by Mick Herron
Long story short: two years later he had no job, no money, and was shaving expenses where he could, which had meant moving into one of the containers, even though they hadn’t exactly been customised yet. It was almost like being homeless, which was in fact exactly what it was.
It made the days when he’d been a slow horse seem a career high.
Slow horses was what they’d been called, those edged out of their roles at Regent’s Park because of the envy, spite and small-minded malice of others, but also, in his case, because of an unwise group email suggesting that the then First Desk was an al-Qaeda plant. It was a lesson in how bureaucracies worked: i.e. no sense of humour. Then there’d been a thing that happened with a kid being kidnapped, and Struan’s crew—the slow horses—had ended up in the middle of it, and he’d made the perfectly rational decision to save his own skin by shopping them all to Diana Taverner at the Park, in the hope that this would salvage his career. Memo to self: didn’t happen. It could get you down, the obstacles a good man found in his way, but seriously, what was that scrabbling in the corner?
Except not in the corner, he realised. It was coming from outside: footsteps on the cracked concrete surface of the wasteground.
He moved to the door as silently as he could; peeped out into the near-dark, and the air that held a hint of coming rain. A few yards away, outside the next container along, stood a man and a woman, both of whom turned his way, despite his attempt at quiet. They were, he couldn’t help noticing, carrying a bottle of vodka apiece.
They approached, the woman unleashing a smile. “Struan Loy, yes? Mr. Struan Loy?”
The honorific stressed, as if in despite of circumstance.
Loy said, “Who are you?”
“We heard about your business scheme.”
“The shipping containers?” This was the man, and his accompanying glance took in Loy’s home and its immediate neighbours. “The residential shipping containers?”
Raincoats, black suits, white shirts. The woman attractive, but with her hair tied back severely enough that she might want you not to notice, or not yet; the man clean-shaven, and with a quiet, polite look to him.
“I’m him, yes. Or he’s me.” Loy was conscious of how he was dressed, suddenly: an old pair of jeans and a sweater too long in the sleeves. Not exactly primed for business discussion. But his visitors didn’t seem to care: they stood on what he supposed you could call his threshold, but might be more accurate not to, holding their bottles expectantly, as if awaiting an invitation.
If it weren’t for the vodka, thought Struan Loy, he might have taken them for missionaries.
Diana Taverner had eaten an Italian meal, had drunk two glasses of Chilean wine, but was feeling irredeemably British as she arrived at her Notting Hill home: tired, irritable, full of dread. “Home,” anyway—when asked she’d say “home” was the Cotswolds, careful never to name the actual village; London was her workplace, her business address. But on the few occasions when she suffered through a weekend in Temple Guiting, she found herself glued to her phone, counting the hours. The cottage had wood-burning stoves and exposed beams, stone-flagged floors and a curious window-seat halfway up its narrow staircase, all of which, back in the city, she’d recount as rustic charm, and most of which was a fucking nuisance. She could see stars there, true, but indoors she had to keep her head low. Exposed beams were dangerous. Home, in fact, was Regent’s Park. But the Notting Hill house was elegant and subtle and carpeted to a hush; it had spot-lighting and spotless walls. It had a fridge full of wine. She shucked her shoes off, gathered the mail, padded into the kitchen and poured herself another glass. Through the sliding door, she could see the intruder light was on, which meant a fox had been doing the rounds. It would go off in a minute. She put the mail on the table, and carried the wine upstairs.
Removed her makeup. Took deep breaths. She hadn’t waded out so far she couldn’t make it back safely. She was First Fucking Desk. She’d taken apart bigger threats than Damien Cantor, than Peter Bloody Judd. And troublesome angels weren’t an unprecedented hazard. Some had tried it on with God, and look where that got them.
Her wine finished, she left the mirror to its own reflections, and took her glass downstairs to refill it.
The intruder light was still on.
The garden was a thin strip of land, most of it paved; large plants in huge pots were kept alive by a weekly gardener. There was furniture too, in case Diana ever made any friends, and ever invited them round, and they ever decided to enjoy each other’s company in the garden. It was wooden, sturdy, and when the intruder light was on looked like props on a stage. She unlocked the door, opened it and stepped down onto the path. The smoke from Jackson Lamb’s cigarette reached her even before she registered his bulk, squatting in one of the chairs.
He said, “What are you doing in my garden?”
She shook her head.
“Now you say, “No, it’s my garden,” and we’ll improvise from there.”
“Fuck off. You know how long it’ll take the Dogs to get here? And it will not be a comfortable collection, I can promise you.”
“Might as well sit while we’re waiting, then.”
Diana stared at him, then shook her head again and went back into her kitchen and filled her wineglass. Really filled it. Had to be careful carrying it outside again, in case it slopped over the rim.
She set it on the table, pulled another of the heavy wooden chairs out, and sat.
