Slough House

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Slough House Page 27

by Mick Herron


  “No,” Lamb agreed. “I mean, he might worry about tripping over you. But you’re hardly gunna have him quivering in his socks.”

  “So what am I supposed to be doing?”

  “Softening him up,” Lamb had said.

  “What message?” Cantor asked.

  Reece said, “You had your man steal information from Regent’s Park. About a particular department of the Service. And you passed that information to Russian intelligence.”

  “Russian intelligence? Get out of here.”

  “Well, you probably pretended you didn’t know that’s who they were. But you certainly knew, when you handed the information over, where it would end up.”

  “Just supposing you weren’t talking nonsense. How do you know any of this?”

  “Oh, I hear stuff other people miss. You might have noticed, I keep my ears close to the ground.”

  This with an internal middle-finger salute to Jackson Lamb.

  Cantor had picked up an empty coffee mug and seemed to be weighing it in his hands. “Is this some weird kind of blackmail threat? Because Taverner isn’t going to make waves. I’m in the inner circle. You know how that works?”

  Reece thought: stick to the script. Tell him what Lamb wants him to hear, and get out. It doesn’t matter whether he believes you. You’re simply sowing the seed.

  He said, “Taverner ordered the Kazan hit.”

  Cantor looked startled, but not so much he dropped the cup. “I know. I was at the after-party.”

  “This made people in Moscow very mad.”

  “Good.”

  “And now they’re using the information you gave them to take their revenge. They’ve been murdering the people in the file you passed on.” Reece leaned on each word equally: “British secret service agents.”

  Cantor had gone pale. “I don’t think so. I’d know about it if that was happening.”

  “Only if Taverner wanted you to know. And this is not something the Park wants in the headlines. But that doesn’t mean they won’t act on it.”

  “What does that mean—‘act on it’?”

  “Join the dots. You’re responsible for the murders of several Park employees. You think the inner circle’s small enough they’ll let you get away with that?”

  “This is bullshit.”

  “Which bits? The part about you having your man steal that file? Or the bit where you handed it on to your Russian contacts?”

  “Okay. Time for you to go now.”

  But Reece had one last shot to fire. “You know what’s funny?”

  “All of it,” said Cantor. “It’s one long fantasy.”

  “No, what’s funny is, Taverner wants you toasted both sides. But that Russian crew leaving bodies everywhere? As far as they’re concerned, you’re their best mate. Better hope they reach you before the Park does.”

  “Fuck off.”

  Before he reached the door, Reece said, “I wouldn’t stand too close to those windows. Regent’s Park hire some pretty sharp shooters.”

  He was confident you’d need a tank to break that glass. But it wouldn’t hurt to have Cantor think there might be one nearby.

  Diana remained where she was after ending her call, adding a cigarette butt to the cairn on an air vent’s flat top. The day was settling on its mood: sunny with grim intervals. Her own outlook was pretty much the inverse. It would give her no pleasure to call off the hunt for Moscow’s hit squad. Amnesty was too big a concession, even if their victims were ex-Slough House, too lowly for a Spook’s Chapel send-off. There should have been retribution. And if Lamb found out about the deal she’d just agreed there probably would be, even if disproportionate and wrongly directed.

  But there was sunshine too. Cantor was hers now. If she’d thought she’d get away with it, she’d have let Vassily Rasnokov think she didn’t know who’d stolen the Slough House file, but that wouldn’t fly. If Rasnokov thought Diana incapable of discovering that much, he’d have been too busy pissing himself laughing to take her call. So there was no chance she could turn Cantor round and use him to feed Moscow a bullshit buffet. Instead, she had Cantor himself, because Rasnokov had holiday snaps all right—everyone took holiday snaps. Rasnokov had sound and vision of Cantor handing the stolen file to his Russian new-media exec pals, because Moscow Rules and London Rules shared this much in common: once you handed over secrets, you became the product. Cantor would have found out the hard way that you never feed a cat just once. You feed a cat, it owns you ever after.

