by Mick Herron
Ho said, “Married, two boys. But they live in Hove. He lives here, mostly.”
“Sensible man. Well, I say sensible. But cutting deals with Russian intelligence? What’s he doing, running for office?” He uncapped the bottle. “No, I plan to reach out to our Mr. Cantor. Let him know he’s playing with the big boys.” For a moment he studied the whisky’s label, frowning, as if troubled by the ordeal ahead. Then he tipped the bottle and poured a glassful into his waiting mouth.
That done, he said: “And as it happens, I’ve just the man for the job.”
Careful editing made it seem heroic: Desmond Flint, approaching the mob swarming Oxford Circus.
Police were massing on the approach roads, but focusing their attention on calming traffic, rather than crowd dispersal. Nor had there been violence, broken window aside. But there was noise and heat and movement; that mixture of anger and unwarranted triumph that can turn a pub quiz into a warzone. From a distance, it wasn’t clear where the lines had been drawn. A bus driver had opened his door to engage in what might have been debate, might have been an exchange of threats: it was hard to tell. But what was certain was that this was an interim stage, a balancing act; as in any other circus, a tightrope was being walked. And one slippery moment might bring the tent down.
So into the spotlight walked Desmond Flint. His first steps seemed hesitant, but something changed the nearer he drew, as if he appreciated that the next few moments would define him ever after. He’d never be mistaken for Gary Cooper—he was a man for whom “match-ready” meant a fridge full of beer and a new battery in the remote—but he walked taller the last twenty yards, his strides longer. He developed purpose.
There was speculation afterwards as to where he’d laid his hands on a megaphone—did he take one everywhere, just in case?—but he brushed the question aside, saying only “Someone put it in my hand,” never adding who or when; never mentioning Peter Judd. And when the camera caught him raising it mouthwards, the resulting image became a photoshopped meme: Desmond Flint facing a tank in Tiananmen Square, planting his foot on the moon, standing on a balcony in papal white. You all know me—it’s Flinty.
As Judd remarked later, “History has an open-door policy. Any fool can walk right in.”
Flint’s appeal to the crowd appeared in several British newspapers the following day, though the punctuation differed in each.
“You all know me—it’s Flinty. And I’m proud to be standing here wearing the same vest as the rest of you. The vest of the British worker, us who dug these very roads, built these very buildings all around you. The heart of London, this is—the heart of what used to be a great and proud empire. And I know why you’re angry, why you feel like kicking off. I do too. I do too. Because that birthright, that word ‘Great’ that comes before Britain, we’ve seen it trampled in the dirt, haven’t we? We’ve been lied to and talked down to for years. And I’m as angry about that as you are, trust me. Because I’m one of you, and you all know that. We’ve stood shoulder to shoulder, we’ve drunk from the same flasks of tea. Nights like this, and worse nights too—nights when it was cold and wet, and it was only our knowledge, only the knowledge that we were doing the right thing, kept us out here, making sure our voices would be heard. Heard all the way down the road there, at the BBC—which ought to be ashamed of itself, pretending to speak for Britain—and all the way in the other direction too, in Westminster, where the fat cats spend their days with their noses in the cream. And we’re going to keep doing that, brothers. Yes, and sisters too. We’re going to keep doing that, and the day is coming when they’ll stop pretending to listen and actually open their bloody ears. And when that happens, I’ll be the one letting them know what we’re demanding. And you trust me to do that, don’t you? You trust me to see you right!”
In the pause he allowed here, a heartbeat’s silence filled the streets before the response arrived: a muttering that grew to a roar, accompanied by the stamping of feet, and the slapping of hands on the sides of cars and buses. Up the road, leaning against his taxi, Peter Judd nodded, appreciating the timing. You couldn’t call it oratory. But it was getting the job done.
