Slough House

by Mick Herron

  “That’s not going to happen.”

  “Yeah, but here’s a thing about pirates. They don’t take no for an answer.”

  His phone rang again. Without taking his eyes off Diana, he tossed it to Catherine, who caught it. “Hello, Lech. Yes. But tell me instead.” A pause. Then: “Thank you. I’ll let him know.”

  Rather than throw the phone back, she held onto it.

  “So let me know.”

  Catherine said, “Both calls have been made.”

  “Calls?” said Diana. “You’re supposed to be dark. In fact . . .” She made a show of looking round the room. “Where’s the awkward squad?”

  Lamb snorted. “Trust me, awkward would be an improvement.”

  “What are you up to, Jackson?”

  “You might have declared an amnesty, but I haven’t. That file Cantor passed behind the curtain was stamped ‘Slough House,’ remember?”

  “‘Curtain’? Really?”

  He blew smoke. “A good metaphor never goes stale.”

  Diana Taverner shook her head wearily. “I can’t stress this enough. The last thing I need is help from you.” She looked at Catherine. “Haven’t you learned to control him yet?”

  “I’m taking notes.”

  Diana returned to Lamb. “Cantor’s up shit creek. Rasnokov has footage of him handing that file to his contacts. Sound and vision. Good for five years at least. So listen, I’m sorry about the dead, I really am. But there’s a greater good at stake here, so whatever you’re up to, pack it in. Rasnokov is looking to build bridges.”

  “He’s got a funny way of showing it.”

  “We all have political masters to work around.”

  “Speak for yourself.” Ash fell into Lamb’s lap. He appeared not to notice. “But what the hell, you’ve won me over. You want safe passage for the hit crew, I won’t get in your way. In fact”—he paused to stub his cigarette out on the floor—“I’ve probably got a box somewhere you could pack them in. That’ll save on costs.”

  Diana stared. “What have you done?”

  “Exactly what you should have done. Taken them off the board.”

  Catherine cleared her throat.

  “Well,” said Lamb, “delegation. It’s the art of good management. So it’s possible Rasnokov’ll call your deal off, but don’t worry about Cantor. That’s in hand.”

  “Are you out of your fucking mind?”

  “Again, a good manager would call it initiative.”

  “Initiative . . . I’m First Desk, you stupid fat bastard! You answer to me!”

  “I’ll do that when you do your job. Which means not selling out your joes.”

  “Joes? Did you forget what Slough House is? It’s a punishment posting. No, screw that. It’s not even a punishment, it’s what we do when we don’t care anymore. It’s where we send those we can’t be bothered to deal with, because that’ll just mess up the system. Your job’s to keep them from seeing daylight again, and that is all. End of story.”

  “Not quite,” said Lamb. “You missed a bit out.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “It’s a department of the security service. Whose team, like it or not, work for you. Past or present. And when they die, that’s on your watch.”

  “Jackson—”

  “And mine.”

  Catherine was clutching Lamb’s phone so tightly, it hurt her hand.

  Diana opened her mouth to continue. Closed it again.

  Lamb said, “You wanted Cantor’s wheels removed. Consider it done. And now you don’t have to deal with Rasnokov, either. Just tell him the next wet team he sends’ll come home the same way. Because you don’t build bridges over the corpses of your own crew.”

  For a while, nobody spoke. The only sound was Lamb clicking his lighter again. But he didn’t have a cigarette to hand; he was simply making flames.

  At last Diana said, “You plan to kill him too? Cantor?”

  “No,” said Catherine.

  “Buzzkill,” said Lamb.

  “We’re not going to kill him,” said Catherine.

  “But he won’t come sniffing round the Park again,” said Lamb. “You can take that as read.”

  “You’d better be right.” Diana’s voice was taut as a cheese wire. “Now give me the keys to this place. And get back where you belong.”

  “Sure. And I’ll be taking my team with me.”

  “Now.”

  “Including Wicinski and Dander.”

