A barge was puttering down the Thames, rubbish piled high in its middle, and there were seagulls all over it, a great boiling mass of them, arguing and scrapping for riches. Earth has not anything to show more fair. For Diana Taverner, it looked like politics as usual. She was waiting by a railing near the Globe, on a stretch of pavement which fell neatly into a CCTV blind spot, so highly prized by those aware of the fact. It was before ten, and while once pedestrian traffic would have been at a lull, all decent citizens at their jobs, now there were streams of people passing, a good proportion of them plugged into Smartphone and Tablet, working on the move. From a distance, there’d be little to choose between the upbeat rat-a-tat of their mobile conferencing and the screaming of the gulls, which was heading downriver now, and might make it as far as the sea. She checked her watch: two minutes to the hour. And then Emma Flyte was there, one gloved hand on the railing, an immaculate profile taking in the view: the City, draped in the beauty of the morning.
A garment unsuitable for the season, today being wet and cold.
“News?” asked Diana.
Flyte said, “He’s still missing.”
“Wonderful. How old is he, ninety?”
“Not quite.” She paused. “Someone’s reported a stolen car. About a mile away.”
“You think he could walk a mile?”
“I’m told he’s an old bastard,” said Flyte. “They tend to be tough.”
“Who said that?”
“Jackson Lamb.”
“Ah.” For some reason, whenever Lamb came up in conversation Diana felt a reflexive need to smoke. “The thing about Jackson is, he gives lessons to corkscrews. If he tells you the right time, it’s because he’s just stolen your watch.”
“I’ve heard similar said of you,” said Flyte in a level tone.
Taverner regarded her. Emma Flyte shouldn’t be in the Service, she should be on a catwalk—that was the kind of judgment the Park’s dinosaurs were prone to passing when a perfect ten hoved into view. But seriously: Christ. Watching her hail a taxi must be like seeing the flag drop on a chariot race. Which didn’t earn her any latitude with Lady Di, but it was interesting to note she had moxie to go with her looks. “Yes, but when it’s said of me it’s a compliment,” she said.
“I know.”
Okay, that was better.
She conquered the nicotine twitch, because it never did to show weakness early in the game, and while Diana Taverner had been playing for some while, the game always started anew when fresh blood joined. She had yet to work out whether Flyte was a team player, let alone whose team she was on. In part, that was what this meeting was for. And team player or not, Flyte had worked that much out for herself, because now she said, “You didn’t bring me here just for a heads-up on the Cartwright mess.”
“No.”
“So what is it you wanted?”
Which wasn’t quite the tone Diana had been hoping for, but was at least a start. A pawn shifted out there, front and centre. She’d never learned the notation, but she knew what the object was: to hang, draw and quarter the opposition’s king.
She said, “Giti Rahman.”
“She’s one of your girls.”
“On the hub, that’s right.”
One of the brightest and the best, in fact; an appraisal she had confirmed a little less than three hours previously. Currently she was taking some crash-time in one of the Park’s sleeping pods, or Diana hoped he was. Where she wanted Giti Rahman to be right now was dreamland, because the information she’d uncovered was such that the Park itself might come crashing round their ears if she was awake and broadcasting it.
Flyte said, “What about her?”
“I need her taken care of.”
The barge, some hundred yards downriver now, let out a whistle; a curiously jaunty note for what was basically a waterborne dustbin. The gulls ballooned away, scrambled for purchase in the air, then renewed their cackling onslaught.
“I’m going to have to ask you to be a little more specific.”
“Good grief, what on earth do you think I’m asking?”
“I’m not about to speculate, Ms. Taverner. I simply want to be sure that whatever it is, you have the authority to ask me to do it, and I’m going to be comfortable carrying it out.”
“How very extraordinary,” Diana said smoothly, though it was in fact useful to have the parameters clarified. “I wasn’t aware that I had to meet your standards when issuing instructions. I’d better check your terms and conditions. Better check my own, in fact. No, what I had in mind was a C&C.”
Collect-and-Comfort, in the jargon. Meaning scoop up and isolate, and cause no harm in doing so.
“If that doesn’t offend your code of ethics, obviously,” she added.
Flyte wouldn’t be drawn on that. “Where?”
“The Dogs have their own safe house, I believe.”
“Several,” said Flyte. “Where is she now?”
“In a sleeping pod. Wake her up, dust her down, and get her off the premises before you put the mufflers on. I don’t want anyone knowing she’s in your hands.”
“How long for?”
“Until I say otherwise.”
“I’ll need overtime authorised.”
“The budget will stretch. One of the advantages of being on red alert.”
