by Mick Herron
But he wasn’t in the bathroom, as she ascertained quite swiftly; nor did he reappear in the study during her absence. Next thing she did was draw the curtains, and let the day in. It was like charging a battery—rooms left dark become crabbed and pokey. They need light to remember what they are. This was a simple formula to apply to herself, and hard not to touch a hand to the groove in her head while doing so. Her muttering bullet was gone; no Hercule Poirot voice in her head. It might return, but for now she was on her own.
On her own, back in the world, and with decisions to make.
She’d already made some. She would not be returning to Cumbria, for a start; nor resuming the identity she’d been assigned during her recovery. That had been a non-person; a shell she’d never filled. Nor had she been Sid Baker, or not so anyone would notice. She’d been a character absent from the stage, her dialogue mere gaps in the conversation. Action had been elsewhere. After yesterday, she didn’t want to see action again. But she thought she was ready to be Sid Baker once more.
Last night, she’d talked with Shirley Dander while River and Lech Wicinski had returned to the scene of the slaughter.
“You’ve been living here?”
“Staying here.”
“But it’s full of books.”
Said as if this precluded anything Shirley might think of as living. Or perhaps even just staying.
“Think of it as being well-insulated,” Sid suggested.
“Did you kill them both?”
“No.”
“Did River?”
“We got lucky.”
“Yeah, sure,” said Shirley. “Except they were professionals, know what I mean? The number of people who got lucky before you is zero.”
Which, as far as Sid was concerned, made her very lucky indeed. Though Shirley had seemed impressed.
Jane and Jim had been dispatched on a vengeance tour, titting the Park’s tat, as Shirley had put it with a Lamb-like leer; the Park’s crime having been to assassinate one of those responsible for last year’s outrage, a ham-fisted episode Sid had followed in the press during her Cumbrian interlude. The target then had been a pair of Russian ex-pats, but two British civilians had wandered into the line of fire, one of whom had died. The murder method had created headlines worldwide: the smearing of a toxic substance—Novichok—onto a doorknob.
Well, if she was back in the world, this was the world she was in.
Shirley Dander had been jittery, and possibly high. Lech Wicinski’s scars were plain to see, but he was hiding behind them all the same. Min Harper was dead, as were others who’d come along after, but Louisa Guy was still a slow horse; Roderick Ho remained Roddy Ho, and Catherine Standish still carried the keys. As for Lamb, Sid could only assume he was unchanged, self-damage notwithstanding, because without Jackson Lamb there’d be no Slough House. Slough House was the stage and those were the actors, and all the time she’d been emerging from her headwound River had been living among them, mostly bound to the same old beat—the paperwork, the pointless chores, the soul-killing drudgery—but occasionally, just occasionally, finding himself on the sharp end too.
Which was an end Sid knew about. She’d found her own on a rainy pavement in London, years ago; had nearly found it again last night, hiding in this very room while the couple she and River later killed had rattled the doorknob at the front, tapped the glass round back, like evil figures in an adult fairy tale. Then spirited Sid away. We could finish it here in the car. Which will be messier, but we can do that if you prefer. Making an invitation of a death sentence . . .
She uncurled from the O.B.’s chair and stretched. A gust of wind shook the window pane, and she startled at the interruption, an echo of last night’s haunting. The bell had rung, and then once more. And the flap on the letterbox had jangled, and Sid had imagined the pair taking it in turns to drop to one knee and peer into the hallway.
Then life went quiet again, the only disturbance the faint rattling of a doorknob.
The thought broke the morning in two.
Rattling the doorknob . . .
Where was River?
There was a traffic jam, because there were always traffic jams, because this was London; a thought so familiar that someone might already have had it this morning. Cantor was lying flat on the back seat, being driven by the nameless man whose cheeks were ribboned with scars, a walking indication that bad choices produce bad outcomes.
A hooting horn provoked more hooting horns. This too was London: everyone wanting to be heard, even when they had nothing to say.
“Are we being followed?” he asked. The man made a foreign noise in reply, so he said it again. “Are we being followed?”
“. . . Nyet.”
“Who was she?”
He knew the answer, but needed to hear it anyway.
“From Regent’s Park.”
So Taverner had sent someone to collect him.
Diana Taverner wants you toasted both sides . . .
It was possible he’d made a tactical error.
The woman at the Needle couldn’t cross the road for traffic, and the scarred man had used the delay to hustle Cantor round the corner and push him into this car. Things could happen so quickly, they felt like a good idea. And now they were on the move again, albeit in a jerky, arrhythmical manner, Cantor’s head banging against the seat while he tried to reconstruct his earlier frame of mind: Taverner was throwing a scare, hoping he’d jump at shadows. But the shadows seemed solider now, and here he was, jumping at them.
A sharp corner, and a guttural apology from the front: “Excuse.”
Cantor said, “Where are you taking me?”
An audible shrug from the front seat. “Somewhere safe.”
“Why?”
“You help us. We help you.”
But I didn’t mean to help you, thought Cantor. I was just trading favours. I didn’t mean to end up hiding in a car, evading capture by the British secret service.
