This was good news, but prompted a follow-up. ‘So what are you on about?’
Hobden said, ‘Five’s running an op. I’ve known about it for a while. Or not known about it, exactly—known something was going to happen, but not precisely what.’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake. Start making sense.’
‘I was at the Frontline. One night last year.’
‘They still let you in?’
A flash of anger. ‘I’ve paid my subs.’ He finished his vodka, held the glass out for more. ‘Diana Taverner was there, with one of her leftie journalist pals.’
‘I’ve never been sure what disturbs me more,’ Peter Judd said, filling Hobden’s glass. ‘The fact that MI5 is run by women, or the fact that everybody seems to know this. I mean, didn’t it used to be called the secret service?’
Pretty sure he’d heard this riff already, probably on a panel show, Hobden ignored it. ‘It was the night of the Euro elections, and there’d been BNP gains. Remember that?’
‘Well, of course I do.’
‘And that was the subject of discussion. This hack, Spencer his name is, got rolling drunk, started spewing off the usual nonsense about how the fascists were taking over, and when were Taverner’s lot going to start doing something about it. And she said …’
Here Hobden screwed his eyes shut while summoning up history.
‘Something like yes, that’s under control. Or on the agenda. Christ, I don’t remember the exact words, but she gave him to understand it was
‘She said this in your hearing?’
‘They didn’t know I was there.’
‘Second Desk at MI5 announced her intention to sting the BNP, to sting the right, and this happened in a
‘They were drunk, okay? Look, it happened. Is happening. Haven’t you seen the news?’ PJ eyed him coldly. ‘The kid in the cellar?’
‘I know what you’re referring to. You’re saying that’s it? That’s a Service op?’
‘Well, it’s a big bloody coincidence, don’t you think? That I’m being hassled the same week it happens, that somebody tries to kill me the same day—’
‘If it is,’ PJ said, ‘it’s the single most cack-handed intelligence operation I’ve ever heard of, and that includes the Bay of fucking Pigs.’ He glanced down at the bottle in his hands, then hunted around for a second glass. The nearest candidate was an unrinsed stem, waiting by the sink. He poured a slug into it, and put the bottle down. ‘Is this why you were calling?’
‘What do you think?’
PJ slapped him hard, the noise ricocheting round the kitchen. ‘Don’t talk back to me, you little creep. Remember who’s who. You’re a one-time journalist whose name stinks from here to Timbuktu. And I’m a member of Her Majesty’s loyal cabinet.’ He examined his wet shirt cuff. ‘And now you’ve made me spill my drink.’
Hobden, his voice as shaky as a pea in a whistle, said, ‘You
‘Yes, well. Tempers running high. Oh, for God’s sake.’
He poured more vodka into Hobden’s glass. Hobden was a toad, but not an ignorant toad. It had been a mistake to forget that. Still, though: PJ was furious. ‘You were calling me because you think this this this piece of
‘Somebody had to know. Who was I supposed to call?’
‘Not me.’
‘We’ve known each other for years—’
‘We are not friends, Robert. Don’t make that mistake. You always treated me fairly in print, and I respect that, but let’s face it, you’re a fucking has-been, and it’s no longer appropriate to be associated with you. So take it somewhere else.’
‘Where do you suggest?’
‘Well, your chums in the British Patriotic Party spring to mind.’
The red weal PJ’s hand had left on Hobden’s cheek darkened. ‘Chums? My chums? When that list appeared on the net, who do you think they blamed? Half the death threats I get come from people I supported! As far as they were concerned, if it weren’t for me, they’d have been left alone. Because we all know who was responsible for posting that list. The same bunch of leftish criminals who’re hassling me now!’
‘Maybe so. But I’m still not sure why that means you have to turn up on my doorstep in the middle of the night—’
‘Because this has got to be stopped,’ Hobden said.
Lamb said, ‘Talk.’ Then flicked a lighter in front of Taverner’s face like a threat.
She leant forward for the flame. Her seventh of the day: drawing smoke into her lungs was growing familiar. She breathed out. Said, ‘Do you ever wonder why we do what we do?’
‘Taverner, it’s after two, and my team’s smaller than it was yesterday. Let’s get on with it, all right?’
‘There’ve been fifteen failed terrorist plots since 7/7, Jackson. That must be true. I read it in the paper.’
‘Good for us.’
‘It was on page eleven, below the fold.’
Lamb said, ‘If you wanted to be famous, maybe the secret service wasn’t the right path.’
‘This isn’t about me.’