  “Just give me the fucking keys.”

  Lamb tossed her the fucking keys.

  “And close the fucking door on your way out.”

  “Forgive her bad manners,” said Lamb, once they were on the street. “She still has those pirates to worry about.”

  “That little outburst, bad manners? She should take professional advice.”

  Lamb had found a cigarette, but his lighter had disappeared again. He patted his pockets and said, “What does Sid being back in the picture have to do with it?”

  “I’d explain, Jackson,” Catherine said, raising her arm for a taxi. “But I genuinely think I’d be wasting my time.”

  The second conversation had worried him more than the first.

  “I’m calling from Regent’s Park, Mr. Cantor. I presume you’re aware of the significance of that locale?”

  “The significance of . . . Yes. Yes, I’m aware.”

  “Good. Ms. Taverner would like to see you here this morning.”

  “. . . This morning?”

  “Immediately. And in case you have difficulty finding us, there’s a team on its way to escort you.”

  “I—”

  “Oh, and Mr. Cantor? Bring your passport.”

  And the woman had disconnected.

  (“Passport?” Lech had said.

  Louisa said, “That’ll freak him, don’t you think?”

  “It would me,” Lech admitted.)

  Cantor was back in his apartment, having left the studio in a hurry. Call Peter Judd was his first thought. Judd was an ally—except he was Taverner’s ally too, or rather, he was an ally of whoever seemed most useful at any given moment, and as likely to offer succour to those in need as a poisonous snake. So no, don’t call Peter Judd. Pack a bag and think things through.

  The marital home was a no-go; the first place they’d come looking.

  Staying put was out of the question.

  A hotel? But this was London, a city with more cameras than pigeons, and the Service had access to any CCTV system they chose. Showing his face in a hotel lobby would be as discreet as popping up on The X Factor. Leaving town was a better bet, but he couldn’t use his car . . .

  He called upstairs. “I need a car, nothing fancy. On your own card, not the company’s. And I need it downstairs three minutes ago.”

  “Damien? Is there something going on I should know about?”

  “What you should know is, I need a car three minutes ago.”

  He packed a two-day bag. How long could this take to sort out? Taverner was throwing a scare, that was all. The dwarf had been part of it—his story about the dead British agents? Hashtag didn’t happen. Taverner was punishing him for having flexed his muscles, that was all. Which meant the Russian voice, I’m calling to let you know how much shit you’re in, that was fake too, and Cantor was being made to jump at shadows.

  What he jumped at next was his phone, again.

  “Damien? Your car’s on its way.”

  “When?”

  “It will be there before you’re downstairs. Damien, are you sure everything’s all right? Because you have a meeting scheduled—”

  “Cancel it. And get hold of Tommo. Have him call.”

  Was he running? No. This was a strategic withdrawal, no more.

  As he took the
lift down, he thought of last night’s news footage being played right now, on screens all over London. The capital’s agenda, set by him. Taverner didn’t know what she was getting into.

  Ground floor. There were people milling about, queuing for the tourist lift, and he had to push through them to get to Clyde—Claude? —who was holding a set of keys on a BMW fob. It’s round back, sir. Thanks. This taking seconds: he was starting to feel like he worked for the Park himself. He’d grabbed his baseball cap on his way out, and twisted it now so the peak faced backward. Street smarts.

  The car was waiting as promised, and winked its lights when he clicked the fob. But before he could reach it a man was up close behind him, breathing into his ear.

  “You don’t want to get in that car.”

  It was the voice from the first phone call, guttural, throaty, and its owner had a face to match: like he’d lost a fight with a kitchen blender.

  “Trust me. I’m on your side.”

  Across the road a woman stepped out of the shadows and started towards them.

  There was a traffic jam, because there were always traffic jams, because this was London. Perhaps there were cities whose streets flowed freely, but they’d belong to the world’s more repressive regimes, where state control extended to the driving seat, and you’d need permission to venture onto the roads. So the price you paid for freedom of movement was sometimes lack of movement; an aphorism she might find a use for one day, but meanwhile: screw this. Diana Taverner abandoned the cab and walked the rest of the way. She could use the thinking space.

