Channel Go man. Pegged as the new Branson.’
‘Haven’t we suffered enough?’
‘He wields a lot of influence.’
‘And tried to buy more by selling Slough House.’ Lamb found another cigarette. ‘So pardon me if I don’t rush to take out a subscription, or whatever you have to do to watch the fucking telly these days.’
‘Does Taverner know he sold us out?’ Louisa asked.
‘Yeah, but he’s currently got her bollocks in a mangle. And she hasn’t worked out what to do about that yet.’
Catherine said, ‘If Diana Taverner’s been compromised, she’s not fit for office.’
‘And if being compromised got you the sack, we’d have vacant desks from here to Number Ten,’ said Lamb. ‘Not that that’s a bad idea. But I barely have time for a quiet smoke, never mind cleaning the orgiastic stables.’ He adopted a martyred expression, lit his cigarette, and – presumably out of habit – threw the lighter over his shoulder. It disappeared through the open window. ‘So let’s deal with one bastard at a time, shall we?’
‘Oliver Nash is chair of Limitations,’ Catherine persisted. ‘We should talk to him.’
‘Nash is a bureaucrat. If I want my bins emptied, he’s who I’d trust to put the bin-emptying contract out to tender. But Taverner goes to the mats, which is what you want First Desk to do. And besides, we’ve had our moments.’
‘Didn’t she once try to have you killed?’
‘I didn’t say they were good moments.’
Looking up, Roddy Ho said, importantly, ‘Cantor lives in the Needle.’
Louisa, who had memories of the Needle, said ‘Lives there?’
‘It’s where his offices are. But he’s got an apartment too.’
‘It’s like having my own personal Yellow Pages,’ said Lamb. ‘Or, you know. Just Pages in his case.’
‘So what exactly do you have in mind?’ Catherine asked. ‘Bearding him in his den?’
‘Isn’t bearding when you marry the Earl of Wessex? He’d probably sooner I killed him.’
‘If you’re planning a murder, the rest of us are leaving. I mean it.’
‘And there’s that moral high ground you love.’ Lamb reached for the whisky Lech had furnished, which he had received with the grace of a minor royal being offered a turd. ‘Must be cold up there. Explains the late-onset frigidity. Does he have family?’
Ho said, ‘Married, two boys. But they live in Hove. He lives here, mostly.’
‘Sensible man. Well, I say sensible. But cutting deals with Russian intelligence? What’s he doing, running for office?’ He uncapped the bottle. ‘No, I plan to reach out to our Mr Cantor. Let him know he’s playing with the big boys.’ For a moment he studied the whisky’s label, frowning, as if troubled by the ordeal ahead. Then he tipped the bottle and poured a glassful into his waiting mouth.
That done, he said: ‘And as it happens, I’ve just the man for the job.’
CAREFUL EDITING MADE IT seem heroic: Desmond Flint, approaching the mob swarming Oxford Circus.
Police were massing on the approach roads, but focusing their attention on calming traffic, rather than crowd dispersal. Nor had there been violence, broken window aside. But there was noise and heat and movement; that mixture of anger and unwarranted triumph that can turn a pub quiz into a war zone. From a distance, it wasn’t clear where the lines had been drawn. A bus driver had opened his door to engage in what might have been debate, might have been an exchange of threats: it was hard to tell. But what was certain was that this was an interim stage, a balancing act; as in any other circus, a tightrope was being walked. And one slippery moment might bring the tent down.
So into the spotlight walked Desmond Flint. His first steps seemed hesitant, but something changed the nearer he drew, as if he appreciated that the next few moments would define him ever after. He’d never be mistaken for Gary Cooper – he was a man for whom ‘match ready’ meant a fridge full of beer and a new battery in the remote – but he walked taller the last twenty yards, his strides longer. He developed purpose.