“Thank you. Thank you. I can’t tell you what it means to me, to know I’ve got your support in the battles that lie ahead. Because that’s what’s important. But right now, right this moment, what I want you to do is call it a night. I want you to call it off now, this legal gathering of like-minded citizens, and go back to your homes. I’ve been assured you’ll be allowed to leave peacefully, just as I’ve been assured that the police will be looking very carefully for those saboteurs, those victorious agents of provocation, who came here tonight to deliberately cause misrule. Not our people. Not our message. These people are the enemy, and they came here to make it seem as if we were the violent ones, that our protest is violent. Which it isn’t. It isn’t. We only want to have our voices heard. But for now, for right now, we need to make it clear that it’s us who’s the victims here, us who’s seeking justice. And we won’t allow our movement to be sullied, tarnished, by the enemy within.”
The unknown “victorious agents of provocation” were another cause of speculation in the press, and the assurances Flint spoke of were as mysteriously sourced as his megaphone. But by the time the questions were asked, the answers had lost relevance. Once you have them by the headlines, as Judd had been known to observe, their dicks will surely follow.
“That’s right. Just pack it away, now. It’s been a good evening’s work, because we’ve shown we won’t be treated like dirt, and we’ve shown how calm we can be when we’re provoked. So we can hold our heads high now, and we’ll be back, won’t we? We’re all coming back. Thank you. God bless. God bless.”
Channelling a televangelist for some reason, but it didn’t matter: the rousing cheer it produced put a seal on events. The crowd began to disperse. A few vests paused to nod to Flinty, or clap him on the back, but nobody tarried long. That would have been to tempt fate; to take what felt like victory and hold it to the light. Some things are best not examined closely.
Though there were several TV crews in place by this time—and dozens of phones had captured Flint’s address—only Channel Go had been there for the moment that started the disturbance, the breaking of the window. But although that small piece of action featured prominently in the channel’s coverage, at no point did the camera get a clear view of the troublemaker’s face.
And while the red sweater was recovered from a bin once the crowd had dispersed, its wearer was never found.
The two cars arrived at the O.B.’s at much the same moment, River having just put his complaining vehicle out of its misery as Lech’s headlights peeped round the curve in the opposite direction, sculpting a long green shape from the darkness. Sid gripped his elbow. “It’s okay,” he said, recognising Louisa’s car, and only mildly perturbed when he saw that it contained Lech and Shirley. “They’re with me.”
The four converged on the lane, and River, conscious that he and Sid were both wet and damaged, made brief introductions.
Shirley said, “So you’re the dead chick.”
“Thanks.”
“No, I meant it in a good way.”
Sid looked at River. “Slough House hasn’t changed, then.”
“Not so you’d notice.”
Lech said, “Maybe we should take this inside? I’m presuming that’s your house?”
Mine, yes, thought River. It had taken a while, but felt true now: this was his house. He led them round the back, shuffling broken glass aside with his foot as he held the door. Lech, he saw, was carrying a mobile. “I thought we’d gone dark.”
“Situation’s fluid. You know there’s a GRU team out there?”
“We noticed.”
They went into the study, Sid automatically heading for the O.B.’s chair. She snapped the standard lamp on, and the room adopted a soft yellow sheen, a cosiness t
hat felt unreal after the evening’s events. As if they’d reassembled on a stage, having murdered the supporting cast in the wings. River, standing by Sid, noticed she smelled of lake water. He must do too.
Lech said, “You’ve been swimming? Or mud wrestling?”
Sid said, “They found us. Found me.”
“Okay . . .”
“And they’re no longer a problem,” said River.
“Hey, cool,” said Shirley.
Lech raised an eyebrow.
“You think we’re kidding?”
“I’m just getting to grips,” Lech said. “I’m an analyst, not a field agent.”
Shirley had found the melted gun. “Did this just happen? Or is it one you prepared earlier?”
River took it from her and put it on its shelf. “They came after us. And they’re both dead. In a car. Back the way we came from.”
“They died in a car?”
“They’re dead in a car,” River clarified.