  She’d been ready to melt glass when she left the mews house, but there was no sense picking over what should have been. And there was always an upside, if you knew which angle to take. What Lamb did best was sit in his office, drinking himself into a waiting grave, but what he did second best, when he could be bothered, was cut his enemies off at the knees. In this instance that was only incidentally Diana herself, was principally Damien Cantor, so if nothing else Lamb’s meddling had saved her the effort. Because one way or the other, Cantor was a blown fuse, and whether that was because she had Rasnokov’s evidence of his wrongdoing, or because he’d had the fear of Lamb thrown into him, made no difference in the long run.

  Besides, Rasnokov’s thugs were apparently dead, and whichever angle you examined that from, it was clear who’d achieved payback. And there was, too, that chink of light Vassily had let show, his hint that this vicious tit-for-tat had been wished on him from on high. A glimpse of weakness on his side matched by a show of strength on her own. That was the kind of balance she wanted to maintain.

  So let that go, and all she had to worry about was her other battlefront: the one patrolled by Peter Judd. Who thought he had her under his thumb, and who needed showing that he too would end up squashed like popcorn if he persisted in such a delusion.

  The door to the club opened for her before she was up the steps, the members’ register was waiting for her to sign. And no need to ask if Mr. Judd had arrived, for there was his name two lines above, each letter fully formed, in a way that perhaps spoke of self-assurance and ego, but to her seemed schoolboyish. In the bar, ma’am, she was told. The bar was up one flight. She did five minutes’ battle-prep in the cloakroom, then went to find him. Her plan: to come out fighting.

  He was by the window, apparently absorbed in his phone, but looked up as she entered. “Diana.” He rose, offered an embrace, and seemed amused when she sidestepped. From his phone’s screen Desmond Flint stared out, as if he were trapped there. She wondered if he yet appreciated that that was precisely the case.

  “And that’s why you wanted me to back off the Yellow Vests, isn’t it?” she said, sitting. “It’s not that you didn’t want trouble, you just wanted it happening on your own terms. Which included having Desmond Flint on hand to calm it all down.” She shook her head. “I have to confess, I didn’t see him as your stalking horse. He’s so . . . unprepossessing. Don’t you think?”

  “Now now. If it was a beauty contest, half the cabinet would have lost their deposits.”

  “I wasn’t referring to his looks.”

  A waiter hovered. Taverner asked for mineral water. Judd, whose balloon-sized glass just barely contained his gin, looked disappointed.

  Taverner said, “I do hope you haven’t made a misstep. One thing that comes across quite strongly is that it’s his people, his core support, creating havoc in the streets.”

  “Denying that would be a problem. Owning it is not.” This was Peter Judd in magisterial mode, dispensing hard-earned wisdom to his lessers. It needed a toga, really. “For every Radio 4-listening, liberal-voting vegetarian decrying the behaviour of the mob, there are two people in a public house thinking, that’s the way to do it. Desmond understands that.”

  “But if there’s one thing we should have learned by now, it’s that once you’ve incited the mob, you can’t turn it off again. And there’s never been a mob that didn’t end up eating itself.”

  “You have a lively imagination, Diana. You should write a novel. Or pay someone to write one for you.” He took a sip of his G&T. “That’s how it’s usually done, I gather.”

  The waiter arrived with her water, saving her the trouble of responding. When they were alone, Judd continued:

  “Besides, it would be a mistake to underestimate our Flinty. He may not know a fish knife from a soup spoon, but he speaks a language these people understand.”

  “You make him sound like Tarzan of the apes.”

  “I have no plans to parade him in a loin cloth. But the analogy isn’t unfair.” He leaned back. “Of course, had the crowd not heeded his words, I’d have had to resort to Plan B.”

  “Which was?”

  “Throw him to the fucking wolves.”

