‘You’re Scottish, remember?’
‘So?’
‘They’ve as much right to be here as you.’
‘Yeah, but look at them, the way they walk around in their white dresses with those tea-towels on their heads. Making their women wear black from head to foot. I’m Scots, sure, but you don’t see me walking around in my kilt scratching my sporran, do you?’
‘And your point is?’
‘I don’t know what my point is.’ He took another long drag on his cigarette. ‘Maybe there is no point.’
‘What do you make of Button?’ asked Shepherd.
‘Ah, a loaded question if ever I heard one,’ said Sharpe. ‘Not wearing a wire, are you?’
‘You know I’m not, you prat. And I’m serious,’ said Shepherd.
‘Have you had a run-in with her already?’
‘Have you?’
Sharpe laughed. ‘I love talking to you, Spider. Your defences are never down, are they? You’re always in character.’
‘That’s bollocks.’
‘Have I ever spoken to the real you in all the years I’ve known you? I get the feeling that all I ever talk to are the roles you’re playing.’
‘That’s not true.’
Sharpe narrowed his eyes and puffed at his cigarette. He held the smoke deep in his lungs, then exhaled it in a tight plume through the window.
‘Razor, piss off, will you?’ said Shepherd.
‘I’m your back-up, remember? I can’t piss off. If I piss off who’s going to haul your nuts out of the fire if it all goes tits up?’
‘Like you did in Paris?’
‘Cheap shot. Anyway, Paris worked out all right, considering it was kick, bollock, scramble all the way.’
‘I was bundled into the boot of a car at gunpoint,’ said Shepherd.
‘I know.’
‘I could have been killed.’
‘Could’ve, would’ve, should’ve,’ said Sharpe. ‘Anyway, what’s that got to do with Charlotte Button?’
Shepherd tilted his head back and stared up at the car roof. ‘Nothing,’ he said.
‘Paris wasn’t even her operation,’ said Sharpe. ‘That was Hargrove, God rest his soul.’
‘Why didn’t Joycie join SOCA?’
Sharpe grinned wolfishly. ‘What did you hear?’
‘That he wanted to stay with the Met.’
‘That’s the gist of it. He’s moving to the Drugs Squad.’
‘Button said she wanted him in the SOCA unit.’
‘Apparently.’
‘So?’
‘I think his exact words were “I’m fucked if I’m gonna take orders from a tart” – or something like that.’
‘Because she’s a woman?’
‘Come on, Spider, when was the last time you took orders from one? There’s none in the SAS, right, and precious few in the army. The only time we use women in undercover units is in honey-traps, pretty much.’
‘That’s not true, Razor. There’s plenty of women cops around. Good ones, too.’
Sharpe shook his head. ‘The big villains are all guys. Crime is an XY chromosome business.’
‘Doesn’t mean you can’t use women to get close to them.’
‘That’s what I said. Honey-traps.’
‘Racism and sexism in one day. You’re on a roll.’
‘Don’t get me started on religion!’ laughed Sharpe. He flicked the still-burning cigarette butt through the window.
‘Racism, sexism and littering,’ said Shepherd.
‘No biggie,’ said Sharpe. ‘We’re not cops any more, we’re civil servants, remember? You having second thoughts about Button?’
‘Not because she’s a woman,’ said Shepherd. ‘That didn’t even enter the equation.’
‘What, then?’
‘Her background.’
‘You don’t like upper-class, university-educated, Home Counties, riding-to-hounds types, then?’
‘It’s not about liking. It’s about trusting. It’s about knowing your back’s being watched.’
‘You think she should be here today? You’re only collecting the passport. No need for her to be around for that.’
‘I don’t need babysitting,’ said Shepherd. He took a deep breath. ‘Okay, let me tell you what I think’s wrong about her. She thinks this is a game. Good against evil, cops against robbers. She’s spent her whole working life in MI5, most of it behind a desk, and when she wasn’t behind a desk I’m damned sure she wasn’t getting her hands dirty. She thinks it’s like some huge game of chess, where she sits there like a grandmaster-’
‘Mistress,’ interrupted Sharpe. ‘Grandmistress.’
‘Screw you,’ snarled Shepherd. ‘If you don’t want to talk seriously, go fuck yourself.’
‘Just trying to ease the tension,’ said Sharpe. ‘Besides, the vision of Charlotte Button in thigh-length boots and a whip was too good to pass up.’
‘And what’s that got to do with chess?’
‘Okay, I’ll put my hands up. I was focusing more on the mistress aspect.’
Despite himself Shepherd laughed.
Sharpe lit another cigarette. ‘You think she’s just an academic, is that it?’ asked Sharpe.
‘I think she treats it like a game of chess, and that we’re just pieces she moves around. And if a piece or two have to be sacrificed to win, then so be it.’
‘She said that?’
‘It’s just my take on it. But she did say it was a game.’
‘In what way?’
‘She said “The game moves up a notch” when terrorism’s involved. How can anyone call terrorism a game?’
‘It’s an expression. Like raising your game. Or living to play another day.’
‘That’s what she said. I don’t know, Razor… She’s never fired a gun in anger, never faced a thug with a knife, never walked into a room with half a dozen villains who’d gouge your eyes out if they knew you were a cop. You walked a beat in Glasgow before you were in plain clothes. You’ve been in pubs when fists and bottles were flying, you’ve looked down the barrel of a gun and known that only your ability to bullshit would stop the other guy pulling the trigger. Hargrove had been there, too.’
‘Back when dinosaurs walked the earth, maybe,’ said Sharpe. ‘But, yeah, I know what you mean. Hargrove’s old school.’
‘She isn’t old school. She’s Oxbridge, fast-track promotion, management courses and human- resources bullshit. I don’t think she even knows what it’s like to be hurt. Maybe the odd manicure injury or a twisted ankle when she was getting to grips with high heels, but she’s never killed anyone.’
Sharpe coughed and exhaled a cloud of smoke. ‘Neither have I, truth be told,’ he said. He made a vain attempt to wave the smoke out of the window.
‘I didn’t mean it that way. It’s about understanding how the real world works. She’s no idea how violent men can be to each other. The damage they can do. I was shit-scared when they put me in that boot, Razor. Logically, I’d talked myself into believing that they had no reason to hurt me, but on a purely physical level, I was scared. I know the damage a bullet can do.’
Sharpe scratched his chin. ‘I’ve no reason to defend the woman, but just because she hasn’t been where the bullets are flying doesn’t mean she’s not up to the job. We should at least give her a chance, right?’
‘Yeah, maybe.’
‘Plus she’s got magnificent breasts.’
‘Razor…’
‘I’m just saying, Hargrove was a great boss, but there wasn’t much in the way of a cleavage, was there?’
As Button walked away from the helicopter, two marines in flak jackets and helmets brandished M16s and one practically screamed at her to show her identification. Button smiled sweetly and produced her MI5 pass. ‘Charlotte Button,’ she said. ‘I gather I’m expected.’
The older of the two marines studied the photograph, compared it with her face, nodded grimly, then handed it back to her. ‘Follow me, ma’am,’ he said. He led her away from the helicopter landing area towards a steel door set in a concrete wall. A third marine already had it open.
As she stepped inside the building, the helicopter’s turbine roared and it clattered up into the afternoon sky. A man was waiting for her in the corridor. He was in his late forties, with short bullet-grey hair and thin lips. He smiled and offered his hand. ‘Richard Yokely,’ he said, with a slight Southern drawl. There was large ring on his right ring finger, and a small gold pin held his dark blue tie in place. ‘Thanks for coming, Ms Button.’