by Mick Herron
Pretty sure he’d heard this riff already, probably on a panel show, Hobden ignored it. ‘It was the night of the Euro elections, and there’d been BNP gains. Remember that?’
‘Well, of course I do.’
‘And that was the subject of discussion. This hack, Spencer his name is, got rolling drunk, started spewing off the usual nonsense about how the fascists were taking over, and when were Taverner’s lot going to start doing something about it. And she said …’
Here Hobden screwed his eyes shut while summoning up history.
‘Something like yes, that’s under control. Or on the agenda. Christ, I don’t remember the exact words, but she gave him to understand it was happening. That she was setting something up not just against the BNP, but against what she’d call the extreme right. And we all know who that includes.’
‘She said this in your hearing?’
‘They didn’t know I was there.’
‘Second Desk at MI5 announced her intention to sting the BNP, to sting the right, and this happened in a bar?’
‘They were drunk, okay? Look, it happened. Is happening. Haven’t you seen the news?’ PJ eyed him coldly. ‘The kid in the cellar?’
‘I know what you’re referring to. You’re saying that’s it? That’s a Service op?’
‘Well, it’s a big bloody coincidence, don’t you think? That I’m being hassled the same week it happens, that somebody tries to kill me the same day—’
‘If it is,’ PJ said, ‘it’s the single most cack-handed intelligence operation I’ve ever heard of, and that includes the Bay of fucking Pigs.’ He glanced down at the bottle in his hands, then hunted around for a second glass. The nearest candidate was an unrinsed stem, waiting by the sink. He poured a slug into it, and put the bottle down. ‘Is this why you were calling?’
‘What do you think?’
PJ slapped him hard, the noise ricocheting round the kitchen. ‘Don’t talk back to me, you little creep. Remember who’s who. You’re a one-time journalist whose name stinks from here to Timbuktu. And I’m a member of Her Majesty’s loyal cabinet.’ He examined his wet shirt cuff. ‘And now you’ve made me spill my drink.’
Hobden, his voice as shaky as a pea in a whistle, said, ‘You hit me!’
‘Yes, well. Tempers running high. Oh, for God’s sake.’
He poured more vodka into Hobden’s glass. Hobden was a toad, but not an ignorant toad. It had been a mistake to forget that. Still, though: PJ was furious. ‘You were calling me because you think this this this piece of theatre has been organized by MI5 to discredit the right—you’ve barely finished explaining that you’re under surveillance, and you’re calling me? Have you lost your fucking mind?’
‘Somebody had to know. Who was I supposed to call?’
‘Not me.’
‘We’ve known each other for years—’
‘We are not friends, Robert. Don’t make that mistake. You always treated me fairly in print, and I respect that, but let’s face it, you’re a fucking has-been, and it’s no longer appropriate to be associated with you. So take it somewhere else.’
‘Where do you suggest?’
‘Well, your chums in the British Patriotic Party spring to mind.’
The red weal PJ’s hand had left on Hobden’s cheek darkened. ‘Chums? My chums? When that list appeared on the net, who do you think they blamed? Half the death threats I get come from people I supported! As far as they were concerned, if it weren’t for me, they’d have been left alone. Because we all know who was responsible for posting that list. The same bunch of leftish criminals who’re hassling me now!’
‘Maybe so. But I’m still not sure why that means you have to turn up on my doorstep in the middle of the night—’
‘Because this has got to be stopped,’ Hobden said.
Lamb said, ‘Talk.’ Then flicked a lighter in front of Taverner’s face like a threat.
She leant forward for the flame. Her seventh of the day: drawing smoke into her lungs was growing familiar. She breathed out. Said, ‘Do you ever wonder why we do what we do?’
‘Taverner, it’s after two, and my team’s smaller than it was yesterday. Let’s get on with it, all right?’
‘There’ve been fifteen failed terrorist plots since 7/7, Jackson. That must be true. I read it in the paper.’
‘Good for us.’
‘It was on page eleven, below the fold.’
Lamb said, ‘If you wanted to be famous, maybe the secret service wasn’t the right path.’