  “But instead you’re grooming him for higher things. I’ve no doubt you’d enjoy being the power behind the throne, Peter, but you’ll be a long time waiting. It’s not like the last election didn’t return a decisive result.”

  Judd swirled his glass. “Politics is a long game. And while it’s true the PM enjoys a commanding majority, he’s also a walking non-disclosure agreement who wouldn’t be the first irresistible force to find himself in close proximity to an immovable object. Best to prepare for that eventuality, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Sounds like the green-eyed monster speaking. But as long as we’re on the subject, you should know I’m seeing him this afternoon. The PM.”

  “Which you do at least once a week.”

  She nodded.

  “So you wouldn’t be mentioning it if you didn’t have something up your sleeve. Please. I’m not one of those insufferable aesthetes who think women of a certain age shouldn’t bare their arms in public. Do share.”

  Diana said, “I plan to tell him everything.”

  “I see.”

  “Do you? I mean everything, Peter. Full disclosure.”

  “I said I see. And loath as I am to borrow a line, I do hope you’re not about to make a misstep. You’ve been known to question my sense of loyalty, but next to the PM, I’m Greyfriars Bobby. If there’s any chance you’ll make him look bad, he’ll dump you overboard without a backward glance.”

  “I know. But I also know that he’s as keen on hogging glory as he is on avoiding blame. And as you so eloquently pointed out the other evening, there’s glory to be had here.” She picked up her glass. “Kazan is an unspun story. It might be making ripples on the Dark Web, but there’s been nothing official from the Kremlin, because the Kremlin doesn’t want the world knowing it let its guard down, and nothing official from us, because officially it didn’t happen. But unofficially I can make it the PM’s triumph.”

  “‘Prime minister orders state-sanctioned murder,’” Judd mused. “That would probably be his all-time second-favourite headline, Diana. Right after ‘Get off my fucking laptop.’’’

  �
�I’m not talking about headlines, I’m talking about legends. It’s no secret the PM sees himself as Churchill reborn. It’s just that he’s had difficulty persuading anyone else. But this is his chance to look like a wartime hero, even if only in Whitehall’s back corridors. If it’s known among COBRA staff that he gave the nod on Kazan, well. Nothing he’d like more than to be thought a warrior leader by a roomful of generals. Who currently, you won’t be shocked to hear, regard him as a cross between a gameshow host and a cartoon yeti.”

  Judd nodded, as if appreciating a chess move. “It’s risky, though. Could backfire. You’re sure that’s how you want to play it?”

  “A full admission that I dabbled in alternative sources of backing for an operation which ultimately plays to his credit. Yes, I think it’ll work. He’s been known to display a certain impatience with tradition himself.”

  “If by that you mean he’s been known to wipe his arse on the constitution, I’d have to agree.”

  “So our arrangement has ended. I know you’d planned it as a long-term thing, and I’m not ungrateful for the assistance. But you won’t be using me as a way of steering the Service, Peter. Not now, not ever again.”

  Another nod. “There’s nothing I like more than seeing you in control, Diana. Gives me quite the rush of blood.” He raised his glass, but instead of a toast said, “I have to correct you on one small matter, though. You used the words ‘full admission.’ That’s not quite accurate.”

  Taverner said, “What does that mean?”

  “I’m simply pointing out that you can’t give the PM all the facts about our arrangement because you’re not yet in possession of them. And once you are, well.” He smiled, or at any rate revealed his teeth. “Once you are, I expect the PM is the last person you’ll be making full admissions to.”

  He replaced his glass on the table.

  “I’ll order you a proper drink now, shall I? I think you’re about to need it.”

  Sid woke alone, late morning, and spoke his name. No reply. She was about to call louder, but thought better of it. All was quiet, and as broken memories of yesterday assembled themselves in her mind—driving a knife into the man’s chin; drowning the woman in the lake—it seemed better to leave it that way. He was upstairs. Or had gone to the village for food. She was ravenous, she noticed. Food would be good.