Slow Horses

by Mick Herron

  Catherine looked at Louisa. Louisa looked at Min. Min looked at Catherine. They all looked at Ho.

  Min said, ‘For a communications genius, that was kind of rubbish, wasn’t it?’

  Then they waited some more.

  * * *

  A man in black—an achiever—appeared on the hub. Under his arm was a cardboard box, which he carried into Diana Taverner’s office and placed on her desk. It was ticking loudly.

  ‘I assume that’s not a bomb,’ Taverner said.

  He shook his head, removed the box’s lid, and put Lamb’s office clock on Taverner’s blotter. Wooden, friendly-faced, it was out of place in these hi-tech surroundings.

  Taverner said, ‘I didn’t think so.’

  Duffy and Lamb were still there. Out on the hub, the same crews were doing the same things they’d been doing before Lamb’s announcement had brought the achievers into play; or at least, were still pretending to do them, though with less plausibility. What was happening behind the glass wall was occupying all of their attention.

  Lamb said, ‘Technically—and I might be wrong about this, but I get a lot of e-mail crap from HR—technically, you should still have evacuated the building.’

  ‘Which is what you wanted.’

  ‘I mean, if that was an actual bomb, you’d be in a shitload of grief.’

  Duffy said to Taverner, ‘If that thing had been ticking on the back seat when my guy drove into the car park, he’d have heard it.’

  The achiever was already leaving, talking into his throatmic as he went.

  Taverner pointed at Lamb. ‘You didn’t want us out of the building at all. You brought somebody in.’

  Lamb said, ‘You still think a cover-up’s a possibility? Or is it all falling apart?’

  Spider Webb stumbled backwards into his office, tripped on the rug, and sprawled on the floor. River pulled Moody’s balaclava from his head and stuffed Moody’s gun into the back of his waistband. He thought about punching Spider in the head, but only for a moment. Climbing out of the SUV’s boot, putting Lamb’s fake bomb on the back seat and making his way up the stairs hadn’t taken long, but he didn’t have much time to play with. If Lamb had done his bit, the real achievers would be swarming the building soon.

  He said, ‘My assessment report.’

  Spider said, ‘Cartwright?’

  ‘You kept a copy. Where is it?’

  ‘That’s what this is about?’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Are you out of your fucking mind?’

  River bent and grabbed Spider by his shirt collar. ‘This is not a game.’ He was armed, he was in Regent’s Park, more or less dressed as an achiever. If the real thing arrived, he’d be shot on sight. Thoughts that carried a certain amount of heft. He pulled out Moody’s gun again. ‘Let me put it this way. My assessment report. Where is it?’

  Spider said, ‘You’re not going to shoot me.’

  River slammed the handle of the gun into Spider’s jaw, and Spider yelped as a fragment of tooth flew free. ‘You sure?’

  ‘You bastard—’

  ‘Spider. I’ll keep hitting you till you give me what I want. Get it?’

  ‘I haven’t got your assessment report, why the hell would I?’

  ‘London rules, remember?’ River said. ‘You said it yourself, the other day. You play London rules. You cover your arse.’

  Spider spat a mouthful of blood on the fawn-coloured carpet. ‘How long do you think you’ve got? Before your brains join my tooth on the floor there?’

  River hit him again. ‘You crashed King’s Cross, and we both know it. Blue shirt, white tee, whichever way round it was. It was Taverner put you up to that, because she wanted rid of me. You didn’t know why, did you? And didn’t care, so long as you got the nice office and meetings with the Minister and a bright shining career. But you knew enough to keep a copy of the report because you’re playing London rules, and the last person you trust is the one you just did a favour. So where is it?’

  Spider said, ‘Screw you.’

  ‘I won’t ask again.’

  ‘Shoot me and you’ll be dead one minute later. Then you’ll never find it, will you?’

  ‘So we agree you’ve got it.’

  Footsteps sounded in the corridor, and Spider opened his bloodied mouth to shout. But River clubbed him again, and guaranteed his silence.