Something in his tone dissuaded even Shirley from seeking details.
“So what happens now?” Lech asked.
River could feel his body complaining: newborn bruises waking up. Stretched muscles, thudding aches. He’d held the woman’s head under water until she’d ceased to be. That was something he’d have to live with, and he guessed he was up to the task: she’d come to kill him, Sid too. It was the very definition of self-defence. So yes, give it time, he’d climb over that memory, but here and now he could feel the aches and pains of their struggle, and all he wanted was sleep. On one level, he was grateful to Shirley and Lech for coming; grateful even to Lamb for sending them. On another, he wanted everyone except Sid to fuck off and leave him alone.
But what he said was, “We’d better collect that car. Before anyone finds it.”
In the dimly lit room, Lech’s facial scarring looked like ten o’clock shadow. “Collect it and then what?”
For a moment River thought about pushing it into the lake, letting it settle among the weeds. A movie-solution, which in real life would end in a half-submerged fiasco, a crowd of onlookers, and everybody wet. “Bring it back here,” he said. “Once we’ve gone light again, the cleaners can take it away.”
The best kind of problem was one that highly trained specialists would turn up and deal with.
“I’ll drive,” Shirley said.
“You’re still drunk,” said Lech.
She made a So what? face, but he wasn’t looking, so she turned to River. “How messy are they?”
Instead of answering, River took Sid’s hand. “I’ll be back soon.”
“I’ll wait here.”
A glimpse of the old Sid showing through, he thought.
Shirley said, “And what am I supposed to do?”
“There’s a kettle, there are tea bags,” River assured her. “You’ll think of something.” He let go of Sid’s hand, and he and Lech went outside. He was cold; could usefully have changed into dry clothing, if he’d had any. Brief, vivid snapshots of the struggle by the lake kept bursting into mind. He flinched involuntarily, and to cover up asked, “What happened back in town?”
There was a pause long enough that River figured he wasn’t the only one who’d had an interesting evening. Then Lech said, “Lamb had a showdown with Taverner. Now we’re safe-housed.”
“Everyone all right?”
“We left them eating an Indian takeaway.”
“Did you keep the receipt?”
“Gave it to Lamb,” said Lech. “Why?”
“No reason,” said River, deciding this wasn’t the time to explain that expenses claims filed through Lamb were a lost cause.
The drive felt shorter this time, though Lech wasn’t approaching the mad speeds River had reached. Several times, they had to pull into the side to allow an oncoming car to pass. He’d got lucky, River thought, on his earlier journey. Just the one near-collision. And only two assassins. Could have been worse, which it was about to be. Because as Lech turned into the parking space among the trees, his headlights caught movement: there were now three other vehicles there; two in the far corner, and one beside the car containing the bodies. Around it, three shapes had gathered.
“Oh shit,” said River, and remembered the hide. “Birdwatchers?”
“Uh, not exactly,” Lech said. “I think they’re dogging.”
I’ve just the man for the job, Lamb had said, so Louisa was heading into the underground again, alongside drinkers and filmgoers, the theatre crowd, late-shift retailers, and those with cleaning and maintenance jobs, heading from one place of work to the next. You could always tell day from night on the Tube, she thought. Lighting was constant, temperature didn’t much vary. But you could always tell day from night.
Roderick Ho was with her, not because she needed back-up, but because Lamb wanted rid of him.
Waiting, she scanned ads for banks, for estate agencies, for online services. Credit was available, at rates set by Satan. She thought of Lamb’s face on the phone to River; that pause when River told him the hit team was dead. No details, but River had no gun, and improvisation was messy. Meanwhile, people went to and from work, and stopped out late for a drink, and sank deeper into debt. She had a foot in both worlds: owned her own flat, drove her own car, had shot a few people. But she never had money over at the end of the month, her pension forecast wasn’t rosy, her team had gone dark, there were bodies somewhere, and Lamb had a plan up his sleeve.