Bad choices produce bad outcomes . . .
The man spoke again. “There are no worries. My people and your people, they’ll iron out their difficulties. And then you’ll go back to making your news programmes, and helping my people too, yes? No harm done.”
“I’m not . . . I don’t work for your people. I was doing a favour for a contact, that’s all.”
“So you do more favours.”
“No, that’s not . . . This has all been a misunderstanding. I’m not going to be doing any favours.”
There was silence. Then: “It’s not a good time to be telling me this. Not when I’m helping you.”
The car jerked to a halt. When Cantor peeped through the window a young Chinese man was hopping onto the pavement, as if he’d been safeguarding a parking space. “We’re here,” the driver said. Here was Soho, a familiar street whose name evaded Cantor right that moment, his mind still reeling. He clambered out. There were people everywhere—London, London—but nobody was paying attention, or if they were, were doing so in a successfully covert way. There was an open door, leading into an apparently abandoned shop. “Quickly.” So quickly it was: through the door, into an empty retail space. The young Chinese man had disappeared, but in front of Cantor stood a short, wide woman. “Upstairs,” she said, in what sounded to Cantor like a bad-movie German accent.
In a similarly bad-movie way, he was getting a bad feeling about this.
“What’s upstairs?”
“No time for questions. They’re looking for you.”
The driver had closed the shop door and was leaning against it.
“I just—”
“Now.”
The stairs creaked. There was a small landing at the top: a toilet, two other rooms. The woman nudged him towards the back one.
“A safe house,” she said.
The scarred man had come up
with them. “Yes. You’ll be safe here.”
Cantor said, “I need to make some calls. Just ten minutes to make some calls, and I’ll be on my way.”
He had his phone out before he’d finished speaking, but it was snatched by the square-shaped woman.
“No.”
“But I—”
“No.”
He looked around. The floor was uncarpeted, and the window covered by a steel shutter. The only light was a bare bulb, swinging on a cord. No heating, no furniture.
And at his feet, newly screwed into the floorboards, a metal ring with handcuffs attached.
“You’re safe here, provided you don’t wander,” the man told him.
“Which you won’t,” said the woman. She dropped to her knees, and before Cantor could react had fastened the loose cuff around his left ankle.
“What the hell—?”
“Water,” said the man, producing a two-litre bottle from behind the door.
“And an empty,” said a new voice. The woman who’d been at the Needle had appeared, holding another two-litre bottle, uncapped. “But I’m sure you’ll fill it.”
“What are you doing?” Cantor said. His mouth was dry.
“We’re leaving you to ponder your actions,” said the scarred man. His accent had gone, his voice softer.
“People tell me I ought to do that,” said the squat woman, getting to her feet. Her voice had also altered. “But I’ve never really found the time.”
“Which isn’t going to be a problem for you,” the other woman said. “Bags of that coming up.”
The young Chinese man who’d been holding the parking space had arrived too. He alone was hanging onto the B-movie vibe. “You picked the wrong guys to mess with, friend.”
The second woman tossed Cantor the empty bottle. “You can shout as loud as you want,” she said. “But if anyone hears you, they won’t care.”
“Who are you people?”
It was the Chinese man who answered. “We’re Slough House,” he said. Then added, “Hasta la vista, baby,” before following the others down the stairs.
Cantor pulled against the cuff, but it didn’t budge.
And the woman had been right about this much: Cantor shouted as loud as he could. But no one came.
He said, “I enjoy being a member here, don’t you?”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“I rather think I’m about to provide an illustration. Do pay attention.”
The waiter arrived with a fresh G&T for Judd; a large Chablis for Taverner. She resisted the temptation to dive straight in.
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 . . .
“I’m fond of that plaque in the lobby. The one that says this club was founded fifty-odd years ago by a chap whose name escapes me but has a VC attached. Lovely detail. If you’re going to tell a lie, tell a big one. Stick it on the side of a bus.”
“Get on with it.”
“Because we both know the club’s not twenty years old. And that its founder was one Margaret Lessiter, who, unless I’m mistaken, you were at college with. One of the brighter lights, no? Alongside that chap who crashed a bank and the conman’s daughter who pimps for royalty. Sterling year. I bet the gaudies are fun.”
“I’m not sure either attend. What’s your point?”
“That the badge doesn’t tell the whole story.” He picked up his glass. “Take my own little enterprise. Bullingdon Fopp.”
The PR firm Judd had been running since he left the cabinet.
“The thing is, Diana, I needed start-up money. A life dedicated to public service doesn’t leave one over-burdened with ready cash.”
“Really. But your property portfolio weighs more than the average bungalow. Let’s not pretend your public service prevented you amassing a fortune.”
“There’ll always be those who resent the enterprising. But we’ve moved past the moment at which your antennae should have twitched.”
Oh, they’d twitched.
Once you’re in possession of the facts, I expect the PM is the last person you’ll be making full admissions to.
She reached for her Chablis. You could drown in two inches of water, she knew. Two inches of wine was starting to look like an option. “You have backers,” she said. Her voice sounded flat and unnatural, as if she were still in rehearsal. With luck, the director would soon shout Cut.
