by Mick Herron
“Please don’t light that.”
“Your growth’s already been stunted. Where’s the harm?”
“It’s my home.”
“And burning it down would increase its value.” But he didn’t light up, or not yet. “Why were you following me?”
“I heard you talking with that guy. The other Brit. The one who acts like he’s been in the game, but hasn’t.”
The man nodded.
“You were talking about Putin. About the Novichok business. When toxic paste was smeared on a doorknob and the bottle left in a park.”
“Where someone found it,” the man said. “And died. What are you, a reporter for Metro? That’s ancient history.”
“There’s a rumour there’s been a vengeance killing. That you Brits took out one of the team responsible. You were talking about it.”
“If you’re wanting to bid on the film rights, you’re going the long way round. Nobody at Old Miles’s would have the first clue what actually happened.” He raised the bottle to his mouth again, took another swallow. “Least of all Chester Smith.”
“That’s why it wasn’t him I followed.”
The high-vis vest was smouldering now. Reece picked himself up, walked over and stamped on it, sending a whisper of black smoke spiralling upwards, like an evil ghost. There was only one chair in the room, but there was an upturned tea-chest against one wall, and he crossed over, moved the incumbent table-lamp to the floor, and sat. “What’s your name?” he said.
“I’ll ask the questions, Dobby. So you followed me because I look like I know what I’m talking about. And that’s why you were there in the first place, right? Looking for someone like me.” The unlit cigarette between his fingers seemed a deadly weapon. Reece wondered if he’d made a mistake, but it was done now. Besides, the fat bastard walked the walk. He’d tailed Reece half a mile across London, unseen. He doubted Chester Smith could have done that.
“Andy used to go there,” he said. “Old Miles has gatherings, or did have. Conferences, he called them. Once a month or so. Andy used to go. Some of the old guys there, he used them as sources.”
“For what?”
“He was writing a book.”
“About what?”
“Putin. He was a journalist. He had a lot of material, he’d done a lot of research, especially about Putin’s early days. He knew exactly the kind of man Putin is, what he’s capable of. And Chester Smith was right, he’ll be after payback if one of those assassins he sent here was killed. But Smith was wrong that it’s something he’s planning. It’s already happening. It’s already started.”
“What are you talking about, little man?”
“Putin had Andy murdered,” said Reece Nesmith III. “He had him killed.” And then—he couldn’t help it—he started to cry.
The taxi taking her home, which she was sharing with Peter Judd—though not as far as he probably hoped—became snarled in a Yellow Vest gathering. Men holding banners had overflowed the pavement, whether by accident or design was hard to say, though if the former, it added a layer of irony to the slogans about taking back control. When the driver sounded his horn, the backlash was immediate: fists were raised and obscenities unleashed. Someone thumped the bonnet, and the driver revved the engine, and the way was cleared, though the muttering from the front seat continued for some while. It might have become more than muttering if Judd hadn’t barked “Ladies present!”
“Preserving me from a fit of the vapours?” she asked. “What a gent.”
“One of the many tragedies of feminism is that women can no longer suffer gallantry.”
“I’d be grateful if you’d spare me the others. I’m due in the office at seven.”
Judd nodded in appreciation, then gestured towards the back windscreen. “Do you have people among them?”
“People?”
“People. Among our assembled brethren back there.”
“I’m not sure they’re brethren of mine,” Diana said. “Or of each other, come to that. A coalition of the furious is how I’d describe it.”
“Which sidesteps my question, which is an answer in itself, isn’t it?” His brow furrowed, a familiar harbinger of weighty opinion. “Are we sure that falls under your remit?”
“You’re asking whether riotous assemblies are a threat to national security? Let me think about that. Yes.”
“Because you’re falling into the common misapprehension that these folk are enemies of democracy. Whereas in fact they’re champions of the new democracy, that’s all. One that will ultimately see power being handed over to a wider spectrum of stakeholders.”
“You’ve changed your tune,” she said. “A few years ago, you’d have described them as rabble. But of course, that was when your own ambition ran along more traditional lines.”
“Things change,” he said smoothly. “Conditions change. The old way of doing things no longer applies. There are new realities of power evolving in front of our eyes, and they’re part of it. Yellow, you might say, is the new black.”
“A delicious irony if you happen to be black, I’m sure,” said Diana. “Come to think of it, maybe irony is the new black. There’s no shortage.” She glanced his way. “It used to be you had the hard right on one side, the hard left on the other. Nowadays, they meet round the back. I suppose racists and anti-Semites are always going to find common ground, but I wish they wouldn’t march up and down on it chanting.”
“They’re disgruntled citizens.”
“Who vent their disgruntlement in the traditional way, by finding weaker citizens to bully. Please don’t tell me you’re planning on figureheading their movement, Peter. That would leave us seriously at odds.”
“Which would never do, would it?” The absence of light in his eyes belied the tone of voice he’d adopted. “So let’s not fight. Though there is another possibly contentious topic I’m going to have to raise now.”
“Damien Cantor.”
“You never cease to amaze me. Yes, Damien Cantor.”