  The same sets of rules said you never burned an asset either, but Rasnokov was old-school Spook Street. No way would he leave his crew out in joe country, even when the crew were a pair of assassins, and the mission one he hadn’t believed in. He wanted them brought home, because that was what you did. You brought your joes back, or buried them yourself. If that cost you an asset, so be it.

  And hidden in there was another ray of sunshine: Rasnokov’s admission that he’d not have sent his crew into the field if he hadn’t been pressured from above.

  That was more than sunshine; it almost promised a summer. But while the glimmer of a crack in Moscow’s walls was a fine thing to contemplate, there was also the possibility that Rasnokov wanted her to believe that such a crack existed; had given her a glimpse of it simply in order to get his joes back. So yes, she’d think hard on that, but not right now. She had other eggs to boil. Her back to the view, she took out her main phone and rang the first number on her contact list.

  “I need to see him,” she said.

  And then, moments later, “Four o’clock. Yes. Thank you.”

  She put the phone away.

  Next, she’d call off the search for the hit squad. This would cause muttering, but First Desk didn’t have to listen, she just had to give orders. And if everyone else fell in line, then, grim intervals or not, she could come out of the far end of today back on top.

  Just so long as nobody fucked things up in the meantime.

  A handwritten notice pasted to the window offered thanks, blessings and farewells to friends and customers, and then said the same thing over again, presumably, in, presumably, Polish. That much Shirley Dander had taken in before getting down on her knees. Roderick Ho stood to one side, pretending to speak into a mobile phone, while she got busy with what Lamb had assured her was a set of global skeleton keys, good for any standard-issue lock; an assurance that, so far, had proved as sound as one of his motivational homilies.

  “Bastard thing.”

  Into his phone, Ho said, “I’ve given my instructions. I expect them to be acted on immediately, capisce?”

  “Supposed to be blending in,” Shirley muttered. “Not dicking out.”

  Because it was a busy midweek morning Roddy Ho had opted for camouflage, and as well as his phone was holding a clipboard Catherine Standish had found. This made him look, Shirley claimed, like a nervous driving instructor, to which Ho had retorted that he was, in fact, as chilled as . . .

  Minutes passed.

  None of these damn keys fit.

  “. . . Samuel L. Jackson’s drinks cabinet.”

  “What?”

  “That’s how chilled.”

  “You’re supposed to be on the phone. Not talking to me.”

  Roddy said into his mobile, “Nah, no one important. Just some underling whose arse needs kicking.”

  “Like that’s gunna happen.” Shirley had had haircuts that had done more damage than Ho was capable of.

  The next key was also a failure.

  “Is it opening again?”

  “. . . I’m sorry?”

  “The shop.” It was an elderly woman wheeling a shopping basket. “Old Miles’s.”

  Shirley looked at Ho, who was supposed to be running interference, but was too wrapped up in his imaginary phone call. Then again, it might be the most mea
ningful encounter he’d had in a while. He’d probably end up arranging to meet himself for a drink.

  “Health and safety,” she said. “Just entering to check for . . . subsidence.”

  “Ooh, are we about to fall down a big hole?”

  “I’d not be surprised,” said Shirley, as the current key clicked sweetly into place, the way a jam-jar lid comes loose. “Probably best to be far away.”

  Roddy said, “Okay, gotta run. Hang cool,” and ended his call.

  He followed her inside, closing the door behind them.

  The shop had only been shut a day or so, and yet an air of finality had dropped on it like a dust sheet. Emptied of goods, the shelving looked rackety and unstable, as if a heavy finger might bring it down, and the space on the counter where the till had sat for decades was seven shades lighter than the surrounding surface. Shirley shook her head. She rarely entered a shop more than two years old. And that retailer’s sweet spot, the gap between opening day bargains and closing-down sale, she made a point of avoiding.

  There was a door behind the counter, leading to the stairs Lamb had mentioned, and Shirley headed straight for it.