A train was approaching. She glanced at Roderick Ho, engrossed in an ad for bathroom fittings, which featured, inevitably, a barely clad female. He’d answered No when Catherine asked who remembered Kay White, who remembered Struan Loy, but Louisa would bet he remembered Sid Baker. Sid had been smart, and while that wasn’t likely to figure among Ho’s priorities, she’d been a looker too, and that ticked his box. Roddy was a looker himself, but only in the active sense: when a woman wandered into view, he looked. Sometimes, she’d noticed, his lips moved, as if he were adding a silent voiceover. In some ways she’d like to hear that, but in many more ways wouldn’t. What happened inside Roderick Ho’s head was best kept secret, like a nuclear launch code, or the PM’s browsing history.
The train stopped, and as they boarded Louisa said, “Probably best if we don’t sit together.” With a quick movement of her head, she indicated the other travellers. “You never know.”
Roddy nodded wisely. He’d been going to suggest the same thing. They didn’t call it the underground for nothing. Well, it was under the ground, but even so: exactly the territory you’d find the opposition lurking. You had to be sharp to spot a pro, mind. Case in point, Roddy himself: black hoodie, black jeans—classic, but blended in. Edgy undercurrent, because you couldn’t switch that off, but it wasn’t like he was making it obvious; not like he was sporting a branded baseball cap . . . There was a poster on a council building near his home, something about fostering children. “Not all superheroes wear capes,” it read. Well duh, thought Roddy. Spider-Man? Captain America? Sheesh. Who writes this stuff? But anyway, yeah, there was an underlying truth there: you didn’t have to dress the role, you just had to play the part. Always be alert, that was the key. Always bring your A-game. Like earlier, when he’d lured that tail into Lamb’s trap—they’d only got this far because he’d done that. The Rodster on all cylinders as usual, ensuring Lamb got the outcome he needed, and now working the underground with the same silent dedication: never a moment’s downtime. Dude has no off button, they probably said about him. Dude is like permanent. Though now he thought about it, a branded baseball cap might be cool. There was a place near him, they did T-shirts and stuff, he could probably get them to slap a slogan on some headgear. Spook at work. Little private joke, because everyone would assume he was wearing it to win cool points, never realising that beneath the outward flair lay constant vigilance.
Someone was kicking hi
s foot. “Hey!”
“. . . Huh?”
“It’s our stop.”
Up the stairs and out of the station. It was full on dark, and the streets had fallen into alternative ownership, those who were deferential by daylight having less reason to play meek now, given that any civilians still abroad had either spared all the change they were likely to, or long since grown blind to those asking. A few middle-aged men in yellow vests passed, discussing the events of their evening, the name Flinty featuring largely. Soon Louisa and Roddy were off the main drag, most of whose restaurants had Perspex canopies sheltering pavement tables, and into the back streets, whose terraces were a mixture of shared-residential and business premises, the latter with posters pasted on their doors: Made-to-measure tailoring. Gold bought. Cleaning services. A shop window displayed a collage of property cards: flats and houses to let. The next door along was the one they were after.
“What was his name?” Ho asked.
“Just ring the bell,” she told him.
Late to be a social call, which meant he might be out, might be in bed, but he was neither; was coming down the stairs, she could hear his tread. And remembered how Lamb had described him, so wasn’t fazed when he opened the door and looked up at them.
“You’re Reece Nesmith?” she asked.
“Who are you?”
“I think you’ve met our boss,” she said. “Can we come in?”
“So. How does it look from here?”
“Here” was a hotel hard by the BBC, one Peter Judd favoured for its bar, fifteen floors up. Its views of London suited him, especially after dark, when they revealed the city as gleaming clusters of power and influence; a collection of properties arrayed for the delight of those with the altitude to appreciate them. Which he was now doing, large brandy in hand.
Desmond Flint gave the question some thought. “It looks . . . Expensive.”