None of which went through Whelan’s mind as they shook hands. They hadn’t seen each other in years, but neither had changed much, and if Whelan wouldn’t have gone so far as to say Nash was the shape he’d chosen for himself he was certainly the shape he was, and that was as much thought as Whelan had ever given the matter.
“How are you, Claude?”
He was fine.
“And can I tempt you to an almond croissant?”
No. He was a fallible man, and wouldn’t claim otherwise, but he’d never had a sweet tooth.
Nash didn’t pretend to regret having already ordered two. Coffee, likewise, was on its way: “Americano without, yes?” He had a memory for such things, heaven knew how. To the best of Whelan’s recall—they had been colleagues, of a sort, once—Nash spent half his life taking meetings, drinking coffee with others. He surely couldn’t recall everyone’s taste in beverage.
They chatted until their drinks came. Though not one of life’s small talkers, Whelan found this undemanding: Nash could provide both halves of a conversation if it proved necessary, and sometimes when it didn’t. The patisserie wasn’t crowded, and anyway held only half the tables it once had. On the nearest one, an abandoned newspaper revealed that the PM had just shared his vision of post-Brexit Britain as a scientific powerhouse, its trillion-pound tech industry the envy of the world. They chuckled over this, and drank coffee, and Nash put away a croissant without apparently noticing doing so, and at last said, “You’re a busy man,” which was the correct formula: nobody likes to be told they have nothing much to do. “But I have a favour to ask.”
Whelan nodded, hoping this wouldn’t be misinterpreted as a willingness to carry out the favour, but knowing it probably would. Hard to deny it: he was a soft touch. Not a busy man, either. He had things to do, but not enough to keep him occupied.
Besides, stopping Nash from continuing would have taken heavy machinery. This was odd, or ought to have been—Nash’s role in the Service wasn’t operational, but it was senior: he was chair of the Limitations Committee, which among other things imposed fiscal restraint on the Service, and might thus be assumed to warrant discretion, if not downright secrecy, an assumption for which you could probably find legal backing if you waded through the paperwork. But Nash seemed blithely unaware of the fact. To be in his company for more than two minutes was to learn three things about four other people, as someone had once remarked, and it hadn’t been meant as a criticism.
Whelan raised his coffee cup, noticed it was empty, and put it down again.
Nash said, “I shouldn’t say this. But you were requested by name.”
Whelan supposed that was better than being hailed like a passing taxi. Nash, meanwhile, was waggling his eyebrows in a way that indicated the request came from above. He presumably hadn’t been receiving messages from God, so Whelan settled on the next rung down. “Diana Taverner?”
He found it impossible to keep the disbelief from his voice.
Nash found it equally difficult. “Good heavens, no. Ha! No no no.”
“So, then—”
“I doubt you’ve entered her mind since she saw you off the premises, to be honest.” There was something innocent about Nash’s lack of tact. It was as if he’d learned it from watching talent shows. “No, I was referring to Number Ten.”
“The PM?”
“Well, I say Number Ten. But the PM isn’t exactly hands on, is he? Got enough to do with all his . . .” Nash tailed off, as if the task in view, that of explaining what it was that the PM spent most of his time doing, was too daunting to wrestle with. “No, I meant Sparrow. You know. The PM’s, ah . . .”
“His special adviser.”
“Quite.”
As the PM’s enforcer, Sparrow wasn’t as high profile as his predecessor had been—it would have been challenging to maintain that level of unpopularity without barbecuing an infant on live television—but those in the know recognised him as a homegrown Napoleon: nasty, British and short. Whelan had never met him, but that Sparrow was aware of him was only mildly surprising. A spad would be expected to know who was who, and as one-time First Desk at Regent’s Park, Whelan had been a who in his time.
“And what exactly is it that Mr. Sparrow thinks I might be suited for?”
“He’s concerned for the whereabouts of an associate of his.”
“An associate?”
“That was the word he used. A woman called Sophie de Greer. Doctor. Of the academic variety. She was a member of this think tank Sparrow runs, an advisory body. Something to do with policy initiatives? He was vague on the details.”