by Mick Herron
“Dame Ingrid,” he said now, as she entered his office.
“Home Secretary.”
“I’ve taken the liberty.”
Which sounded like a bullet-point summary of his Home Office tenure to date, but was in fact a reference to the tea tray on a nearby table.
Following his guide, she sat in an armchair. The room, she noted, remained much as it had done during his predecessor’s ministry, which is to say that not only was it still walnut-panelled, book-lined and Turkish-rugged, but that Judd hadn’t even bothered to have the art changed: some drab nature morts, a few sea battles, and a large and politically obsolete globe. Given Judd’s tendency to leave his stamp on things, Tearney took this as a clue that he didn’t expect to remain here long. Which had been true of his predecessor too, but for a diametrically opposite reason.
“Milk? Sugar?”
She shook her head.
Peter Judd poured, placed cup and saucer on a table by her elbow, and lowered himself into the chair opposite.
He was a bulky man, not fat, but large, and though he had turned fifty the previous year, retained the schoolboy looks and fluffy-haired manner that had endeared him to the British public and made him a staple on the less-challenging end of the TV spectrum: interviews conducted on sofas, by scripted comedians. Through persistence, connections and family wealth, he’d established a brand—“a loose cannon with a floppy fringe and a bicycle”—that set him head and shoulders above the rest of his party, and if the occasional colleague had attempted to lop that head off those shoulders in the interests of political unity, they’d yet to find the axe to do the job. Tearney’s own file on him was long on speculation, short on facts. So clean of cobwebs, in fact, that she was sure he’d airbrushed his past of serious sins as carefully as he arranged his haystack of hair.
He was eyeing her now in a manner that suggested he was about to enjoy what followed.
“So, minister,” she said, never keen on being made to sign her own punishment slips. “What seems to be your problem today?”
“Oh, I have no problems. Only a bagful of solutions awaiting opportunities.”
She pretended not to sigh, or at least, pretended she didn’t want him to notice her trying not to. “So this is social? It’s always a pleasure, Minister, but I am somewhat busy.”
“So I gather. Bit of a rumpus over your way this morning, what?”
“Rumpus” was a favourite PJ-word; one he’d employed to describe a recent tabloid splash about his friendship with a lap dancer. It was also a term he’d used in reference to both 9/11 and the global recession.
“What sort of, ah, rumpus would this be?”
“An incursion.”
He meant the Cartwright business, she realised. Which was unimportant and without consequence, which meant there was something to it she wasn’t yet aware of.
“I’d hardly call it an incursion,” she said. “An off-site agent lost his bearings. The Park can be disorienting.”
“So I recall.”
“Besides, the incident was done and dusted inside twenty minutes. When I left, the young man was being, ah, chided by our head of security.” She sipped again at her tea. “Are you sure such matters are worth your attention? I’d have thought there were weightier issues on your desk.”
Though the question of how he’d become aware of Cartwright’s frolic almost before she had was a matter Dame Ingrid definitely didn’t consider minor.
“I deem few things beneath my attention,” he said, adopting the plummier tones ex–public schoolboys use when bringing words like “deem” into play. “And certainly not those issues which call into question the integrity of our national Security Service.”
“‘Integrity,’” she said. “Really?”
He leaned back in his chair. “More tea?”
“I’m fine.”
“Sure? You don’t mind if—?”
She shook her head.
He refreshed his cup, and stirred the contents slowly, not taking his eyes off her.
“Minister, precisely what is this about?”
“Well, it’s quite simple, Dame Ingrid. Tell me, are you familiar with the term ‘tiger team’?”
Dame Ingrid lowered her teacup.
“Oh dear,” she said.
The taxi left Monteith outside the multistorey car park. It was a drab, soulless building, precisely because of its function: if an architect ever designed a car park the sight of which lifted the heart, civilisation’s job would be done. Monteith made a mental note to drop this aperçu into conversation next time he was with Peter Judd, and walked down the slope into the structure. Even with heat rising from the pavement, the lower storey carried a grave scent of damp earth and mildew. He stepped around an oil patch on the scabbed concrete, and pulled open the heavy door into the stairwell.
A different splash of odours, urine among them. Civilisation’s job was one long uphill battle round here.
He took the stairs two at a time. Into his fifties, he remained proud of his physical condition: barely smoked, and then only good Cuban; never drank port or liqueurs; red wine just three evenings a week (white the rest). If this didn’t precisely add up to a fitness regime, it gave him a head start. Besides, he was a leader, not a foot soldier. When River Cartwright had taken him by the lapels earlier, he’d felt no physical fear precisely because of that difference between them. Cartwright was a pawn, and didn’t know it. Monteith’s place was among the kings, and today’s work would serve to consolidate that.
Pawns don’t take kings. Basic rule of nature.
Donovan was waiting on the top storey, by the van. Another case in point, Monteith thought. Sean Donovan could have been wearing Monteith’s shoes now, near as damn it, if he’d understood the game. But that was the problem with coming up through the ranks—there was a reason the phrase was officer class. It came with breeding, wasn’t something they could drill into you.
