Slough House

by Mick Herron

  Suppose the Service were able to achieve, let’s call it a self-sufficient status . . . What if she had the resources to operate as required, in situations of critical need, without requiring government approval?

  We’re not talking about privatisation. Simply an injection of necessary funds from sources with a vested interest in national security . . .

  Funds well spent, though for now the dossier on the Kazan operation remained a miracle of invisible expenses. This was an easier ask than the more familiar inverse. Those holding the purse-strings were happy not to wonder, for example, at how cheaply extra-territorial surveillance had been undertaken. And it turned out that the actual cost of having someone whacked remained one of those subjects too embarrassing to discuss in public, so that wasn’t subjected to intense scrutiny either.

  Judd became embroiled in something humorous to his right. Meanwhile, the man to Diana’s left required her attention.

  “What you said afterwards,” he said. “Smiert spionam. It made me laugh.”

  “How did you come to hear about that?”

  “Oh, come on. You said it to spark a legend. You knew it would get around.”

  She had a long-standing aversion to being told what she knew, though it had been a long while since anyone had dared. And this particular man—Damien Cantor—had probably still been in school then. He was mid-thirties now, treading that line between being a noise in the business world, and still hip to the streets: three-day stubble and trainers. When they went on about sixty being the new forty, they forgot to add that that made thirty-something the new twelve.

  “So anyway,” he went on. “You must be pleased with the way things are going.”

  “Must I?”

  “All those years of being tethered to the rule book.” He was dismantling a bread roll as he spoke, though the meal was effectively over. “And now you’re a free agent. More or less.”

  “I have no plans to tear up any rule books, Mr. Cantor.”

  “Please—Damien.” He reached for a napkin. “I’m happy to have been of assistance. And we’re all looking forward to the next adventure.”

  “And I’m grateful for the backing. But the next adventure, as you put it, will more than likely consist of improved administrative processes. It’s astonishing how expensive a firewall upgrade can be.”

  “I’m sure. But I think we’d all prefer something a little more technicolour. I mean, after a start like this, it would be a shame to go lo-fi, wouldn’t it?”

  Diana stared, causing him no great discomfiture. He was easily the youngest of the assembled company; one of the new-breed media magicians, who’d started as a YouTube impresario and now owned a rolling news channel, mostly fed by citizen input. “Make it, don’t fake it” was Channel Go’s mission statement, unless it was its mantra, or its logo. But its general thrust was to encourage choleric rage in its viewers, so, if nothing else, Cantor had tapped into the spirit of the times.

  Judd had returned his attention her way.

  “Mr. Cantor was just providing me with consumer feedback,” she told him. “Apparently I’m to work my way up to a series finale.”

  “Damien has a well-polished sense of humour. Nobody here is steering your aim, Diana. We’re all very much behind the scenes.”

  “Of course,” Cantor agreed. “Pay no attention to me.”

  Plates were being cleared, and people starting to mill about. A group broke away, heading for the smoking area outside: “Won’t have to put up with this nonsense much longer,” one could be heard saying.

  “In fact,” Cantor continued, “I was hoping for very much the opposite. That we all pay more attention to you.”

  “Now now,” Judd said.

  “Oh come on, Peter. It’s the obvious next move.” He met Diana’s gaze. “Channel Go have a seven o’clock bulletin. It would be a tremendous coup for us if you were to appear. A quick rundown of, ah, recent developments. No need to go into operational details. Keep it as cloak-and-dagger as you like. But a general statement to the effect that our national pride has been reasserted, that the lion has roared—well. You hardly need me to write your script.”

  “I’m starting to get the impression that that’s exactly what you think I need,” Diana said.

  “If you prefer, we could shoot you behind a screen.”

  “I could probably arrange something similar for you.”

  “Perhaps we should discuss this another time,” Judd cut in smoothly. “If I might drag you away, Diana?”

  As he rose, he let his hand fall on Diana’s shoulder, and she saw Damien Cantor register this; the information slotting into place. Inaccurate information, as it happened—there was nothing between her and Judd; hadn’t been for years—but that hardly devalued it. Fake news was as useful as the other kind.

  She made sure to be smiling as she got to her feet.

  There’d been a gathering most weeks lately, usually on a midweek evening; not precisely a march, more what was described as a display of solidarity, even though what it mostly illustrated was deep division. The Yellow Vests were a loose coalition of the disaffected—its French origins an unwitting tribute to the free movement of ideas—and their anger, initially aimed at those who failed to listen to them, or at those who’d listened but had failed to act upon their demands, or at those who had acted upon their demands but in a way deemed unsatisfactory in some manner, had long been swallowed by a free-range hatred for anyone who swam into their crosshairs: Jewish MPs, gay journalists, student activists, traffic wardens; all routinely described as Nazis, which, if nothing else, suggested that the master race’s membership criteria had grown less rigorous since its pomp. Tonight they had gathered along Wardour Street, where Reece Nesmith III passed them in a hurry, ignoring the jeers this provoked. Words he’d heard before, and besides, he was on a mission.

  Though the man he was tailing had, for all his size, vanished inside the evening’s folds.

