“Is the survival of this Service.” She pointed out towards the hub. “Westacres happened. There’s nothing we can do about that. But we’ve stopped similar things happening in the past, and we’ll do so again in the future. Provided we’re allowed to. Provided we maintain what trust is still out there.”
“There’s not an awful lot of that about,” Whelan said, indicating the TV.
“There’ll always be those pointing fingers. But the vast majority? They trust us to keep them safe. Because if they didn’t, they wouldn’t be doing what they do—getting on trains, walking down streets, visiting shops. They’d be holed up in their bedrooms, living off canned food and bottled water. That’s the measure of our success, Claude. That the country still leads a normal life, even while we bury the dead.”
“I’m not sure Marketing’ll approve that as a slogan.” He closed the laptop. It was good to have these visible punctuation marks: without them, conversations might go on forever. “What are you suggesting we do?”
“The obvious. We have an armed terrorist on the streets, accompanied by a rogue agent. They present a clear and present danger to the populace.”
“You want me to issue a shoot-to-kill order.”
“Well there’s no point shooting to wound. People would only get hurt.”
“Diana—”
“It’s what I’d be suggesting even if it weren’t for the . . . additional aspects of the situation.”
“But it would certainly suit our interests if this pair were dead, and unavailable for interrogation,” he said. “Except young Cartwright’s not exactly rogue, is he? I mean—”
“His actions have been unwarranted, unauthorised, and he’s been involved in a violent death. We can argue semantics if you like, but nothing he’s done today has improved his CV. Which was already less than exemplary.”
“Still—”
“And we have reason to believe his grandfather made possible one of the worst ever terrorist outrages on British soil.”
“Hardly the grandson’s fault.”
“So why has he been hiding him?”
“We’re not likely to find out if we have him gunned down in the street.”
“And if he’s allowed to talk, then the media coverage we’ve seen so far is going to look like a PR script. This is a turning point, Claude. It’s not just your career that’ll be over. And mine. It’s the Service as we know it. Which is imperfect, sure, and sometimes slow to respond, but we can make those things better—you and I. But not if this fiasco becomes public. If that happens, we’ll have nothing to build on. Because there’ll be no trust and no public belief. It’ll all be buried under the Westacres rubble.”
If Taverner hadn’t been here, he’d have reached for his wife’s photo. Would have found strength in that contact, even though she would never agree to what was being offered him: a swift way out of a situation not of his making. But then, he had been here before, hadn’t he? He had found his way out of corners in ways that Claire wouldn’t have approved of. Corners she hadn’t known he’d been in.
“What about David Cartwright?” he said at last.
“He’ll turn up eventually. But it’s not like he’s going to be making any sense. No, this is our chance to make everything go away. And it’s not even a push, Claude. It’s a nudge. The Met will be going in heavy-mannered whatever recommendations you make.”
“I can’t give instructions to the police force.”
“But you can make a call to the PM.”
He could feel it sliding out of his reach, any sense that he had a choice in what was about to happen.
“Young Cartwright is not an enemy of the state.”
“If he’s discovered what his grandfather did, then he very likely is. Because that would mean he has information that can do serious—irreparable—damage to the Service. And if that doesn’t make him an enemy of the state, I don’t know what would.”
It had been hours, he thought, since she had referred to the sword she’d left dangling over his head; the false information he’d fed COBRA. Instead, she wanted him to find his own way to the decision she’d placed in front of him.
If he did what she wanted, he’d be bound forever in her coils.
If he didn’t, she’d throw him to the wolves.
With a wash of nostalgia, he remembered life across the river, where the worst he had to contend with was the passive-aggressive needling of his fellow weasels.
He said, “This isn’t right.”
“Maybe not the right thing to do. But it’s the right decision to make.”
Nothing in her demeanour, he thought, indicated that she’d ever had a moment’s self-doubt in her life.
Keeping his face as expressionless as possible, Claude Whelan reached for the phone.
A police car flashed past, or didn’t; the sky growled dramatically, or held its breath. Mermaids might have risen from the Thames, and the dazzle ship taken to the air. Probably all that happened, though, was the rain. If asked to reconstruct the moment later, that’s all River would have been able to swear to.
“. . . What did you say?”
“You heard me, River. I’m your father.”
“My
“You want to hear it in a Darth Vader voice?”
River didn’t want to hear it at all.
