Sparrow knew this because he’d read it on a blog, or written it on his own. Or both—the distance between the two was measured in how long it took to cut and paste.
But besides all that, Sophie had been a true believer—a Brexit fluffer, giving the PM a No-Deal stiffy when it looked like one was needed—and had fervently supported Sparrow’s aim of removing any latent traces of autonomy from the major Whitehall offices. In particular, Regent’s Park: history, she’d pointed out, was littered with examples of heads of secret services becoming heads of state, both the USA and the USSR figuring on that list. Never say it can’t happen here. Personally, too, they’d been on a wavelength: she’d been first to nod approvingly when he’d explained to the PM that the real hero of It’s a Wonderful Life was Old Man Potter, because he didn’t allow sentiment to interfere with business. All of which, in roughly that order, had flashed through Sparrow’s mind like a drowning man’s last newsreel when he’d encountered Vassily Rasnokov in Moscow a month ago. We’re so pleased you’ve created a role for Dr. de Greer. A splendid addition to a team, I’ve found.
A blank stare had been the best Sparrow could manage.
Rasnokov might have been lying, of course—he was a spook—but once home Sparrow had made discreet enquiries into de Greer’s superforecasting qualifications and had learned that the tests for such abilities weren’t always carried out with the rigour brought to, say, an online credit check or an internet degree. Following which he’d had an episode: glass had been shattered, and carpet chewed. Consequences contemplated. If Rasnokov had planted de Greer in Downing Street, one of two things might happen: he’d lock the information away in a Kremlin cupboard, alongside those movies of sex workers pissing on a hotel bed, and spend the rest of his career chuckling at the damage he could wreak with the turn of a key. Or he’d go ahead and bring the noise: light the story up, then warm his hands on the fire. That was the disruptor option, and Sparrow recognised a fellow expert when he saw one.
It was true that his first response had backfired: he’d reached out to Benito of the Ultras—real name, Alessandro Botigliani; who couldn’t be called an ally, exactly, but they’d fought in the same woods—and let him believe that he and his confederates, who numbered about ninety strong, were on a Home Office shit-list, which Sparrow had the muscle to edit. And that long-term visas were not out of the question. More than enough to secure loyalty, though as things turned out Benito didn’t have to sell him out to fuck him over, because his crew had shit the bed like the ill-trained chimps they were: instead of simply tracking her movements, his pair of goons had waylaid de Greer on her evening run and had their arses kicked from here to Sunday, sending de Greer into the arms of the Park. Which had raised the stakes higher, giving Taverner the advantage.
But some basic truths still held sway, chief among them being: lie and bluster through two news cycles, and you’re home free. The headlines fed like a shark—constantly, but always on the move—and the further afield the scraps you tossed them, the more distant they became. So, the new plan was: make the de Greer narrative one about the Park being up to mischief. By planting the word “waterproof” in the Times, he’d cast de Greer as victim in a dirty tricks campaign, while his own role faded to that of supporting player. Sparrow never minded being way down the cast list. You got more done in the shadows.
And meanwhile, if Taverner or her lackey Jackson Lamb had de Greer stowed away in a Service facility, Sparrow would fetch her out and offer her a starrier part. One he was confident she’d be happy to accept, once the alternatives had been road-mapped for her: a nice cosy job in a lobbying outfit, or some hard yards answering questions posed by any number of hostile agencies . . .
So it was time to talk to Benito once more. His crew had been a letdown, sure, but that would put them on their mettle; besides, Sparrow had no other team handy.
Meanwhile, Nash was still talking.
He cut through the man’s fawny solicitude. “What name did Whelan say they’d stashed de Greer under?” He made a jotting of the reply: Shirley D.A.N.D.E.R. “And you need to call a Limitations meeting. Now. What do you mean, why? I’m about to tell you why. Pay attention.”
Of those lingering in the park while Diana put papers and thoughts into order, not everyone had an evident excuse: there were mothers with toddlers, a carer wheeling her charge’s chair, a businessman soliloquising into a phone, but also a lone woman with her hands in her pockets, staring at the sky; a lone man grumbling to and fro between gatepost and bin. It occurred to her that watchers in her profession wouldn’t dare behave like ordinary people. Spooks needed reasons, props and cover. People just did what they were doing.