  This must have happened within minutes of his leaving Old Miles’s. The streets, gilets jaunes aside, weren’t fuller than usual; the streetlights were working, there was no mist. What there was, unless it was Reece’s imagination, was a whiff of foreign tobacco, as if the man had coloured the air he walked through. But of the man himself, no sign. Reece doubled back, running the gauntlet of jeers again, but he was wasting his time. The man was gone.

  I know how it works, he’d said. I’m not the fucking janitor. The other one, the man in the suit, was a hanger-on, a spy-buff. But this one, for all he was gross and dressed like he’d crawled from a charity bin, something about him suggested he was the real thing. Andy would have picked him out of a line-up: Spook Street. No question. But it wasn’t like Andy was here to say so. That was the whole point.

  In the end he gave it up as a bad job and headed for home; along Oxford Street, up Edgware Road, under the flyover. The flat was above a dummy shop, its window display a mosaic of cards showing lettable properties, but its door permanently locked. His own door was next along, in a recess, and as he opened it and stepped across the threshold, everything turned upside down. A glimpse of a yellow vest was his last conscious observation. Then he blacked out.

  “I was not expecting to find fucking broadcasters among your guests.”

  “Welcome to century twenty-one,” Judd said, ironising the words. “You can’t attract wealthy sponsors without involving media interests, you know that. But the Murdoch principle still applies. Why break a Prime Minister when you could have a whole string of them to play with instead?”

  “That’s not particularly comforting.”

  “I’m simply pointing out that Cantor’s on our side. And would much rather have a friendly, ongoing relationship with a power player than a brief headline everyone will call fake news. As for his interview, it’s not going to happen.”

  “Damn right it’s not going to happen.”


  “Though it wouldn’t hurt to—”

  “I’d think very carefully about the next words that emerge from your mouth.”

  He paused. “It’s always a pleasure, I hope you’re aware of that, Diana.”

  She said nothing.

  “But a little gratitude wouldn’t hurt. Nobody’s expecting you to appear on TV, that was out of order. But a fair bit of funding has been ushered your way, and those whose pockets it’s come from are entitled to appreciation. Not to mention those of us who’ve done the ushering.”

  “Does this place do rooms?” she asked. “Because I could rent one. You could have them form a disorderly queue.”

  “All I meant was, it never hurts to acknowledge largesse.”

  “They’re supposed to be angels, Peter. That was the word you used. Silent backers. Nothing more.”

  “Even angels get their wings stroked, now and again.”

  “Except the ones who plotted against God,” said Diana. “They were eternally damned, I seem to recall.”

  The unlikely angels, unless they were the legion of the damned, were scattered around the room, engaged in small conspiracies. It was not a mixed crowd: exclusively white, and middle-aged or upwards, Cantor being the exception. Their backgrounds, those she was aware of, could be summed up as Urban Money, but it troubled her that there were three or four among them who, like Cantor, she hadn’t known would be here. This despite Judd’s briefing.

  She said, “I’m grateful to have received support. But I’m starting to wonder if the arrangement’s going to work.” His face didn’t change while receiving this news: that wasn’t a good sign. “I didn’t authorise the Kazan operation so your backers could dine out on it.”

  “My backers?”

  “You brought them to the table.”

  “And I plan to join them under it before the evening gets much older. So I hope you’re not going to spoil everyone’s enjoyment.” He studied her for a moment. “Kazan has brought a smile to the trousers of every red-blooded Englishman—”

  “Who gets to hear about it,” she put in.

  “And that’s more than you might think. There are whispers on the internet. And when the history books are written, you’ll be there. The woman who avenged her nation’s honour. And did so without expectation of glory, which should make wearing the laurels so much sweeter. More?”

  She nodded.

  He refreshed their glasses from the decanter at his side, and as he poured said, “I gather you’ve been gifted a nice little mews property.”

  “Not me personally.”

  “Of course not. Heaven forfend. No, the Service, I should say, now has a little hideaway entirely off the books, which I’m sure will come in useful.” He set the decanter down. “How did you explain that to the Limitations Committee, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  She said, “Oliver Nash can be very understanding.”

  “Can he indeed? Can he indeed? But I imagine even he finds it difficult to get a grasp on something when it’s not actually put in front of him.”

  She said, “All right.”

  He feigned innocence. “I’m sorry?”

  “It didn’t go before Limitations. As you apparently know.”

  And she’d have given a lot to discover how he’d come to do that.

  He said, “And nor was it intended to. It was an outright gift, the point of which was to allow you a little leeway. There’s a reason they’re called safe houses. And what’s the point of having new . . . sponsors, if they’re not able to show their support? Were Limitations to become involved, or any one of the other ludicrously overpopulated oversight committees you’re subjected to, you’d be back where you started, unable to muster the resources you need, unable to mount operations like the one we’re all so happy to celebrate this evening.”

  “. . . Thank you. You’ve made your point.”