None of that showed in his voice when he called out, “Donovan!”
Donovan didn’t respond.
Another oil patch to skip around. The light was better up here; the sides open to the city, technically allowing for airflow. But the midday heat shunted around as if in blocks. Every time you encountered it, it was like walking into a wall.
He resisted the temptation to run a finger around his collar. Appearances: you kept tight hold of them.
“Donovan,” he said again when he was no more than a yard away. “Everything in order?”
“So far.”
When he’d pictured this moment, Sly Monteith realised, he’d imagined it as one of high-fiving celebration—a plan brought to fruition; the pair of them delighted with each other and themselves. But Sean Donovan seemed, if anything, even less inclined than usual to unbend.
It didn’t matter. Monteith didn’t need Donovan’s approbation. The real celebrations would come later.
Because say what you like about Peter Judd, he knew how to mark a job well done.
“A tiger team,” Ingrid Tearney said.
“A tiger team.”
“I know perfectly well what a tiger team is,” she told him.
That feeling she was getting now was of Judd’s fingers round her throat.
Tiger teams were hired guns, essentially. Hired not to wipe out your enemies but to test the strength of your own defences. You set a tiger team to launch a simulated attack: recruited hackers to stress-test security systems, assigned a wet-squad to put a bodyguard team through its paces, and so on. Earlier that year, she had herself overseen a Service-propelled assault on one of the city’s major utility providers, to verify concerns that the capital’s infrastructure was dangerously vulnerable to attack. The results were mixed. It was, it turned out, surprisingly easy to cripple a large energy provider, but in the wake of recent price hikes, people seemed mostly in favour of doing s
o. Besides, the populace at large evidently regarded a global wine shortage as a more serious threat to its well-being than terrorism. In rather the same way, Dame Ingrid was now realising, that the greatest threat to the Service—and her own role within it—seemed to be emanating from the Home Secretary rather than its more traditional enemies: terrorists, rival security agencies, the Guardian.
“And this was your doing,” she said.
He nodded, pleased with himself. This was not in itself an unusual sight—being pleased with himself was Peter Judd’s factory setting—but at this close distance, it made Tearney want to throw the teapot at him.
“Can I ask why?”
“Why are these things ever done? I wanted to reassure myself that the Service’s protocols are in tip-top order. Not much point in relying on a security provider which can’t secure itself, is there?”
“Then you’ll have been relieved at the result,” she said. “No harm done.”
He wagged a finger at her. With most people this would have been a metaphor, but the Home Secretary’s tendency towards pantomime ensured that an actual finger was involved. “One of your agents was taken off the street. Another was induced to attempt a data theft from your very own precincts.”
“And failed.”
“But shouldn’t have got even that far. There are procedures, Dame Ingrid. The moment he was approached, your boy should have escalated the matter upwards. He didn’t. That’s a severe lapse by anyone’s standards. And by the standards I expect to appertain while I am minister in charge, it’s a shortcoming that requires action.”
After several years of dealing with a minister who could be reduced to jelly by the very thought of taking action, it was salutary to be reminded that not all politicians covered arse first and made decisions afterwards. It was galling that it had to happen on her watch, though.
“This . . . tiger team,” she said. “Who, precisely, are we talking about?”
“Chap called Sylvester Monteith.” Judd had the air of one explaining that he’d had a little man from the village round to prune his hedge. “He runs an outfit called Black Arrow. Ridiculous, really. Still, goes with the territory, I suppose.”
“Black Arrow.”
“No reason it should have crossed your radar. Mostly corporate security, to date. You know the kind of thing, give the company firewalls a rattle, see what’s loose. All on home turf, mind. No foreign adventures.” Judd placed his cup and saucer on his left knee, which he’d crossed over his right. “Gave the Afghan shenanigans a wide berth, sensibly, if you want my opinion. Plenty of money in that line, of course, but the premiums are crippling.”
“How very distressing for all involved,” Tearney said. “And you’re telling me you hired this man?”
“Damn reasonable rate, too. Are you sure I can’t tempt you to more tea?”
“Yes. And I suppose this Sylvester Monteith is an old crony of yours.”
“He prefers Sly.”
“Which answers my question.”
“We both know how Westminster works, Ingrid. It’s not called a village for nothing. Obviously we’ve crossed paths in the past.”
“Like I said. A crony.”
“That’s not a useful term in my book. No successful business, no thriving corporation, can afford to ignore networking. It’s how things get done.”
“Eton?”
“I’m not going to play this game.”
“Twenty seconds after leaving this office, I’ll know his inside leg measurement.”
“Well then. Yes. As it happens.”
“Oxford?”
“No, actually.” He picked up his cup once more. “Well, yes, but St. Anne’s for Christ’s sake.”
“In the eyes of most people, that would still count.”
“That’s why we don’t let ‘most people’ take the important decisions.”
“An interesting slant on the democratic process.”
“Don’t pretend to be naïve. It doesn’t suit you.”