Looking at the glass, Lamb said, “No, don’t worry. I’m fine.”
“I know. There’s a bottle poking out of your pocket.”
“Oh. That.” He brought it out, removed its cap. “Cheers.”
She raised her glass in what she hoped was an aggressively sardonic manner.
“So,” he said. “I suppose you’re wondering why I invited you out here for a chat.”
“Cut the comedy and get to the point.”
“You’ve been using my crew for training purposes. Like they were dummies in a shooting gallery.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Is there a reason I shouldn’t be doing that?”
“Only the obvious. That they’re my fucking dummies.”
“And they do you so much credit.” She glanced at his feet, where a pile of cigarette stubs had mushroomed. “How long have you been here?”
“Longer than I expected. Since when have you had a social life?”
“Sorry to inconvenience you.”
“Yeah, I may have had to piss in one of your plantpots.”
Diana doubted he was kidding. She motioned towards his cigarette. “Can I have one of those?”
He sighed. “Some people just make themselves free and easy with other people’s property.” But he handed her one.
“Did you make this yourself?”
“Just hold it at an angle.”
He shoved a plastic lighter across. The first inhalation reminded her of her first one ever. “God in heaven. Where did this come from?”
“Old Miles’s.”
“Ah, Christ. It’s closed down, right?” She shook her head. “The old guard used to gather there. Back in Partner’s day.”
“Just the suits,” he said. “And the hangers on.”
“Suits and hangers,” she said. Then: “It’s all changing though, isn’t it? I thought everything had changed enough already. But it keeps on happening.”
“If I wanted to listen to a stroppy woman getting maudlin, I’d have picked a City bar.” He took a swallow from his bottle, which had a label Diana didn’t recognise, then said, “So that’s why you had us all wiped. So your newbies wouldn’t know they were tailing professionals.”
She breathed out smoke that looked blacker than natural. “It took you long enough.”
“Once I’d established I was still getting paid, it didn’t seem that urgent. Besides. You didn�
��t put anyone on me.”
“No,” said Diana. “I didn’t want any of them broken.”
Lamb nodded, as if that went without saying. Then said, “I heard about Kazan. I’m guessing the Whitehall crowd creamed themselves then backed away.”
“Nothing I’m not used to.”
“What about Number 10?”
“Doesn’t officially know. That way, his spad doesn’t have to decide what the PM thinks.”
They were silent. Way overhead, in the dark starless sky, nothing happened.
Then Lamb said, “I’ve stood on bridges in my time. You watch one of your own come back to your side, watch one of theirs walk the opposite way. And that’s the end of the story. They’re off the board. Untouchable. This shit doesn’t get written down, but that doesn’t mean it’s not a rule. Otherwise it’s just joe country. Welcome to the badlands.” He tipped his bottle in her direction. “Putin pissed all over that rule. You did the right thing.”
“Thanks.”
“He’s probably declared war, though. You realise that.”
“No, I think he’ll get the message.”
“Because I heard a rumour.”
“And you pay attention to that sort of thing?”
“Of course I fucking do. I’m a spy.” He added his cigarette end to the pile by his feet. “Apparently we have a crack assassination squad.”
“That was the rumour?”
“No, the rumour is they’ve been targeted. Tit for tat. You took out one of their featured artists, now they’re coming for yours. Should make for an interesting summer.”
Diana said, “We used freelance talent for Kazan.”
“I figured.”
“Because it’s not as straightforward as it used to be. Not with half the agencies in Europe thinking it’s funny to put our people on their watchlists. No more courtesy access, no more blind eyes turned to low-key incursions. No more short-cuts through friendly states. Cooperation strictly according to the book, which suddenly has a lot more small print than we’d thought.” She contemplated her wine glass, manoeuvring which was less complicated now it held half as much. “The many blessings of You-Know-What.”
“Don’t look at me,” said Lamb. “I voted Lib Dem.”
“Very funny. But my point was, we have tactical teams, sure, and we have operatives who could take even you down bare-handed, though I’m sure they’d prefer rubber gloves. But we don’t, as such, have an actual department. Where’d this rumour come from?”
“A little man at Old Miles’s.”
“And he, what, saw it on Twitter?”
“His partner was a journo, writing a book on Putin.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And died.”
“Killed?”
Lamb shrugged.
“Where?”
“Moscow.”
“This little man,” Diana said. “American?”
“Full-blooded Munchkin.”
“And his partner was a Russian citizen.” She made to inhale again, and thought better of it. “He’s been writing to the minister. Local reports called it natural causes.”
“And annoying Putin doesn’t count?”
Diana said, “Well, he wouldn’t be the first Russian journalist to walk into a bear trap.” She drank some wine. “If bodies start turning up, I’ll know we’ve got a problem. To add to my ever-growing list. In the meantime, I’m tired. Would you mind pissing off back wherever you call home?”
