He said, “That’s the nature of the Westminster village. We all bump elbows with some we’d sooner avoid.”
Sparrow received this with his customary lack of expression.
“The Westminster village. Curious to take pride in its parochial nature, don’t you think?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Her associations aside, Taverner’s support for Number Ten has been underwhelming. I’d prefer First Desk to display a little more enthusiasm for the government she serves.”
It did not escape Nash that it was a first-person preference Sparrow was stating.
He said, “If this is to sound me out about a possible, ah, move towards a replacement, I’d remind you that Number Ten has traditionally relied on the guidance of the Limitations Committee in such matters. And as its chair, I have to say Diana commands the Committee’s respect. She can be abrasive, yes, but there’s no reason to question her commitment to the government of the day.”
“Very loyal. But as you say, Number Ten’s reliance on the Committee’s judgement is a matter of tradition. And tradition doesn’t rank highly with myself or the PM. It’s a drag on progress.”
“Some might say—”
“Any such removal would be part of a larger reorganisation. First Desk has a ring to it, but overstates the case. His or her role is simply to carry out policy and instructions delivered by Number Ten. As for the Committee, I see that as being streamlined, but with more responsibility accruing. The PM himself, or one of his advisers, would attend meetings designed to formulate overall policies. The chair would then inform First Desk of instructions arising. Which would lessen the possibility of the Service involving itself in adventures detrimental to the government’s larger aims.”
“Such a structure might overlook—”
“And there’d be no debate about removing Taverner from office, since she’d resign sooner than suffer what she’d see as a demotion. So you don’t need worry about a conflict of loyalties.”
“。 . . Conflict?”
“You’ll be required to stay on as chair for the foreseeable future. I assume that’s what you want?”
Phrased, thought Nash, as if he had been plotting his own advancement.
Sparrow was observing him, head tilted to one side as if in homage to his avian namesake, so he nodded. “When do you plan to announce these changes?”
“I’m sure the moment will present itself. Meanwhile, there’s another matter. As it happens, not entirely unconnected.” He had gone on to lay out the problem of his missing superforecaster, and the role Nash might play in resolving this.
When his main course arrived, it was soundtracked by a roar of approval from the kitchen: a goal, Nash assumed. Certainly his waiter seemed less morose. He paused long enough to assure himself that Nash had noticed the plate in front of him, and then went back through the swing doors, which flapped in his wake, a diminishing series of farewell gestures. Nash speared a garlicky prawn, delivered it to his mouth, and for a moment all other concerns disappeared. Food was a form of magic. But his meal diminished with every mouthful, and before he had finished, the spectre of Sparrow was rematerialising: Deeply out of place here, as much so as Nash himself, and that was the question, wasn’t it? What on earth had drawn Anthony Sparrow to this obscure eatery?
It had been a little over a week ago that Nash had seen him on Wardour Street, mid-evening; satchel on his back and walking with purpose. Nash had been browsing in Foyle’s before heading for a club on Shaftesbury Avenue, but spurred by mischief and the possibility of intrigue had changed direction. The adventure lasted less than a minute, Sparrow turning off the main drag almost as soon as Nash had spotted him, and heading for this restaurant. But instead of the front door he had used the entrance marked for deliveries, which Nash now assumed led into the kitchen. At the time, he had walked on past, abuzz. The notion that he’d stumbled on a secret dining hole, frequented by a Downing Street elite, was a rare prize, a morsel he could dine off for weeks. But care would be needed. Sparrow wanted to be feared, and didn’t mind being hated. He wouldn’t take kindly to having his secrets unearthed.
What was already widely known about him was bad enough. That he was a “disruptor,” a self-described architect of the new future. That it was his habit to call fake news on anything showing himself or the government in a bad light. That it was also his habit to proclaim fake news a good thing, since it forced people to question what they heard. That such contradictions allowed him to claim victory in every argument. That he appeared to be running the country, with half the cabinet terrified of him, and the rest scared stiff. That when Number Ten boasted of approaching glories, it was Sparrow’s pipe dreams the prime minister was passively smoking. That it wouldn’t end well.