  Roddy Ho put his clipboard down and followed. She had, he thought, taken long enough to get them in. Lamb would have expected this; when handing her rather than Roddy the skeleton set he’d bestowed upon the latter the ghost of a wink, discernible to no one. You’d be past that lock like a greased ghost. But let’s give someone else the chance to shine. Nice gesture, but men were just better at the practical stuff—facts and stats, dude. Facts and stats. Three more doors off the landing, two of them open. Time to take charge. Holding one commanding hand up to halt Shirley, Roddy put the other on the knob of the closed door. Twisted and pushed in one swift movement.

  “Locked.”

  “Yeah, try pulling?”

  He pulled, and the door opened on an empty toilet.

  “Ho,” she said, “you’re as stylish as a man-bun.”

  The other two rooms were also empty, with bare floorboards that moaned underfoot, and a lingering odour of cigarettes. In the back one there was a steel shutter over the window, padlocked in place. That was good.

  “Okay, gimme the stuff.”

  Ho slipped his rucksack from his shoulders.

  Shirley unzipped it and got to work.

  The studio was buzzing, everyone hyper about the morning broadcast—London had a new hero, the riot-quelling Desmond Flint, and only Channel Go had his number. Already they were trailing an exclusive interview, Peter Judd having promised them an on-air sit-down with his man before the week’s end; one that would demonstrate that UK politics’ former Mr. Angry had emerged from his chrysalis; was a man with wise things to say about the mood of the country, and gumption enough to get stuff done. Already Cantor had received calls from the broadsheets, looking at “expanding the coverage,” meaning riding his coattails. Yeah, right. But his heart wasn’t in it, unable to shake his early morning visitor.

  I wouldn’t stand too close to those windows. Regent’s Park hire some pretty sharp shooters.

  It was stupid, pathetic, an obvious ruse. No way would Taverner be looking to cancel his account. Sure, he’d rubbed her up the wrong way, and yeah, Tommo Doyle had lifted a file from Regent’s Park’s archive, but that was just gamesmanship: Taverner knew that. And maybe he’d passed that file to some foreign media contacts—okay, Russian media contacts—but business knew no borders, and favours were made to be traded. The uses to which shared knowledge might be put couldn’t be laid at his door. Besides, these windows were high: you’d need a helicopter. You’d need a satellite. Simply put, he was too tall to fall. He was out of reach.

  “Damien? Someone trying to reach you.”

  “. . . Huh?”

  “Caller on line one.”

  He punched a button. “Cantor.”

  “Mr. Cantor?” The voice had a guttural quality, as if the words were being dragged past an obstruction in the throat. “How good to speak to you.”

  “Who is this?”

  “This is your new best friend, Mr. Cantor.”

  “My new best friend,” he repeated.

  “Yes. And I’m calling to let you know how much shit you’re in, and how best to avoid it.”

  Trying not to think about windows, Cantor sank into his chair and listened.

  When it was done, Lech slipped his phone into his pocket and looked at Louisa. “Well?”

  “How’d he take it?”

  “Like he didn’t believe a word I said.”

  “Well, that’s what he’d want you to think either way.”

  “Spoken like a spook,” he muttered.

  “Glad to hear it.” She raised her own phone. “My turn.”

  At ten forty three—Catherine happened to be looking at her watch—Lamb started coughing, and didn’t stop for eight minutes. There wasn’t a lot she could do. He presumably accepted these fits as a lifestyle tax, so why shouldn’t she? Rinsing a takeaway cup, she filled it with water, placed it by his elbow and let him get on with it.

  At ten fifty-one, she said, “Feeling better?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “That was your version of an aerobics workout, was it?”

  “Just the body’s way of expelling bad matter.”

  “How does it know when to stop?” She handed him a tissue. “When did you last see a doctor?”

