He glanced down, a reflex, at his wristwatch.
She shook his hand, gave it a good squeeze. ‘Myself, Mr Lawson, I love getting drenched, turning my feet into frozen lumps, screwing up my hair. I love everything, Mr Lawson, about meetings al fresco. So, before I drown and before I get blown away, let’s do our business.’
They did. She was led down the steps at the end of the bridge to a bench that the wet wind hit.
A plastic bag from her pocket covered the file, and the bullet point digests with the accompanying photographs had been laminated — thoughtfully — as protection against the rain. The full-length biographies stayed in the dry file.
The liaison officer, rather enjoying the daftness of the setting, said, ‘I’m only doing thumbnails. Right? Top of the tree is Josef Goldmann, Russian national, born in Perm. Serial criminal, expertise in money laundering … Believed associate, try junior partner, of Reuven Weissberg, major-league Mafia, who bases himself in Berlin. It’s all in there, and lines for you to follow …’
She was not interrupted. She thought he listened closely, but his eyes roved across the river and, maybe, took in the river traffic — tugs and barges — and, maybe, he gazed at the floodlit seat of government. The big clock chimed.
With the photographs, the rain dripping off them, she identified Esther Goldmann, complete with shopping bags, and the children with their private-school satchels. Still he did not speak and nothing was queried. She thought of all those in the Box who would have chipped in with questions designed to demonstrate keenness or authority; many would have stamped on her fingers. Only the twitch in his mouth showed his interest. The minders’ pictures were displayed, and an indistinct image of the housekeeper. Then a man’s photograph, moderately expensive suit, with severely cut hair.
‘He’s Simon Rawlings — ex-sergeant, ex-paratrooper — the factotum. Drives and fixes. No criminal record and never in trouble — has the Military Medal from Iraq. Probably straight as a telegraph pole, and heavily trusted by his employer. I would say, from what I’ve read, that he walks through life with blinkers over his eyes and plugs in his ears. He’s adjacent to Goldmann, but not alongside him, if you know what I mean … and he’s muscle. Doesn’t want trouble and is unlikely to be part of any criminality. A duty man. There’s one more.’
She lit a cigarette. The tobacco Fascists ruled in the Box, but if she was going to sit in the cold and wet she’d damn well enjoy the luxury. The smoke floated by his nose, but there was no curled lip, annoyance. She warmed to him. She held the final photograph on her lap and damp ash fell on it.
‘This one’s as interesting as it gets. Jonathan Carrick, aged thirty-six but only possibly … more of that. He’s the junior bodyguard, takes the lady shopping and socializing and the kids to school, a dogsbody. He, too, is a one-time paratrooper but was injured in Iraq and invalided out. He’s a phoney. Mr Lawson, put it this way, he’s not what he seems. Seems to be a professional bodyguard, but our computers show that the DVLA, Social Security and National Insurance records for that name, and that military background, were erased and replaced three months ago. It’s what they do for policemen, those going undercover. You might have the clout — national security and all that — to break open SCD10 because that’s where I think he comes from. Do you understand me?’
There was a quiet growl beside her. ‘Understood.’
‘So, Goldmann is a Serious Crime Directorate target, of sufficient importance for an undercover to be introduced, but he’s pretty far down the line. That’s all I can give you. Of any use?’
‘Possibly.’
She passed him the folder in its protective cover. Stood. Rather formally, he thanked her, but she sensed awkwardness as if that were unfamiliar territory to him.
Boldness took her, a degree of recklessness. ‘So, what do you think? Are we talking of imminent danger?’
‘Possibly.’
‘Where are we on a scale of one to ten, Mr Lawson?’
She saw that his eyes had fastened on her. In the dreary evening light thrown down by the dull lamps, they glistened, startling her. He seemed to be assessing her question … The eyes now were mesmerizing, and the voice had changed to a scraping intensity.
He said, ‘None of your business, and unlikely to be in the future. I compliment you on your briefing. Very adequate … A scale of one to ten? Probably between twelve and thirteen. Goodnight.’
She walked back over the bridge, into the teeth of the wind and rain, and was alone with the implications of her naming Jonathan Carrick, an undercover.
Back in his office, feeling pressure and knowing that action was demanded, Christopher Lawson scanned the files. The programme for proceeding was instinctive. There was a number on the file, and he rang it. He asked for a name and was told the man he wished to speak to was off duty. Would he find the man of that name at home? He might. He had spoken to a voice that had a firm, decisive tone, and a hint of a Scots accent. He shuffled the picture that went with the voice to the top of the heap and gazed at it. He thought a key had been found — and, damned obvious, keys were for opening doors. He always followed his instinct, because that way had been taught him by Clipper Reade. He called to Lucy, ‘Get into that increments list.’
‘Any special skills?’
‘God alone knows, I don’t. “General skills”, thinks on his feet — whoever’s available. To meet me in the Prince Albert, back bar, half an hour.’
‘Will do.’
He left his desk, went to the floor safe and tapped in the combination numbers. There were cardboard shoeboxes in there, taking three of the four shelves, all brimful of equipment that had been standard in Cold War times, the times when he had learned a trade from Clipper Reade — pens that fired a single bullet, bottles of invisible ink, hollowed papier-mâché rocks that could hold a microphone, little Minox cameras, the detritus of a life that few recognized as having contemporary value. He rummaged through cartons of pills, each labelled, and made his selection.
He’d rather liked the girl, the liaison from the plodders across the river. Bizarre that. Nice girl, yes — and able. And … Lucy, who never raised her voice, murmured from the outer office that he would be met, in twenty-eight minutes, at the Prince Albert, in the back bar, by an increment.
A doorbell was rung. The man whose finger pressed down the button was a freelancer employed by the Secret Intelligence Service at an hourly rate of fifty pounds, and expenses. He did work, on a casual basis, that was either too mundane for a full-time staffer or was too dirty for a staffer to be involved in. A host of increments waited for their phones to ring and meeting points to be fixed, and the work made for a reasonable living … Above all else, an increment was deniable.
A woman came to the door, holding a screaming child in its night-clothes. ‘Yes?’
‘Sorry to bother you. My problem, my memory’s like a sieve. Simon said I was to meet him, but I’ve clean forgotten where or if it’s here.’
‘You on the team … darts?’
It was his skill that he could react at speed to whatever presented itself, was worth fifty pounds an hour, cash and no paperwork. ‘That’s right — well, if they’re still short.’
‘He’s already gone.’ She hugged the baby, stilled its crying. Might have been attractive once.
‘I’m a right clown — help me. Forget my own name next. Where’s the game?’
‘They’re at that one down off the Balls Pond Road, on the right, before the mini-mart. Across Essex Road, along Englefield Road, turn left into Beauvoir — can’t miss it. There’ll be a green Golf, 04 plate, parked there. His.’