Bad Actors (Slough House, #8)(9)

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.”

“And she’s gone missing.”

“Apparently. And he rather suspects . . .”

“Foul play?” suggested Whelan, hating the moment even as it was happening.

“Yes. Well, no. He rather suspects your old Service has something to do with it, actually.”

Whelan said, “He thinks the Service has abducted a colleague of his? Our Service? That’s absurd.”

“Isn’t it? Doesn’t, couldn’t, wouldn’t happen. Exactly what I told him.”

“Then why are you coming to me with it?”

Nash noticed the second croissant on his plate. It was clearly a discovery of some moment; he glanced around, as if making sure it hadn’t been left there by accident, then indicated its presence to Whelan, as if he were the body to whom reports of such finds should be made. Whelan, unwilling to take part in this pantomime, waited. Nash sighed, sliced an inch off one end of the pastry and transported it to his mouth, his expression suggesting that the whole endeavour was an unfortunate necessity. Then glanced around once more. There was nobody near enough to hear his next word, even if he’d spoken out loud rather than simply mouthed the syllables. “Waterproof.”

“. . . I beg your pardon?” Then Whelan shook his head: he’d heard. “I mean, what, no, seriously? He said that?”

Nash nodded.

“And he meant . . . You’re saying he thinks that’s what happened? That someone triggered the Waterproof protocol?”

Nash said, “Well, he didn’t come out and say it directly. But that’s clearly what he was hinting at.”

He picked up the knife once more, and sliced what was left of the croissant in half.

Whelan said, “That’s ridiculous. There was an inquiry, I set it up myself. Waterproof, well . . . Okay, there was a certain amount of grey area. But the official line, the actual finding, was that the protocol was never used.”

“Yes, I’m aware what the official finding was, and I’m equally aware that the report will remain sealed for years to come. Even a virgin like me can draw the line between those dots.”

“That’s as may be. But leaving aside any . . . discretion involved in the conclusions reached, how is a newcomer like Sparrow even aware of Waterproof’s existence?”

“Because such is the role of special advisers, blessed be their name, that there is no document passes a portal anywhere on Downing Street that they can’t lay their eyes on at will. And don’t ask me how or why that started, because believe me I’ve no idea.” No idea, but an evident distaste. The manner in which Nash tore into the last piece of croissant made this clear. “And now that this particular bee has entered this particular bonnet, it apparently behooves me to catch it and pin it to a board, or whatever it is one does with bees. I’m not an expert.”