Lamb heaved himself up. When he stretched, she thought about bear traps again. He found another cigarette somewhere, and said, “Pretty impressive, though. Bankrolling a hit on a Moscow heavy without sanction from upstairs.”
“Maybe I’ve got a fairy godfather.”
“Let’s hope he doesn’t make an offer you can’t refuse.”
Foreboding washed over her, and the words were out before she could stop them. “I may have made a mistake, Jackson.”
He waited.
But she shook her head. “Ah, screw it. It is what it is. Isn’t that the current wisdom?”
“London rules, Taverner. If you’re big enough to admit you’ve made an error, you’re stupid enough to make another one.”
“Thanks.”
“And don’t fuck with my joes.”
“They’re not joes.”
“That wasn’t the important bit. The important bit was, do not fuck.” He nodded towards the door. “Can I come through the house?”
“No. You can leave the way you came.”
“I came through the house.”
“No you didn’t.”
She locked the sliding door behind her, and went up to the toilet. When she came back down the intruder light was off, and the garden empty.
“May we come in and look around?”
If it had been just her, no question.
The man said, “Jim and Jane. By the way.”
“He’s Jim,” the woman added. “I’m Jane.”
“We’re what you might call interested parties.”
“Interested in the concept, that is.”
“Shipping containers,” said Jim. “Residential. Brilliant.”
“Just brilliant.”
“And we’re very keen on exploring the potential further.”
“Possibly as a franchised opportunity,” said Jane.
“By which we mean, we would shoulder the design burden. And production costs, of course.”
“While you would retain the vision and the trademark rights.”
“We’d not ask you to sell your dream.”
“Who in their right mind would offer their dream for sale?”
“But we hope you’ll be interested in leasing it,” said Jim.
It was like being washed by gentle hands, thought Struan Loy. Like being oiled and towelled and given a happy ending. “Jim and Jane,” he said. Then he said, “Okay, Jim and Jane. Come in. Bring your bottles.”
He couldn’t help slipping into salesman mode as he stepped aside to let them enter. “Nice and spacious, as you can see. Plenty of . . . potential.”
There was only the one light, a battery-powered lantern, but it illuminated the amenities: the armchair, and the wooden crate seeing use as both table and kitchen. The camping stove sat on top of it, along with the pan in which he’d fried his sausages; probably still hot, but here was the beauty of his current lifestyle: who cared about scorch marks?
“Bit of a campsite, to be honest. Not actually ready for moving in, but I wanted to . . . test the ambience.”
Jim was looking round with interest.
Jane said, “What design did you have in mind? For the finished model, I mean?”
“Well,” said Loy. “Three rooms, really. A living-sleeping space, that would be most of it. And a shower, obviously, with the necessaries. And a separate kitchen.”
“With a good big window across the living space wall,” Jane said. “I like it. What are you using at the moment? For the—ah—necessaries?”
“Just going round back,” said Loy.
Jim was making admiring-type noises and, more importantly, unscrewing the top of the vodka bottle. It made that appealing snap as the seal broke. “You have glasses? Or plastics, even. We’re all friends here.”
Loy had two polystyrene beakers and a chipped mug.
“Perfect.”
Jim poured each of them a generous measure of vodka, and they toasted Struan Loy’s enterprise.
Jane kept up the chatter while Jim refreshed their drinks. They’d heard about the scheme while exploring investment opportunities, and their ears had pricked up. Well, housing. It was important to put something back, didn’t Struan think? Struan thought. Anyway, she could see why he’d had trouble with uptake, because people were so unimaginative these days, but anyone wit
h an ounce of vigour—hell, she wasn’t afraid of the word: anyone with spunk—could see that what Struan had come up with, his genius brainwave, was exactly what society had been waiting for. Man with a welding torch and the right attitude could have this space sorted in no time. And Struan was so right not to overcomplicate. Three rooms: bedroom, kitchen, bathroom. Or even—and she didn’t want to tread on toes here—but even you could make it just the two. Plenty of properties, studio flats, incorporated kitchen into living space, yes? Cut down on conversion expenses. But anyway, here was the other thing, they were stackable, shipping containers. Famous for it. What you had here, basically, was a whole apartment block waiting to be assembled. Little bit of clever with the outside staircases, and you were away. Had he thought about furnished or unfurnished? She bet the former. She could see he had an eye. Have some more vodka.
He had some more vodka.
It felt good going down. And Jane’s pep talk hit the spot too, reminding Struan what it was he’d seen in Johannesburg. Not just an opportunity, but a journey; somewhere he could point himself, and keep moving. Away from the bad luck that had dogged him so long. The only trouble, far as he could see—the only wasp in the suncream—was that things like this didn’t happen. Not to Struan Loy.