  “Have I? Because it seems to me you may not have fully grasped the import of what’s happening. These good people you see around you, they’re here for a reason, they’re patriots. They want to help. And what do they want in return? Nothing outrageous, Diana. Nothing that might cause you to regret having accepted their largesse. But the fact is that, alongside the very warm feelings they get when they see their nation’s security service prospering, they might also desire a little reflected glory themselves. A little oomph.” He swirled the glass in his hand. “It’s not like we’re asking your joes to wear team shirts. We appreciate that that might be counter-productive.”

  “You think?”

  “But it would be a little . . . disheartening if the Limitations Committee, or, as I say, one of the other myriad parasites you’re victim to, were to be presented with the full details of our little venture and find them not to their taste. What do you imagine the outcome would be? A slap on the wrists? Naughty Diana, don’t do it again?”

  “I hope that’s not intended as a threat, Peter.”

  “I’m simply indicating that this is not a good stage at which to start questioning our arrangement’s efficacy. Lot of miles to travel yet. And who wants to turn the clock back on what’s already been achieved?”

  She thought about that, and about the humiliations of the previous year; the murderous assault that had taken place on her watch; the “Who, me?” poses thrown in Moscow. Authorising reprisal on the slimmest of nods—look into the possibilities, Diana, run the numbers, let’s examine the viability—had been risky, but not enough to deter her in the end. Because it mattered too much. It was the difference between apologising to the bully for being in his way and smacking him in the nose. That the bully was bigger was a given. But you shouldn’t, couldn’t, back down. Not unless you wanted it all to happen again.

  And if taking Judd’s privately organised shilling had been the only way to facilitate it, well: so be it. He was right about not turning the clock back. The time had been too well spent. She took a sip of brandy to fortify herself for the coming ordeal, that of admitting she more or less agreed with him, but he was gazing at nowhere in particular, a smile crawling across his pouty lips.

  He came back to earth. “Forgive me,” he said. “Wool gathering.” He raised his glass in her direction. “Something about that phrase naughty Diana sent me off into dreamworld.”

  “You never change, do you?” she said. “Dog whistle politics and wolf whistle mindset.”

  “You’ve been reading my reviews,” he said.

  That smell was back: Russian tobacco. Reece Nesmith III opened his eyes, closed them, opened them again. He was on the floor of the sitting room of his upstairs flat, and there was a fat man occupying the armchair, a yellow vest puddled at his feet. The cigarette producing the Russian smell hung from his lower lip. His expression could have graced a totem pole: it was every bit as serious, and just as mobile.

  “You hit me,” Reece said.

  His voice came out at a higher pitch than usual.

  The man didn’t reply. Without taking his eyes off Reece, he gave the impression of having the whole room under surveillance, much the way he had at Miles’s. Fewer bodies to keep track of, of course, and not much furniture. The armchair. A small table on which the TV sat. And bookshelves, and many more books than they could hold: tottering ziggurats of them, mostly with multiple bits of paper protruding from their pages, as if they were spawning miniature texts of their own. Tadpole writing on these slips: Andy’s notes, and he always swore he could reconstruct his entire library from his high-speed jottings. Possibly an empty boast. Reece had never put him to the test.

  He tried to get up, but the dizzy room prevented him. So he cleared his throat and spoke again instead. “You hit me.” Same words, different key.

  The man’s cigarette glowed brightly. “What’s your name?” he said.

  “Fuck off!”

  “Russian, huh? Well, Comrade Fuckoff, you learn your Englis
h from watching the Super Bowl? Because I’m hearing a distinctly Yankee twang.”

  “You just assaulted me on my doorstep!”

  “Kicked you a bit on the stairs, too. If you’re keeping score.” He removed the cigarette from his mouth and examined the burning end, as if some technical error were occurring. Then put it back. “You followed me from that spooks’ parlour. Or tried to.”

  “You followed me!”

  “Like I say. Or tried to.” The cigarette evidently wasn’t doing what it was supposed to, because he dropped it. “You weren’t much cop. Ready to tell me your name yet? I’m happy to kick you some more, if it’ll help.”

  Nothing about his expression suggested he was kidding.

  Reece looked at the yellow jacket onto which the burning cigarette had fallen. It was work clothing, something you’d wear on a construction site, and probably wouldn’t burn easily. It might be best, though, not to find out the hard way.

  He said, “Reece. Reece Nesmith.”

  The man grunted.

  “The third.”

  “There’s two more of you? That’s nearly half the set. When’s Snow White get here?”

  “Very funny.”

  “Glad you think so. Sometimes I have to explain my jokes. What is it, a condition? Or are you just, you know, a freak?”

  Reece said, “I’m not a freak.”

  “Yeah, no offence. You should see the clowns I have to work with. Actual physical deformity would be an improvement.” From his overcoat pocket he produced a half-full bottle of whisky, and unscrewed the cap. “But let’s get back to why you were following me. And what you were doing in the first place, hanging out with a bunch of Euro-spooks. Long-retired Euro-spooks.” He took a swallow. “Long-retired Euro-spooks who were third division messenger boys at best.”

  “You’re a spy.”

  “If you’re one of those 007 nerds, hoping the glamour rubs off, you’re in for a disappointment.” He farted, and produced another cigarette. “Class takes practice.”