“Let’s stay on topic then, shall we? You decided, without consultation, to hire an old school chum to set an, ah, tiger team onto the Service you have ministerial responsibility for. You don’t see any conflict of interest?”
“None at all. Consultation would have undermined the whole purpose. When was the last time you didn’t have the minutes of a closed-door meeting in your hands before the principals were out of the gates? The slightest sniff of this and you’d have gone to a war footing.”
She couldn’t fault his logic.
“Besides,” he said. “As you say, I have ministerial responsibility. Confirming the Service’s fitness for purpose is well within my remit. An obligation, even.”
“One minor lapse in protocol is hardly—”
“One minor lapse is more than enough, even if I agreed it was minor. But you had an unauthorised entry into Regent’s Park, which in anyone’s eyes is a serious breach of security.”
“By a member of the Service. Not by one of your mercenaries.”
“It remains an unauthorised entry. And the young man in question is hardly an agent in good standing, is he? From what I hear, he has his grandfather to thank for the fact that he wasn’t drummed out before he’d finished his training. He crashed King’s Cross, I gather. In rush hour. At the very least, that’s a demarcation issue. Buggering up the transport infrastructure is the mayor’s job.”
A line Dame Ingrid suspected he’d used before, or would again, with a bigger audience.
She said, “I’d take issue with his entry being unauthorised. It was approved by one of our Second Desks. Diana Taverner, I believe.”
“And having gained entry, he went walkabout. Let’s not split hairs, Ingrid. He was found attempting to access classified information. He should be in a cell. I think we could guarantee him ten years minimum.”
“And what about your merry band of friends? They ‘took’ an agent? Kidnapping carries a tariff too.”
He waved a hand as if shooing a wasp. “There’ll be a waiver. And it will be signed.”
“You’re very sure of that.”
He graced her with a bland smile.
A loose cannon with a floppy fringe . . . But an important thing about Peter Judd, she reminded herself, was that his affability was polymer-deep. In front of the cameras, in front of an audience, in any kind of best-behaviour scenario, he played the hail-&-well-met card like a pro, as comfortable among punters in an East End corner shop as he was in front of twelve pieces of cutlery at a black tie event. But a very short way below the surface lay a temper that could scorch chrome. It was one of the reasons she knew he’d taken an airbrush to his past. Nobody with his psychological makeup had led a damage-free life.
But right here, right now, he had the upper hand and they both knew it.
She said, “Very well. Wormwood Scrubs for young Cartwright, treble G&Ts all round for the private sector. I assume we can expect to hear that Sly Monteith’s about to land some lucrative contract or other? Perhaps he could replace those clowns who did their best to scupper the Olympics.”
“Bitterness is so unbecoming.”
“Are you expecting my resignation?”
He bared a palm, as if to demonstrate no evil intent. Only one palm, she noted. “Heaven forbid.”
“Then what is it you want?”
Unlike many another politico, he didn’t waste time pretending he didn’t know what she meant. “An, ah, what shall we call it? An understanding. No. An alliance.”
“You’re my minister. I answer to you on a daily basis. I’m sure we already understand each other, and as for alliances, there should be little doubt that we’re on the same side.”
“Oh, we’re all on the same side. But that doesn’t mean we don’t pick teams. You’re a civil servant. I’m a politician. With a fair wind, you might expect to b
e head of your Service until retirement. But one way or the other, I don’t expect to be in this office for more than another year. If I leave it on my terms, it will be because I’m moving into Number Ten. Otherwise . . . Well, political careers have been known to founder.”
“And you’re worried yours might.”
“Once the PM decides he’s in a strong enough position, yes. He brought me inside the fold to forestall a challenge from the back benches. Any such challenge now would seem . . . ”
“Treacherous.”
“Impolite.”
“And thus unlikely to garner support within the party.”
Judd blinked in silent agreement.
“Unless his circumstances changed.”
Judd blinked again.
It was cool in the office. A fake breeze hummed somewhere, as if it were blowing in off a carpet of ice cubes. But as an undercurrent to that, Ingrid Tearney felt a sudden access of warmth; that of acquired knowledge. Judd wanted to render the Service a sharp kick in the teeth, that had always been clear; a way of both asserting his own current mastery, and revenging himself for a rejection three decades ago. But in addition to that, he wanted—needed—her cooperation. Tearney recognised this ability to layer scheme upon scheme, to allow for maximum benefit. It wasn’t so much playing both ends against the middle as securing the middle and flaying anyone within reach with the ends.
She said, “I see.”
“I rather thought you might.”
“So the file Cartwright was sent to steal—that wasn’t a random choice.”
“For the purposes of the exercise, one file was as good as any other,” he said smoothly.
“Of course. I’m just getting an inkling of the use you might have put it to if he’d succeeded.”
“Well,” he said. “That was never likely to happen, was it? Not unless security at the Park turned out to be in even more parlous a state than was the case.” He rose suddenly, and carried his empty cup and saucer to the tea tray. With his back to her, he went on, “Besides, there’s no need for me to go to such lengths to examine the contents of an old file housed in a department over which I have ministerial control.”