“Who didn’t exactly endear himself to me. Or did you not notice that?”
“I think even he noticed that, and he’s not overburdened with self-awareness. No, opinion is divided as to young Damien. Some think he’s a prick. Others that he’s a cunt. But all agree he’s a figure to be reckoned with. Because he has the ears of the public. Their eyes, too. And doubtless other parts of their anatomy, but for the time being it’s his media clout we should consider. I know you don’t want to look too closely at the books, and why should you—that’s my job—but you should know that he’s a major contributor to the cause, Diana. Major. And as such, it might be an idea to allow him a little access. A backstage pass, as it were.”
“Is this meant to be funny?”
“We both knew there’d be a certain amount of flexibility required alongside these new arrangements. This is part of that. You don’t have to like him, you just have to accept that he’s part of the grander scheme of things. And I’m certainly not suggesting you appear on his news show. We can all agree that’s not in our best interests.”
“I’m so glad to hear you’re looking out for my best interests. Are you hearing yourself speak? I’m First Desk at Regent’s Park, you seriously think I’m going to be best pals with an internet chancer just because he was front of the queue when you were passing the hat? This falls on your side of the line, Peter. I agreed to turn up tonight and shake a few hands and smile a few smiles, but I am not taking part in the swimsuit round. If you want him entertained, waggle your own tail feathers. Are we clear on this?”
Apparently not.
He said, “All I’m saying is, show him he’s on the inside looking out. He’s not an actual journalist, he doesn’t care about breaking stories or finding scoops. He cares about being close to the levers of power. Let him think that, and he’ll be first in the queue next
time I’m, how did you put it, passing the hat.”
Diana stared, but he wouldn’t meet her gaze; he was looking ahead, over the driver’s shoulder, at the streets unfurling in front of the car, at the gauzy reflections in puddles and windows that turned after-hours London into a kaleidoscope, made fast-food outlets and minicab offices brief flashes of wonder. Innocence became him like a wimple does a stripper.
She said, “What have you done?”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
“You could use that phrase as your ringtone, but it doesn’t fool me. You’re telling me to loosen up for Damien Cantor because you’re covering your tracks. You’ve already let something out of your bag, haven’t you? What is it?”
“Diana—”
“I won’t ask twice.”
He said, “In order to establish the right sort of backing for our venture, by which I mean people who believe in what we’re trying to do, people of appropriate character, I have had to . . . allow a little light to shine here and there. Not on anything that might cause us embarrassment. You have nothing to worry about.”
“Was there ever a more confidence-sapping expression?”
“I’ve divulged nothing that could do us harm, Diana. You know me better than that. Just a little . . . shop gossip.”
“You’re not in the shop, Peter. You’re not even a customer. You’re just hanging around in aisle three, hoping to nick a chocolate bar.”
“No metaphor left unpunished, that’s one of the things I adore about you.” He turned to face her. “As I say, Damien may not be anyone’s pick for a dining companion, but he is a force to reckon with. An influencer. So yes, I may have allowed him a peep behind the curtain. An amuse oeil, if you like. Just to keep him onside, which is where we want him to be.”
“A glimpse of what?”
“I shared a detail or two about your special needs group, that’s all. The slow horses. And the use you’re putting them to.” His pout twitched. “He thought it was funny. As do you. Which is why you told me in the first place, yes?”
“Not expecting you to pass it around the schoolyard.”
“All shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well,” he soothed. The taxi was slowing, approaching Diana’s house. “Remind me. Am I dropping you here? Or are we both, ah, getting off?”
“You’re going home to your wife.”
“So I am.”
“And I’m giving serious thought as to whether I drop the curtain on our little arrangement,” she said, laying heavy stress on the final three words as the car drew to a halt and she opened the door, and climbed gracefully out.
Peter Judd waved through the window. “It’s interesting that you think you’re still holding the rope,” he said, but the car was moving by then, and there was no chance she’d have heard.
After a while he’d got himself under control, though to be fair, he hadn’t lost it all that much. A few tears: a grown man could be forgiven a few tears. Andy had been twenty-eight, same as himself. Losing someone at that age, being lost at that age: a few tears were the least you could expect.
The fat man hadn’t moved from the armchair, but every time a car went past its headlights threw his shadow on the walls then sucked it out of existence, a passenger on a demonic carousel. It made Reece want to draw the curtains, but he was mesmerised by the moment. And if he moved the man might pounce. He looked capable of it, for all his size, the way a monitor lizard might seize a passing goat.
“Who’s Andy?” the man asked at last.
“My partner.”
“And he’s dead.”
“He was killed.”
“How?”
“They said it was a heart attack. But—”
“They?”
“He was in Moscow. But there was nothing wrong with his heart.”
“Your friend died of a heart attack in Moscow, and you think Vladimir Putin did it.”
“Because of the book Andy was writing.”
“Was he one of you?”
“In what way?”
“Jesus, so much for tact. What’s the PC term for diddyman?”
“I have achondroplasia. A genetic disorder.” Reece felt a familiar flash of anger. “Do you want me to spell it for you?”