  Hassan must have blacked out. Who wouldn’t have done, struck with an axe? But it had been the blunt end Curly hit him with; a swift vicious jab with the handle, bang in the forehead. Perhaps half a minute ago. Long enough, anyway, for the scene to have shifted: Larry had stalked off down the track, and Curly had chased after him, caught him up; was shouting at him—words floated back on the cold, moss-flavoured air: stupid chicken bastard …

  The axe hung limply in Curly’s hand. The pair of them, arguing—well, they were no longer the Three Stooges, obviously. They were Laurel and Hardy. Stan and Ollie. In another fine mess again.

  And here was a funny thing. Sometimes a blow to the head can clear away the cobwebs.

  This wasn’t true, but for a moment Hassan pretended it was, and wondered what he’d do if it were. He would stand up, he decided. So that’s what he did.

  There. That was better.

  Wobbly on his legs, he became aware of the enormous space everywhere. Space hemmed in by trees, but without walls, and with a sky overhead. He could see it now. Branches were growing into focus. Somewhere, there’d be a sun. Hassan couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen the sun.

  He started walking.

  The ground was spongy and unfamiliar. Partly this was due to his condition, but mostly it was because he was in a wood. But still, Hassan could walk, he could shuffle; he could almost break into a run. The trick was to look down. To watch where he placed his feet. This sudden view of the ground gave him the illusion that he was moving much faster than he really was.

  If he looked back, he would see Curly and Larry breaking off their argument; come lolloping after him, Curly with axe in hand. So he remained focused on the ground instead, on how much space he was covering. He had no idea where he was going. Whether he was moving deeper into the forest, or would break into open land any moment … Which didn’t seem probable. Everything was too thick, too woody, to surrender itself so swiftly. But those were things Hassan had no control over, while he did, at last, control his own movements. So thinking, he tripped; thrust his hands out before hitting the ground, and couldn’t prevent a cry escaping him as a sharp pain seared outwards from his wrists. Which mattered much less than the noise he’d made.

  So now he did look round. He’d travelled much less further than he’d thought; maybe half what he’d hoped. Curly and Larry were about the distance away that Hassan could have thrown a kitchen chair. Both were staring at him.

  Hassan could have sworn he heard the grin break out on Curly’s face.

  The footsteps passed Webb’s office in a rush, and River released the breath he’d been holding, along with his grip on Spider’s collar. Spider collapsed on to the carpet, incapable of further conversation.

  River waited, but there was no more noise. It occurred to him that if it had been the achievers, he’d not have heard a sound: there was more to them than dressing the part. And with that thought an idea occurred, which he wasted two minutes implementing before turning to his search.

  The files and folders took up seven shelves, stretching the length of the far wall. There could easily be a hundred on each, and River had maybe three minutes to find the one he wanted, always supposing it was there rather than, say, locked in a desk drawer. So he tried the drawers first, most of which contained junk, and only one of which was locked. River retrieved the key from Spider’s pocket, but the locked drawer hid only bank statements and a passport in Spider’s name. Dropping the key, River headed for the shelves. A snapshot memory from last year told him he’d submitted his interim exercise report in a black plastic folder, but at least a third of the sp
ines were that same glossy colour, the rest being orange, yellow, green. He pulled a black one at random, to find it labelled in the top right corner: Ennis. Assuming this was a surname, he checked the Cs; found a Cartwright who wasn’t him; then looked under R, but found no Rivers. Tried A for Assessment, and found a bunch of them, all black, but none of them his.

  He took a step back and assessed the wall as a whole. ‘Spider Spider Spider,’ he murmured. ‘London rules …’ Webb had said it himself: those were the rules he played by. So if Webb had burned River at King’s Cross, on Taverner’s instructions, he’d have kept evidence of it, to make sure he didn’t end up in the line of fire himself. Given Taverner’s expertise at throwing former allies to the Dogs, this was wise.

  ‘Spider Spider Spider …’

  London rules he’d said, but he’d also said something else. As River groped in his memory the door opened, and into the office slipped one of the achievers, a real one, his drawn pistol aimed directly at River’s head.