‘This isn’t about me.’
Jackson Lamb suspected it was very much about her.
‘Our failures get more press than our successes. You of all people should know that. The dodgy dossier? Weapons of mass destruction? Okay, that was Six, but you think anyone cares?’ Her words were coming faster now, each leaving its tobacco trace in the air between them. ‘There was a poll lately. Forty-something per cent of the public think Five had a hand in the death of David Kelly. Forty-something per cent. How do you think that makes me feel?’
Lamb said, ‘It makes you feel like doing something about it. Let me take a wild guess. You’ve set up some half-arsed scheme involving a neo-fascist group kidnapping a Muslim kid and threatening to chop his head off on YouTube. Except it’s not gunna happen because one of the group is one of your guys. So when Five step in for a last-moment rescue, you’ll have all the airplay in the world underlining what a ruthlessly efficient organization it is.’ He blew smoke. ‘Close?’
‘Half-arsed?’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake. We’ve got one dead and one in intensive care, and that’s with you trying to keep this whole thing out of the papers. And in case you hadn’t forgotten, they’re both mine. Or were.’
‘I’m sorry about Sid Baker.’
‘Great.’
‘It sounds like Moody tripped on his dick, and I’m not taking responsibility for that. But I’m sorry about Baker.’
‘I’ll have that marked on her chart. You know, the one clipped to her bed, which shows when her catheter’s changed. Jesus. Did you really think this would work?’
‘It still can.’
‘Crap. The wheels started coming off before you screwed them on. Tell me about Hobden. What makes him a danger?’
‘I don’t know for sure he is.’
‘I didn’t come here to fence. You had his files swiped and his rubbish collected. Why?’
Briefly, she touched her forehead with the palm of her hand. When she looked back at Lamb, he felt he could almost see through her skin. Veins stretched tight over gleaming bone. Tap her with a fingernail, she’d shatter. She said: ‘Do you know Dave Spencer?’
‘Guardian hack?’
‘Used to be. Got his cards. But anyway, yes. He and I, we’re friends. Does that sound odd? Me, friends with a pinko journalist?’
Nothing sounded odd to Lamb; except, perhaps, that people had friends.
‘We were in the Frontline Club the night of the Euro elections. The night the BNP won two seats, remember?’
Lamb nodded.
‘We watched the results coming in, and Dave went predictably mental. He’s a drinker. Another reason they sacked him. Anyway, he started railing on, as if it was my fault. What about your lot, he kept saying. Isn’t it time you took these pipsqueak fascists out of the game?’
‘Oh, Jesus,’ Lamb said.
‘I don’t know what I told him. Anything to get him to pipe down. But I said stuff, yes. That they were on the agenda. Something like that. Non-specific. Not for attribution.’
‘And all in Hobden’s hearing.’
‘Well, it’s not like I knew he was there! He was lurking. He was low profile.’
‘Of course he bloody was. He’s a fucking pariah.’ Lamb shook his head. ‘So you’ve got a journo with far-right sympathies on the earie for an op against the far right. Who’s already riled by having his extremist leanings exposed, and the Service had a hand in that, right? No wonder you wanted to find out how
much he knew before kicking your ball into touch. What did his files show?’
‘Sod all. Pi, to about half a million places. And you thought we were paranoid.’
Lamb just thought he was careful. What Hobden had done, he’d have done too, the way a tourist carries a dummy wallet: a couple of bucks for the local hoods, with the plastic and the travellers’ cheques folded into a sock. ‘So you sent Moody to what, double check? Lift his hard drive?’ He paused a beat. ‘He was carrying a gun.’
‘For Christ’s sake, Lamb, you think I authorized that?’
‘At this point, I’m beyond surprising.’
She said, ‘He was supposed to take the laptop. He was supposed to make it look like a junkie theft.’
‘We’ll add that to Moody’s list of career successes, then.’ Without warning, he spat noisily. Then said, ‘So now Sid Baker’s on a table, having a bullet removed from her head. As for Moody, even he must have realized things were beyond screwed. So he tried to tidy up, which involved removing the bug he’d planted in my office. And trod on his dick in the dark, like you said.’