  “I think it was William Hartnell,” said Lamb. “Have I missed much?” He dabbed his face, picked up the cup, drained half of it, realised what it was, scowled, and drained the rest. “Where’s the lawn ornament?”

  “If you’re referring to Mr. Nesmith, he left.”

  “Did I tell him he could go?”

  “You might be mistaking him for someone who works for you.”

  Lamb thought about this, then nodded. “Yeah, I can see how that might happen. He had that miserable-loser look.”

  “And yet he fulfilled his mission. Is what you’re doing wise, do you think?”

  Lamb, who had found a cigarette to soothe his frame, paused in his hunt for a lighter. “You’ll have to narrow it down.”

  “Well, that, obviously. But I meant this game you’re playing with Cantor. He’s the Park’s problem, not ours. And I don’t imagine Taverner plans to let him walk away scot-free, do you?”

  “Well, it’s true I like to win in the long term,” Lamb said. “But I like to win in the short term too. Besides, Taverner’s got more problems than you know. She can’t settle Cantor’s hash until she’s sure she won’t get caught in the blowback.” He produced his lighter just as his phone rang, and stared at it for a moment as if unsure where the noise was coming from. Then pulled the phone from his pocket. “What?”

  It was Ho, Catherine surmised. Lamb had a particular expression he wore when forced to listen to Ho; it was the same one he wore when forced to listen to anyone else, only more so. When Ho finished, Lamb said, “So what you’re telling me is, you did what I told you to do. How come you can’t just say that?”

  He listened for another moment.

  “Oh, I see. No, perfectly good explanation. Thanks.”

  He ended the call.

  Catherine raised an eyebrow. ‘‘‘Perfectly good explanation’?”

  “That was Dander in the background. Apparently Ho’s a dick.”

  “I’m so glad the team-building’s working out.” She paused. “No word from River yet.”

  “Yeah,” said Lamb. “But I imagine there’s been some debriefing going on. If you get my drift.”

  “I just wonder if he’s coming back at all.”

  “Why wouldn’t he?”

  “Whatever happened last night must have been traumatic. Coming on top of everything else—his grandfather’s death, all the havoc round here—he might have had enough.”

  �
��Huh.”

  “He nearly packed it in last year. He came this close.”

  “He’s a spook. It’s in his blood.”

  “And now Sid’s back in the picture.”

  “Hence my debriefing comment,” said Lamb. “You see, what I was getting at was—ah, what now?”

  It was another moment before Catherine heard it: someone at the door. With a key, so it could only be Diana Taverner, who duly appeared a moment later, pausing in the doorway, shaking her head.

  “This was in showroom condition yesterday.”

  Lamb shook his head sorrowfully. “I blame the younger generation. It’s like they still expect their mums to tidy up.”

  “I sometimes wonder how you survived under cover. You’d think the Stasi would just have followed the chaos.” Diana turned to Catherine. “How do you put up with it?”

  “I took a long hard look at the alternative.”

  Diana said, “Fair enough,” then nodded in dismissal. “Adults in the room.”

  “She stays,” said Lamb.

  “I don’t think—”

  “She stays.”

  Diana rolled her eyes, but went on as if Catherine weren’t there. “I spoke to Rasnokov. He’s calling his dogs off.”

  Lamb’s expression gave nothing away.

  “So you can vacate this place.”

  “Just when I was getting comfortable. What does Vassily get in return? Let me guess. Safe passage for the pooches.”

  “It’s a no-mess outcome.”

  “Except for the blood on the walls. And isn’t that why things kicked off in the first place?”

  “Circumstances change.”

  “Meaning you’ve noticed what a balls-up you created when financing Kazan, so you’re dropping everything else to deal with that instead.”

  Diana glanced towards Catherine.

  “Oh, don’t worry,” said Catherine. “I never pay attention when he’s sober.”

  Lamb lit his cigarette, waggling the lighter as if it were a match. “Diana invited some celebrities aboard the good ship Regent’s Park. They paid for their passage and everything. And now they want a go at steering.”

 

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