  It wasn’t a grin. Curly turned when he heard the yelp, and snarled when he saw the kid was on the move. He barked at Larry—a cross between a threat and a prediction—and took off.

  Behind him, he knew, Larry would be rooted to the spot. Glad to be left behind; hoping he could vanish.

  I’m not doing this. I’m out of here.

  No balls. With soldiers like him, the war was lost. Hell, it wasn’t even fought. It was all hot air and history.

  But Curly was at war. If Larry didn’t know which side he was on, that was his lookout. The thing about an axe was, it didn’t need reloading.

  The Paki was showing his heels again. He ran like a girl, elbows tucked into his sides. Curly, though, was flying. Days of tension, of built-up excitement, and here was the moment at last.

  We’re gunna cut your head off.

  Call it a declaration of war.

  Then his right foot landed on something slippery and wet, and for half a beat he might have lost his balance and sprawled on his back, while the axe went flying freely through the air—but it didn’t happen, he didn’t fall; his body was finely in synch with the natural world, and his left foot firmly in place on solid ground; his hip twisting just enough that his centre of balance held, and now he was moving even faster, and the distance between himself and his prey was disappearing by the second.

  He wished the Paki had been looking back to see that. Get some idea of what he was dealing with.

  We’re gunna cut your head off and show it.

  But he was still making tracks, running like a girl. Scared as a mouse. Frightened as a rat.

  Curly slowed his pace. This was too good. This was too good to hurry. This was what they meant by thrill of the chase.

  We’re gunna cut your head off and show it on the web.

  Nick Duffy covered his phone with a hand and said, ‘They’ve got him.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Webb’s office.’

  Taverner glanced at Lamb, who shrugged. ‘If my guys were any good, they’d be your guys.’

  ‘Why Webb?’ she asked. Then: ‘Never mind.’ To Duffy, she said, ‘Tell them to take whoever it is downstairs. And tell Webb to get up here.’

  ‘He’s on his way.’

  ‘Thank you. Give me a minute, would you?’

  Duffy left, talking into his phone.

  Taverner said, ‘Whatever just happened, that was your last chance. Hope you enjoyed your morning, Jackson, because it’s the last you’ll see for a week. And by the time you’re back upstairs, you’ll have signed a confession, and anything else I tell you to.’

  Lamb, sitting facing her, nodded thoughtfully. He seemed to be about to say something important, but all he could manage was, ‘Mind, your lad Spider doesn’t half like a colourful tie.’

  Behind her, the door opened.

  ‘Of course, my lad River can’t do a knot to save his life.’

  The minutes spent swapping shirts with the unconscious Spider hadn’t been wasted after all. River Cartwright, wearing Webb’s jacket and tie, closed the door behind him, a black folder tucked under his arm.

  Hassan couldn’t look back. Could barely look forward. Had to look at the ground, scan it for roots and stones and unsuspected dips; for anything that might grab his ankle and bring him to a sudden end. For dangers at head-height, he trusted his luck.

  ‘Having fun yet, Paki?’

  Curly, gaining on him.

  ‘Playtime’s nearly over.’

  Hassan tried to speed up, but couldn’t. Everything he had to offer, he was already pouring into this one aim: to keep moving. To never stop. To run to the end of the wood, and then beyond; to always be one step ahead of this Nazi thug who wanted to kill him. With an axe.

  The thought of the axe should have been a spur, but he had nothing left to give.

  A sudden dip in the ground almost threw him, but he survived. A root reached for his ankle, but missed him by an inch. Two escapes in as many seconds, and that was it: his luck ran out. A branch struck him in the face and Hassan staggered from the blow, ran into a tree without enough force to damage himself, but with more than enough to bring him to a halt. His legs didn’t quite buckle, nor his body quite fall, but there was nothing left. He couldn’t start the engine again. He held on to the tree a moment longer, then turned to face his murderer.

  Curly stood on the other side of the dip, panting lightly. A doglike smile was painted across his face, colouring every aspect but his eyes, and he was swinging the axe gently, as if to demonstrate his total control over it. There was no sign of Larry. No sign of the digicam, either; no tripod; nothing. Hassan, though, had the feeling that events were moving to a conclusion regardless. Curly’s need to film this horror was paling beside his need to commit it. The axe was all he required now. The axe, and Hassan’s participation.

