“You’re up to something.”
He said, “Wheel de Greer before Limitations, she’ll spike Sparrow’s guns, but she’ll also spill everything else she knows. Including about Rasnokov having an understudy.”
“And?”
“And Limitations leaks like a Catholic condom. So you’ll blow Rasnokov’s game, and in a month or two we can light candles for him. But keep her quiet, let him get away with it, and you’ve got a former Moscow First Desk in hiding from his ex-employers, who won’t bother changing the locks on their filing cabinets because they’ll think he’s dead. You’ll own him, body and soul, and all his secrets will still be current.”
“Own him? We don’t even know where he’ll end up.”
“We’ve got his understudy’s body. And we’re supposed to be an intelligence service. How difficult can it be?”
“Do you really want me to quantify that?”
“I want you to show some balls. And instead of fighting all your battles in your own backyard, try taking on some real enemies.” He’d finagled another cigarette from somewhere, and inserted it, unlit, between his lips. Having a cigarette in his mouth had never prevented Lamb from speaking. If it had, most of his lines would go unread. “And don’t worry about Sparrow. He’s just a Westminster chancer, and he’s grown used to the people he’s stabbed in the back pissing off to run a bank. Instead of rearranging his prospects with a shovel and some plastic sheeting.”
Light dawned, if not through the curtained window. “The Ultras,” Diana said.
“My my, Nash has been earning his pastry allowance. Yes, the Ultras. Seems Sparrow gets his kicks playing soldiers in the woods with the big boys. Which makes them prime candidates for the secret army he drafted to trash the San.”
“De Greer told you this?”
“She kept a black book on her erstwhile employer. Whose dubious contacts include a Soho charmer name of Benito. Have you got a light, by the way?”
“What is this, a suicide pact? I’m not striking a match in here.”
“Chicken.” He paddled about beneath his own bulk, and when his hands reappeared, one was holding a plastic lighter. “And Benito’s the sort of ally it’s best to avoid upsetting.”
He punctuated this with a click of his lighter. The effect would have been more impressive if he’d produced a flame.
“You think he’ll want payback for tonight’s farce.”
“Like I said, Sparrow’s used to those he tramples on muttering darkly and exiting stage left. I don’t think these boys’ll go quietly.” He clicked the lighter again, this time with success. Applying the flame to his cigarette, he said, “Neither does de Greer. And she’s the fortune-teller.”
She said, “So that’s why you let her go? On condition she throws Sparrow under a hooligan bus?”
“Any objection?”
“You’re assuming this Benito won’t decide that sticking with Sparrow’s a better bet than payback. He’s virtually running the country, after all.”
He said, “We’re talking football fans, Diana. Not the type to change sides.”
“What did you promise her?”
“That you’d let her walk away. Rasnokov’s not the only one who’d like a little distance between himself and the king of the Kremlin.”
“Christ. You’ve become an idealist in your old age, is that it? Help the joes get away, no matter whose joes they are.”
“Well, exit pursued by a bear,” said Lamb. “I seem to recall what that’s like.”
She thought for a while. “Does Bachelor know about this?”
“Too much information would only confuse him.”
“But he went with her?”
“Well I wasn’t keeping him here.” Lamb drained his glass. “I strongly suspect the man has a drinking problem.”
She thought for a while. “I haven’t forgotten,” she said, “that the only reason de Greer knows about Rasnokov’s scheme is that you let her stay in the room while you told me about it.”
His hand made a wavering motion, causing smoke to spiral and squirt towards the ceiling.
“And anyway, what happens if you’re both wrong?” asked Diana. “And Sparrow’s more persuasive than you give him credit for? It’s both our careers you’re gambling with.”
“Yeah,” said Lamb. “But only one of them’s worth anything.”