The Ambassador by Tom Fletcher

Author:Tom Fletcher
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Canelo
Published: 2022-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

28

We were hungrier than we realised. After the food had arrived, I looked at Orla, the skin taut but soft on her neck as she leant forward to eat her chips.

‘Orla, you still haven’t told me why you’re here.’

She shrugged. ‘Following a lead.’

‘And that leads you to Peter Tatham.’

She recoiled slightly and glanced for a moment at the window. But when she looked back at me it was once again with poise. ‘A bunch of pointy heads in a dingy lab? What’s that got to do with Amina Joshi? Trust me, she would have no time for him.’

‘I don’t know him yet. But you clearly do?’ I needed her camaraderie. But I also needed her skills as an investigative journalist.

She squinted at me, her head on one side. The curiosity of a fellow rebel.

After a few moments of thought she insisted that we turn off our phones and take out the batteries, using a safety pin to prise them open. I played along with the pantomime. Just as I had when I last saw Orla in the embassy garden. Back when Amina was still alive. The anticipation of Lenny’s gin. Back when life was still normal.

I thought of the spook in St James’s Park, asking after her. What was it that she knew?

‘I’m just following a lead I picked up in Paris. Amina was deep into all of it.’

I picked up the hesitation. ‘Who from, Orla? Who told you about Agonistes? Was it Amina? Pederson? How well do you really know him?’

She hesitated, a look of fear in her eyes. ‘It doesn’t matter, Ed.’ She looked at her feet. ‘All that matters is that I got that interview with Tatham today.’

‘What’s he like? Handsome guy.’ Half statement, half answer. I was more curious about her reaction than I should have been.

But Orla curled her nose. ‘Maybe. He would be more attractive if he liked himself less. He’s the sort of guy who prides himself on lots of one-night stands. But those guys never ask why we don’t come back for a second. A public-school voice, but the posher vowels slightly moderated. A man used to fitting in. An adaptable accent. Bags of charm. He had one of those chins with a permanent five o’clock shadow. But everything about him was thought through. He reminded me of those people you meet at a party whose eyes constantly dart around for someone more powerful.’

I had encountered plenty of those, probably been one of them. ‘What was it like in there?’

She didn’t miss a beat. ‘Deep brown leather chairs. Large bay windows looking out onto Woodstock Road. I remember being struck that the desk was empty. There was nothing on the shelves. The art on the walls was modern. It looked expensive.’

‘And did you get what you wanted?’

She looked exasperated. ‘Not really. He was on a script. He told me they “do sentiment”. Analyse it. There’s masses of data produced every day. More photos taken this year than the rest of history. The internet taking over people’s lives – not just some of the time but all of the time.

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