  But even knowing that, Hassan had given all he had. He couldn’t move another step.

  Curly shook his head. ‘The trouble with you lot,’ he explained, ‘is you’re just not at home in the woods.’

  And the trouble with your lot, thought Hassan … The trouble with your lot … But there was so much wrong with Curly’s lot that there was no smart phrase to do it justice. The trouble with Curly’s lot was that it contained Curly, and others like him. What more needed saying?

  Curly stepped forward, into the dip, and up the other side. He swapped the axe from one hand to the other; made a little lunge with it to tease his victim; then was neatly hooked round the ankle by the root Hassan had avoided, and hammered down flat on his face. Hassan watched, fascinated, as Curly took a mouthful of leaf and mud; was so engrossed by the spectacle that it took him a full second to register that the axe had just landed at his feet.

  But even with bound hands, it took him less than a full second to pick it up.

  Mistake? I prefer to call it a fiasco.

  Spider Webb’s words, the other day. They were right up there with London rules as far as River was concerned. I prefer to call it a fiasco. Thank you, Spider. That would be a clue.

  The folder he held was neatly labelled Fiasco.

  ‘And this,’ he said to Taverner, ‘is why you had Spider burn me.’

  ‘Burn you?’

  Lamb said, ‘He’s a kid. He gets carried away with the jargon.’

  ‘I’m calling Duffy back in.’

  ‘Be my guest,’ Lamb told her. He was fiddling with his bent cigarette again, and seemed at least as interested in it as in whatever River’s folder held. But still: River waited until Lamb threw him a barely perceptible nod, before he went on.

  He said, ‘I did my upgrade assessment last winter.’

  ‘I remember,’ Taverner said. ‘You crashed King’s Cross.’

  ‘No, you did that. By getting Webb to feed me misinformation, sending me after a plant. A fake fake. Not the real one.’

  ‘And why would I do that?’

  ‘Because an earlier part of the assessment was compiling a profile on a public figure,’ River said
. ‘My designated target was a Shadow Cabinet Minister, but he had a stroke the night before, and was hospitalized. So I covered you instead. I thought that showed initiative, but you know what?’ He opened the folder, and removed a pair of photographs he’d taken months ago, the day before the King’s Cross assignment. ‘It showed you in a coffee shop instead. Happy memories?’

  He laid them on the desk where they could all see. The pictures had been taken from outside a Starbucks, and showed Diana Taverner at a window seat, drinking from a regular-sized mug. Next to her was a crew-cut man in a dark overcoat. In the first photograph he held a handkerchief to his nose, and could have been anyone. In the second he’d lowered his hand, and was Alan Black.

  ‘He must have been about to go undercover. Was that your last meet?’

  Taverner didn’t reply. Behind her eyes, Lamb and River could see calculations rolling once again; as if even here, in a glass room, she might still find a way out that neither of them had yet noticed.

  Lamb said, ‘When you found out what Cartwright had done, you took steps. The King’s Cross business should have meant game over, he should have been on the street. But because he had a legend in the family, the best you could manage was Slough House, and once the op was running, and the Voice of Albion was in play, you had Sid Baker assigned to us too, just to make sure Cartwright wasn’t getting any clever ideas. Which, given grandad, he’d likely be prone to, right?’

  On a train of her own, she said, ‘I told Webb to get rid of the file.’

  ‘He’s a quick learner too.’

  ‘What do you want, Lamb?’

  Lamb said, ‘There’s a reason why handlers are always ex-joes. It’s because they know what they’re doing. You couldn’t have fucked this up worse if you were trying.’

  ‘You’ve made your point. What do you want?’

  River said, ‘You know what I want?’

  She turned her gaze on him, and he understood a fundamental difference between suits and joes. When a joe looked at you, if he was any good, you’d never notice. But when a suit turned it on, you could feel their glare scorching holes in your intestinal tract.