“Whose names don’t appear on the paperwork,” Judd agreed. “Discretion being the better part of investment. How many commuters know who owns the tracks their trains run on? Whose fuel keeps their lights on?” He waved his free hand lightly: the walls, the floor, the ceiling. “Who owns half of Central London, come to that? New builds and old? Doesn’t matter whose names are on the deeds.” He leaned forward. “You know why national sovereignty’s so treasured by the great and good? Because they get a damn fine price for it when market conditions are right.”
“Just tell me.”
“Forty per cent of my company’s initial funding came from overseas sources.”
“Overseas.”
“Quite a long way overseas.”
“You used Chinese money to launch Bullingdon Fopp.”
“Well, it was good enough for the steel industry.”
“The company that organised backing for the Kazan operation.”
“Among the various other uses you found for the money.”
“Oh, you mad bastard.”
“So a clean breast to the PM might be self-defeating, don’t you think? I mean, he’s made a career out of gaslighting the electorate, but there’s clear blue water between fooling others and being fooled. And discovering that his intelligence service carried out an unsanctioned hit on foreign coin, well. He hates to be shown up for the dick he pretends to be. You might not get the absolution you’re after.”
Diana was experiencing something like an out-of-body moment, as if she’d just detached from herself, and was floating in the ether, bombarded by raw emotions. Chief among these was shock. She was thinking about those visitors’ tours, designed to show strangers around the Park’s outer corridors. Had she really thrown the doors wider without knowing it? Burned down her own firewalls and allowed a foreign power in?
Judd said, “You’re tense. Take deep breaths, then finish your wine. It’ll help.”
“You fucking maniac.” Her voice was low, but she might have been shooting off sparks.
“Careful. This is not a conversation you want overheard.”
“You’ve put me, the Park, the whole fucking country in an impossible situation. This could start a war, you realise that? An actual full-scale war.”
“And now you’re being melodramatic.”
What she was was homicidal. “Melodramatic? You’re telling me you put Chinese money into a Service op—”
“No, Diana, I put money into a Service op, and money doesn’t recognise borders. So calm down.”
“It’s beyond treason. It’s a fucking coup!”
“Again, melodramatic. But finish your drink. We’re going in for lunch soon, and they’ve a rather nice Zinfandel breathing.” He downed a healthy percentage of his gin. “My backers know nothing of our current, ah, angelic arrangement, still less of any involvement I might have had in your recent Russian adventure. So don’t worry. I have no plans to endanger national security.” He smiled the way alligators do. “I am, if you like, my own Chinese wall. A perfect model of discretion.”
“Which you’ll drive a bulldozer through when it suits you.”
“The point being, it doesn’t suit me. Not as long as we’re on happy terms. An injunction you’re free to interpret as widely as you like.”
Her glass was shaking in her hand, not a huge amount, but enough th
at he’d notice. She took a swallow, wishing it were brandy, whisky, or something being served at a beach bar many decades away. “You wanted Number 10,” she said. “Always have done. Now your mirror image has got there instead and fouled your nest. And this is your revenge, isn’t it?”
“Revenge? No, Diana, this is simply me being me. Nothing’s changed. I have plans, and you’ll help me achieve those plans, and nobody need know anything about it. I appreciate that you’re not entirely happy with some of those I recruited—”
“Cantor’s been dealt with.”
“—Really? I was going to make the offer but, as always, you’re ahead of me. So, yes, we’ll be discreet, and we’ll be careful, and your angelic choir will sing in harmony when called upon to do so. My backers, who are purely businessmen, I assure you—nothing to do with the state apparatus—they’ll remain ignorant of any dealings we have outside the public sphere, and no breath of their financial association with the Service need ever trouble the air. Provided, as I say, that we continue on happy terms.” He reached across the table, his palm open. “So. A moment of truth. The alliance continues?”
Diana finished her drink, not taking her eyes off him. There was a rather nice Zinfandel breathing in the dining room; there were no doubt other delights in store, and every step they took would be dictated by him from now on, until such moment as she could reclaim the initiative. It didn’t seem likely that this would occur within the next few minutes.
She had served for years under Ingrid Tearney, who had occasionally dispensed wisdom. If you can’t choose your enemy, choose your moment. In that spirit, and still not taking her eyes off Judd’s, she put her hand in his.
“Excellent girl. Shall we go in?”
Like a gentleman, he allowed her to precede him into the dining room.
Sid found River in the kitchen. He had been to the village while she slept, and had returned with the usual provisions—bread, cheese, milk, coffee—all of which were neatly arranged on the kitchen counter, while River himself was on the floor. She found his phone in his jeans pocket, the battery in another. He was still dark, a thought she pushed away. This is how you insert the battery, she told her hands, which fumbled and dropped and had to try again. This is how you press the buttons. She’d called 999 before remembering there were protocols; numbers you called when a Park operative hit the ground. Not that River was Park, exactly, but once you’d hit the ground, the meaner distinctions dissolved. So she called the Park too, its number still high on River’s contact list, as if there’d never been a rift. Nerve agent, she said, toxic attack, and said it again when asked to clarify.