by Mick Herron
“Do they say you can go fuck yourself?”
“He’s funny,” said Shirley. “Can we keep him?”
“I know who’ll end up having to take him for walks,” Lamb said. “What’re you fidgeting with, anyway?”
It was a plastic lighter. “Found it on the pavement,” she said.
Lamb glared at everyone. “Don’t imagine I’m letting this slide. I start letting you comedians take the piss, you’d lose all respect.”
“And then where would we be?” said Catherine quietly.
Lech said, “We’ve talked our way round several houses. Are we closer to knowing what to do next?”
“What we do is, we go live,” said Lamb. “Because as we’ve just established, the GRU have more than one hit team.”
“. . . There’s another one out there?”
“Bound to be,” said Lamb. “And closer than you’d think.”
Out in Tonbridge, still groggy with sleep, River staggered for a piss about 6 a.m., and was jolted awake by his reflection in the mirror. He looked like windfall, and his hands were scabbed and torn. He washed them until they tingled with cold, while deep in the bones, the knuckles, the joints, the memory of what they’d done last night tingled too: holding the woman’s head in the lake until she died.
Then he walked through the house. It had grown smaller as he’d reached adulthood; was bigger again now, partly because it was empty; partly because property, anyway, looked huge now he was renting a one-bed in the capital. And partly because his past grew larger every day, and this was where most of it was. Even the absences told stories. Constellations of tiny holes in the walls were all that was left of the art that had hung here. He remembered finding Rose on the landing once, gazing at an etching, a few pencil lines summing up a doorway trailing ivy, and he hadn’t asked her what she was looking at—he could see what she was looking at—but wished now he’d thought to ask her what she saw.
As for what the O.B. had seen, and thought, River had his own memories to draw on. Some had faded. It had become popular to record the older generation’s words while they were around to deliver them, and it had occurred to River to tape his grandfather’s reminiscences, but only for as long as it took the notion to form. David Cartwright would never have allowed it, and to do so surreptitiously would have been tantamount to treason. So all River had was the old man’s library. If the O.B. had ever consigned his recollections to paper, the results would be hidden there somewhere. It was a memory palace made solid.
To which River now added his own memories, as if daubing a new picture on a used stretch of canvas. Sid was still asleep, curled in the armchair. It was good to see her peaceful, after last night’s alarms. He thought about chasing after her in the car; almost headbutting an oncoming vehicle. When someone you loved was in danger. That’s what he’d been thinking: someone he loved was in danger. And now she was sleeping in the room he’d grown up in.
His phone was on the table, reassembled, though nobody had taken advantage of this: no texts, no messages. He picked it up, looked at Sid, and wondered about taking her photo, before deciding this would be creepy beyond belief. But while the phone was in his hand he scanned the room anyway: the O.B.’s shelves, his books and mementoes, the print of The Night Watch above the fire; a six-second video that ended with Sid’s sleeping form. Okay, still creepy, but he could always delete it. He checked for messages again, but there weren’t any. Then remembered there were two bodies in the car outside, and wondered what he was playing at: mooning about like a lovestruck kid. He pocketed the phone, retreated from the room, and left the house.
The car was round back, where they’d left it. He’d thrown a blanket over the corpse in the seat well, a cunning ploy, and as he peered through the window could only make out a shapeless lump: all that was left of a would-be murderer. Well, seasoned assassin. Just not in River’s case. He didn’t open the boot. It was clear no one had come looking. He flexed his fingers, felt the tingle again; remembered the texture of the woman’s wet head. But he’d be better off right now putting together some breakfast.
Before going back in, he surveyed his surroundings. The garden his grandfather had loved had returned to the wilderness nature prefers; the weeds outnumbering the cultivated shrubs; the lawn peppered with dandelions and daisies. Somewhere underneath lay the canvas David Cartwright had painted, and maybe it would see the light again one day. Unlikely to be River’s doing. He walked round to the front. Is this yours? Wicinski had asked. And in answering—Yes, yes, it’s mine—River had felt the truth of it for the first time. It was his house. It had always been the house he’d grown up in—always been home—but until now it had been his grandfather’s property, and he’d simply lived in it. But now it was his. Was he really going to sell? It was the obvious, sensible thing to do. But standing here, knowing Sid was sleeping inside, obvious and sensible took on different shades. Most of his life was here. Assuming the rest of it lay elsewhere suddenly seemed presumptuous.
The other evening, contemplating his future, he’d pictured himself with a hand on the doorknob, ready to step into whatever the next room held.
So okay. Here he was.
River had his keys in his pocket, so used the front door for a change. Unlocked it and twisted the knob.
Stepped into his future.
Damien Cantor watched the footage from Oxford Circus sitting at his breakfast island: a marble-topped counter which weighed slightly less than a terraced house. Coffee in front of him, he was jiggling his foot to a mental beat, one matching the scenes on his laptop. The film hadn’t been broadcast yet—they’d been trailing snippets since five—but would go out with the 8 a.m. bulletin: catch the news-cycle where it hurt. Parts were rough, but that was fine—would show the viewer it was raw, and really happened. He particularly liked the bit where the bin went through the window. The crew had grabbed a blurry outline of the man responsible, the red sweater beneath the yellow vest, without catching his face. It was good to have Tommo Doyle back on the payroll.