‘Was he alone at the time?’
‘We’re all alone in the end, don’t you think? Those final moments?’ Jackson Lamb flicked the dying stub of his cigarette into the dark canal. ‘Either way, it’s over. For him and for you. For this whole operation.’
‘It can still work.’
‘No it can’t. If Hobden was clueless earlier, he isn’t now. Oh, and he’s on the loose. Did I mention that? Pulling the plug is your only choice.’
‘Hobden’s a joker. The only rags that’ll print him have names like UK Watch, and their circulation’s limited to those already frothing at the mouth.’
‘I’m not talking about after the event, I’m talking about tonight. These splinter groups, the BPP, the UK Nazis, the other fuckers, they may hate each other’s guts, but not half as much as they hate everyone else. Hobden’ll get the word out, if he hasn’t already. Pull your agent in. Now. Or Moody and Baker won’t be tonight’s only casualties.’
She turned away.
‘Taverner?’
‘They’re a sealed group. There’s no input from anywhere else.’
‘You wish. But look at how you’ve managed so far. This thing couldn’t have fallen apart faster if you’d bought it at Ikea, and you’re the professional. You think the jokers your agent’s entrapped in this farce have kept their mouths shut? Any minute now, one of them’s going to get a call from someone who knows someone who knows Hobden, telling them they’ve been set up, which means two people are in extreme danger right now. Your agent and this kid.’ Lamb blinked. ‘Who’s just some unlucky bastard who’s the wrong colour, right?’
She didn’t reply.
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ Lamb said. ‘How could this get worse?’
‘Because it’s got to be stopped,’ Hobden said. ‘Don’t you see?’
‘If it’s a Service op, obviously it’ll be stopped,’ Peter Judd pointed out. ‘Five are hardly going to let anyone be beheaded on the internet. The whole point—’
‘I know what the whole point is. It’s for everyone to forget about bombs on the tube, and all those dawn raids that finish in acquittals. No, we’ll have action footage of our brave spooks rescuing some poor brown-skinned boy, and coincidentally painting the right as a bunch of mad murdering bastards into the bargain. That’s what I want stopped. What about you? Do you want to let them get away with it?’
‘Given their track record, I rather doubt they will. But you still haven’t explained why you’re coming to me with this.’
‘Because we both know the tide’s turning. The decent people in this country are sick to death of being held hostage by mad liberals in Brussels, and the sooner we take control over our own future, our own borders—’
‘Are you seriously lecturing me?’
‘It’ll happen, and within the lifetime of your government. We both know that. Not this Parliament, but probably the next. By which time we both know where you expect to be living, and it won’t be Islington, will it?’ Hobden had grown alive again. Eyes bright. Breathing normal. ‘It’ll be Downing Street.’
‘Yes. Well.’ The effing and blinding PJ of ten minutes ago—the PJ who’d slapped Hobden—left the room; in his place was the bumbly figure familiar from countless broadcasts and not a few YouTube moments. ‘Obviously, if called upon to serve, I’ll leave my plough.’
‘And you’ll want to take your party further right, but what if that ground’s already staked out? And what if one of the occupying groups is mostly famous for attempting a prime-time execution?’
‘Now you’re being ridiculous. Not even the muckiest rakers of your former profession are going to equate Her Majesty’s Government with—’
‘Well, they might if they learn of your connection with one of those groups.’
And now they’d come to the meat of the matter.
Hobden said, ‘Don’t imagine that the reason I never mentioned it in print was that I thought it a youthful indiscretion. I just never wanted to hear you deny it in public. You’re PM material. With you at the helm, this country can be great again. And those of us who believe in strong government don’t want to hear you apologizing for the causes you truly espouse.’
PJ placed his glass very carefully on the counter. ‘I’ve never had any truck with extremism,’ he said levelly. Now he was Peter Judd, the people’s pundit: his tone precisely the one he used on TV when he was about to put someone right while indicating that few people had ever been wronger. ‘As it happens, I did write a report on the activities of some fringe right groups in the early nineties, in the course of researching which I attended one or two meetings.’ He leant closer, so Hobden could feel his breath.