“Fuck no, we’ll be here all night.” There was a glint as the man’s bottle appeared again. He took a swallow, then said, “So you were a matching pair.”
“His condition was rarer than mine. But the outcome was the same. He was a person of restricted growth, yes.”
“You’d think he’d have been better at keeping his head down.”
“Is this all a joke to you?”
“So far. What was he doing in Moscow? Research?”
“Yes. And . . . Well, he used to live there. His parents still do.”
“So he was Russian.”
“Yes. Andrey.”
“A Russian citizen who died in Russia. Were you there?”
“. . . No.”
“Did you see his death certificate?”
“No, but—”
“Any police investigation?”
“No.”
“His parents kick up a fuss?”
“No, they think he—”
“Where’s his body now?”
“He was cremated.”
“Were you there?”
“. . . No.”
“So, to sum up. Something happened a long way away which you didn’t see and nobody else is suspicious about. What do you think we should do? Organise a telethon?”
“Putin had him murdered.”
“So what? We all know the man has blood on his hands. Let’s face it, he has blood on his elbows. But he couldn’t give a flying fuck for world opinion, and anything he gets up to inside his own borders is the state equivalent of behind closed doors. Besides.” He took another slug from his bottle. “I realise the loss of your friend must have left a tiny little hole in your life. But dying in Russia doesn’t automatically mean he was murdered by its president. And if you were an expert cardiac diagnostician, I doubt you’d be living in this shit-hole. Aren’t you lot supposed to be house-proud?”
“You think all gay men are neat-freaks?”
“I meant dwarfs, to be honest. Or is it gnomes are the tidy ones? I get you mixed up.”
“Now you’re just trying to be offensive.”
“There’s effort involved, yes. And it wouldn’t kill you to show some appreciation. I’ve had a long day.” He looked at the bottle in his hand. “Fancy a drink?”
“. . . Thanks.”
“Well fetch me one while you’re at it. This is good stuff. I’ll save the rest for later.” He tucked it away in his pocket.
Reece mentally played back what he’d just heard, then did so again to be sure . . . He could itemise the contents of his fridge from here, and already knew all he had was beer: bottled Becks. He got down off the tea-chest, went into the kitchen, and came back carrying a pair.
“This the best on offer? Bloody hell.” But he unscrewed the cap anyway, and tossed it into a corner.
Reece said, “Andy had done a lot of research. And he had a contact. In the GRU. That’s—”
“Yeah, let’s pretend I know what the GRU is.”
“This man, he told Andy about the special squad they have there. An assassination department.”
He sat back on the tea-chest, and opened his own bottle.
The man said, “If that was Andy’s breaking news, what was his idea of a scoop? The charge of the Light Brigade?”
“They use two-person teams, posing as married couples. And one of them was killed not long ago, on Russian soil. In the city of Kazan. As revenge for the Novichok attacks.”
“That’s the rumour, yes. And it’s even reached Brewer Street.” He
hoisted the bottle to his lips, and swallowed half its contents in a single gulp. “So it’s unlikely that it’s worth murdering for.”
But Reece wasn’t finished. “He told Andrey, the contact did, that Rasnokov’s declared war on the British secret service. On Putin’s orders. That they’d identified a similar department here in the UK, some kind of assassination squad, and they plan to wipe them out one by one. On British soil. That’s what Andy was writing about.”
“In his book,” the man said flatly.
“He was planning on selling this bit to a newspaper.”
“But he died of a heart attack first.”
“He didn’t have a heart condition.”
“Nobody does. Until they do.” Impressively, if that’s the word, the man’s beer was already gone. He lobbed the empty after its cap and belched hugely. “And he told you this how long before he died?”
“The day before. Ten days ago. We spoke on the phone.”
The man said, “Lots of people write books. Sell stories to newspapers. They don’t all get murdered. Not half enough of them, frankly.”
“Andy stepped into something big, and then he died. You think that’s a coincidence?”
“It’s a matter of perspective. If Andy was your size, anything he stepped in must have looked big. Any more beer?”
“No.”
“Good. That one was a fucking insult.” He stood so suddenly Reece thought he was on the attack. His cigarette hung from his mouth. “Look. People die. You should get used to that. And if you want to get all paranoid about it, that’s your choice. Word of advice, though. Be careful dropping names like Rasnokov’s, and keep your fantasies to yourself or you’ll only be a nuisance. And you’re small enough to squash. Something else you should be used to by now.”
“Fuck off,” said Reece.
“Now that’s disappointing. I was hoping for ‘Follow the yellow brick road.’’’
And then he was gone.
Reece crossed to the window, and watched him heading down the street, trailing smoke. His high-vis vest lay on the floor, a camouflage accessory no longer required. Reece wondered where he’d stolen it from, in that brief interval after leaving Old Miles’s; wondered if he’d left a genuine yellow vest wearer in a similar heap somewhere, then decided he didn’t care. Andrey would have thought it a detail worth worrying over, but Andy had been a writer. And look where that had got him.