Good to have Peter Judd owing him a favour, too. He’d made like they were scratching each other’s backs—Cantor catches the story; Judd’s man Flint catches some headlines—but they both knew where the truth lay. Judd was looking to be a kingmaker, and the last time there’d been one of those without a TV channel providing back-up, everyone involved had been wearing frock coats. So Judd owed him. It was the way of the world.
He got up, stretched, poured another cup, then spent a moment gazing at the city: its skyline a tourist magnet, its weather a systems glitch. But Jesus, the money pouring through it, day after day. Even on the domestic level. This apartment, forty floors up—the perfect bachelor pad, though he never let his wife hear him call it that—the maintenance charge alone would cripple a prince. But it was worth it for this view, which wasn’t just what you could see, it was knowing how few shared it. Sure, there was a viewing platform, but that was just to show people what they didn’t have. There was a sense in which this encouraged them to dream huge dreams, but there was another much bigger sense in which it told them to fuck off. Cantor approved of a system which had allowed him to get rich, but he also believed in pulling the ladder up afterwards. If everyone succeeded, nobody did. Anything else was basically communism.
His phone rang, intruding on philosophy.
It was lobby security, the morning guy—Clyde or Claude or something—and was he expecting a visitor? Claude or Clyde looked like a prop forward for Western Samoa, and hadn’t sat an IQ test to get the job, but seriously: it was seven o’fucking clock in the morning. He’d have to be having a Viagra-induced emergency to be expecting a visitor.
“Did they give a name?”
“Sir, he says he’s from . . .”
Muffled dialogue took place.
“Sir, he says he’s from a Diana Taverner?”
Okay, thought Cantor. That’ll add flavour to an
already spicy morning. “Thank you, Clyde. Send him up.”
“It’s Clifton, sir.”
“Yeah. Send him up. The flat, not the studio.”
The lifts were fast, but not that fast. Cantor had time to finish his coffee before his visitor arrived.
There’s a sense in which any leader in a field feels closer to her opposite number than to her immediate colleagues. There’s another, more important sense in which she wants to mince that opposite number into bite-sized chunks and strew them in the path of hungry beasts, but still: talking to Vassily Rasnokov, Diana Taverner couldn’t help but feel that there was a level on which they understood each other better than anyone else. Rather like her relationship with Jackson Lamb might be, if she and Lamb were on opposing sides. So, rather like her relationship with Jackson Lamb. Though she and Lamb had yet to reach the point where they were counting each other’s dead.
“You’ve put a team across our borders, Vassily.”
“A ‘team’?”
“Again.”
“We allow freedom of movement to our citizens, Diana. Surely you remember what that was like? And there are many beautiful things to see in your country. All those church spires. Who could blame anyone for wanting to spend their leisure time visiting your fabled attractions?”
“Please. They’ve not been admiring our architecture, they’ve been painting our walls.”
“I’m not familiar with the expression.”
Like hell he wasn’t.
Diana was on the roof. The phone wasn’t a burner, exactly, but it was one she only used for calling Rasnokov—current First Desk at the GRU—and she never did that in her office. Around her, below her, the city was making those incoherent early morning noises, sometimes ascribed to traffic and the raising of metal shutters, which meant it hadn’t yet decided what day-face to wear; the happy, sunny, get-things-done one, or the grubby, sullen, no-eye-contact glower.
She knew how it felt.
Rasnokov said, “We also are concerned about a regrettable murder within our borders. A young woman, a secretary with the GRU, was killed right here on the streets of her own city.”
“A secretary,” said Diana. “Is that right?”
“I’m sorry, do I have that idiom correctly? You are asking for clarification?”
“No. I understand.”
“I’m pleased to hear that. She was apparently the victim of street-crime, which raised suspicion among the investigators, as this is much rarer here than in your West. Much, much rarer. So they examined the case closely, and came to the conclusion that this murder was carried out by foreigners. Foreign . . . mercenaries? I think there’s a more accurate term.”
“Hitmen.”
“Yes, thank you. Foreign hitmen. You can imagine the distress. To have a citizen cut down by foreign criminals, professional assassins. Our president was most concerned that such activities should not go unchecked.”
“And was he reminded that the action was not unprovoked?”
“The president remained focused on the details. A grave insult had been paid to an arm of our national security. Such insults must receive the appropriate response.”
“Which is where we came in. That incident was itself a measured and appropriate response to an outrageous act. You damn well know that.”
Rasnokov did not reply. Diana filled the gap by walking to the edge of the building and looking down. She liked to think she had a head for heights, but there was something about watching people far below, people who imagined themselves unobserved, that provoked dizziness.
She stepped back.
“And to continue along this path, this repeated exchange of appropriate responses . . . Where’s that going to lead, do you think? Anywhere good?”
The silence continued.