‘And do you really think you have any credibility?’ His voice was velvet. ‘You’ll think the car crash your life has become is a fucking feather bed. Compared to what’ll happen next.’
‘I don’t want to cause a scandal. That’s the last thing I want. But if I did—’
Slowly, carefully, Hobden drained his own glass.
‘But if I did, I don’t need credibility. I have something far more useful.’
He set his empty glass next to PJ’s.
‘I have a photograph.’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake. How could this get worse?’
Taverner said, ‘It’s not simply about improving Five’s reputation. There’s a war on, Jackson. Even from Slough House you must have noticed. And we need all the allies we can get.’
‘Who is he?’
‘It’s not who he is, it’s who his uncle is.’
‘Oh, Christ,’ Lamb said. ‘Don’t tell me.’
‘His mother’s brother is Mahmud Gul.’
‘Jesus wept.’
‘General Mahmud Gul. Currently Second Desk at Pakistan’s Directorate for Inter-Services Intelligence.’
‘Yes. Thank you. I know who he is. Jesus Christ.’
‘Think of it as bringing communities together,’ Taverner said. ‘When we rescue Hassan, we make a friend. You think we can’t use one? In Pakistan’s secret service?’
‘And have you given the flipside any thought? If this goes wrong, and Christ knows it’s not gone right yet, you’ve assassinated his nephew.’
‘It’s not going to go wrong.’
‘Your faith would be touching if your stupidity didn’t make me retch. Pull the plug. Now.’
Another strain of laughter wafted over the canal, but sounded less than genuine; driven by alcohol rather than wit.
She said, ‘Okay, suppose we do that. Finish it. Tonight.’ Her eyes momentarily focused on something beyond Lamb’s shoulder, then returned to his face. ‘A day early. Doesn’t mean it can’t still work.’
‘When I hear anyone say that,’ Lamb began, but she spoke over him.
‘In fact, it’ll work better. Not a last-minute rescue. We get to the kid twenty-four hours before he’s due for the chop, and why’s that? Because we
’re good. Because we know what we’re doing. Because you know what you’re doing.’
Lamb appeared to choke. ‘You’re out of your mind,’ he said, once he could talk.
‘It works. Why wouldn’t it?’
‘Well, for a start, there’s no papertrail. No investigation. How’m I supposed to have found him, divine inspiration? He was taken in bloody Leeds.’
‘They brought him here. They’re not far away.’
‘They’re in London?’
‘They’re not far away,’ she repeated. ‘As for the papertrail, we’ll work up a legend. Hell, we’re halfway there already. Hobden’s our point of entry. It was your team burned him, took his files.’
‘Which were a pile of cack,’ he reminded her.
‘Not necessarily. Not once we’ve decided what they really say.’
Enough light fell on Taverner’s face for Lamb to see she meant every word. She was probably mad. It wouldn’t be the first time the job had done that, and being a woman couldn’t help. If she was thinking straight, she’d have noticed the flaw in her reasoning, which was that he, Jackson Lamb, couldn’t give a flying fart for whatever she was offering.
Or maybe she had. ‘Think a minute. About what it could mean.’
‘I’m thinking there’s a body on my staircase.’
‘He fell on the stairs. An empty bottle’s the only prop you’ll need.’ Her whispers were urgent now; they were talking of death, of other people’s death. They were also talking of career-ending moments, and maybe of something else. ‘Redemption.’
‘Excuse the fuck out of me?’
‘Rehabilitation.’
‘I don’t need rehab. I’m happy where I am.’
‘Then you’re the only one. Christ, Jed Moody would have given his left bollock to be let back inside.’
‘And look where that got him.’
‘So he proved he was a slow horse. Are the others as bad?’
Lamb pretended to think about it. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Probably.’
‘It doesn’t have to be that way. Do this, and you get to be a hero. Again. So do the boys and girls. Just think, the slow horses back among the thoroughbreds. You don’t want to give them that chance?’