It was going to be a long day. The boys and girls on the hub had been at it all night, combing through CCTV, ANPR, whatever they could squeeze from GCHQ, but the team responsible for dropping Kay White off a ladder, burning up Struan Loy, and frightening Sidonie Baker into the shadows had vanished from sight. The last time a pair of the GRU’s worst and wildest had broached UK borders, they’d arrived bearing sequentially numbered passports. That might have looked like a schoolboy error, but felt, in hindsight, like a two-fingered salute. The current model had been less openly abrasive, and, murders apart, hadn’t left a footprint. Or not one the hub had yet identified.
Rasnokov spoke at last. “We have no listening ears?”
“None this side, Vassily.”
He hesitated again. “It is perhaps fair to say that the decision to, how can I put this? The decision to visit your marvellous cathedral was taken over my head. And might better have been left untaken.”
That he was saying this surprised her, but not its import. Rasnokov was as capable of brutal thuggery as the next man, but he’d never struck her as mad. And the original attack had been set in motion by a madman.
She said, “And you can’t have expected us to leave it at that, Vassily. We’ve already spoken of how such actions amount to insults.”
“There was speculation that your Service lacked the necessary resources to indulge in such an extravagant response.”
“Then your speculations are out of date, aren’t they? We’re not as strapped for cash as you imagine.”
“‘Strapped for cash’?”
“Short of money.”
“Ah, yes. ‘Strapped for cash.’ I like that.”
“Happy to help. So what about your current . . . tourists? Were they also wished on you from on high?”
She took his silence for assent.
It was going to be a long day, yes, but there was a glimmer of hope here. If she could tie a ribbon round the GRU hit team, she’d be able to focus on her other problems. Making truce would mean allowing the Russians to walk away, of course, but this wouldn’t be a public humiliation: the un-newsworthy deaths of a few former spooks hadn’t created the waves that the murder of a citizen had. Nobody missed a slow horse.
Jackson Lamb aside, that was. But she could deal with him later.
Rasnokov said, “Our current tourists. It might be fair to say that in this day and age, a time of environmental concerns, such holiday-making is uncalled for. The costs to the planet are too high. It might have been better had they too stayed at home.”
She took a breath. “So call them back.”
“That would be one solution. Though I worry that their passage home might not be a smooth one. So many hold-ups occur these days. Major inconveniences.”
“Things aren’t as bad as they were. You might find that their journey is untroubled.”
“That would put everyone’s mind at rest. But I have to ask, what sort of premium would be charged for such a guarantee?”
It was good of him to offer, and saved her raising the question herself.
She said, “Well, Vassily, I always find it interesting to look at other people’s holiday snaps, don’t you? I wonder if you have any to share?”
Cantor said, “No way.”
He waited.
“No way are you a spook.”
Reece Nesmith III said, “I never said I was.”
Cantor’s apartment looked like a movie set: the furniture matched; the bookshelves were colour-coded; artworks occupied shelves, and the kitchen area featured a marble counter big enough to skate on. But mostly there was the view. London was huge, and from here you could see all of it: its towers and bridges, its ups and downs, its pains and its profits. You could see London’s edges from here. You could see where London ended.
And in a movie, Reece thought, this would be the lair of a villain who might be able to arrange just that.
And now Cantor was clicking his fingers, retrieving a memory. “But I know you. I do know you. You were hassling Bud.”
This was true. Bud
Feathernet was the Channel Go news anchor, whom Reece had tracked via Twitter to a restaurant, and badgered in a booth; he’d told him about Andrey, how Andy had been murdered on the orders of Russia’s president. If that wasn’t a headline, what was? But there was a chasm Reece was unable to throw his story across. Andy had been the kind of journalist who ended up dead. Feathernet was the kind who’d end up hosting a chat show. And on the evening in question, he was the kind who’d had Reece thrown out of a restaurant.
“He mentioned it at morning briefing. Some freak kicking off while he was trying to have dinner. Not the way to win friends and influence people.”
“He wouldn’t listen.”
“Course he wouldn’t. Look, if your boyfriend hadn’t been Russian, we might have had a story. And if he’d been your girlfriend. But frankly, my viewers wouldn’t give a shit. You’re an American, you’re gay, you’re a dwarf. Put it on YouTube.” Cantor was on his feet, playing the height advantage for all it was worth. “Now, you told Claude you have a message from Diana Taverner.”
“I think his name was Clifton.”
“Yeah, because that’s what’s important, that we get the names of the staff right. That was a lie to get you in, I see that. And the only reason I haven’t kicked you back downstairs is, I want to know how you knew which name to drop. So talk.”
Reece said, “I’m not from Taverner. But I do have a message.”
He was getting into this. He’d spent weeks hammering on doors that wouldn’t open, telling his story to people who wouldn’t listen. The most attention he’d had was from Jackson Lamb, and even he hadn’t cared. People die. You should get used to that. But suddenly something was happening. He’d been handed a lever and told to pull it. It wouldn’t bring Andrey back, but would hurt those responsible for his death. That’s what Lamb had said, anyway.
“He’s not going to be frightened of me,” Reece had said.