Real Tigers

by Mick Herron

  “Subject to the usual limitations,” Dame Ingrid said.

  He returned to where she sat, and held a hand out. She gave him her crockery.

  He said, “Of course. I’m simply seeking an assurance that all and any information relevant to the security of the nation is brought to my attention. That would inevitably include information relating to the reliability or otherwise of those entrusted with the great offices of state.”

  “Which might then be used to ease those same unreliables out of those offices.”

  “Well now. Once we’ve established the unfitness of an office holder, it would be a dereliction of duty not to do something about it.”

  He carried her crockery to the table and carefully arranged the empty cups and used saucers in as efficient a tableau as possible. Then he returned to his chair and sat once more, smiling pleasantly.

  She said, “Have you any idea how many times over the past half century the Service has been asked to consider doing what you’re suggesting?”

  He pretended to give it some thought. “I would guess at least once during each administration. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. The important thing is that we both know whose team we’re on.”

  “I see.”

  An important thing perhaps, but promises of future cooperation were easily given. If the worst that happened here and now was that she be allowed back to the Park to lick her wounds, Ingrid Tearney would count the day a victory. But she knew as well as she knew her own mind that, having manoeuvred her into a corner where she could hardly fail but to indicate surrender, Judd would take it one step further and demonstrate his power. Victory, she had once heard someone say, was about ensuring your opponent never again put head to pillow without thinking with hatred on your face. Tearney, who had never married, had thought this over the top, but had little difficulty accepting it as one of Judd’s credos.

  It was of small consolation, in such circumstances, to be proved right almost immediately.

  Peter Judd picked up a small metal implement from the table by his chair—a cigar-cutter, or some equally ridiculous tool—and examined it with an air of absent-mindedness. For such a dedicated politician, it really was a beginner’s tell.

  He said, “This Slough House place. Amusing name. I gather it’s a decrepit set of offices near the Barbican.”

  She nodded.

  “Somewhere you can send the rejects.”

  “It’s not always politic to fire people.”

  “Isn’t it? Can’t say I’ve ever found that a problem.”

  It was true that he’d never seemed to worry about lawsuits, whether relating to employment or paternity issues.

  “And that’s where this Cartwright chap was assigned.”

  She saw little point in replying when it was clear he knew the answer.

  Judd sighed to himself as if enjoying a private little moment of pleasure, and replaced the metal tool on the table where it belonged.

  “Well, it’s obviously unfit for purpose if its aim was to retrain the morons,” he said. “So let’s close it down.”

  “Slough House?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Close it down. Today.”

  Jackson Lamb didn’t believe in omens. When he got a feeling in his gut, it was generally because of some mistreatment he’d subjected said gut to, though frankly the thing was so inured to his lifestyle, he’d probably have to pour weed-poison into it to provoke a serious reaction. Nevertheless, he didn’t like the way the day was shaping up. Cartwright getting arrested at the Park was a serious fuck-up, even for the boy wonder; Lamb didn’t doubt Lady Di had meant every word when she’d said they could kiss him goodbye. And while he could contemplate a future without River Cartwright in it with a degree of equanimity, Catherine Standish would have plenty to say on the subject if she ever turned up. And Lamb had learned long ago not to piss off whoever made your morning tea.

  If she turned up . . . His gut aside, facts were starting to accumulate. The odds on Cartwright doing something monumentally stupid on any given morning were evens; the chances of Catherine Standish going AWOL were lower. That the two things had happened at the same time meant there was a connection, and if Lamb had to place a bet, he’d put it on cause and effect. Cartwright had learned something about Standish’s disappearance that had set him haring off to the Park where he’d hit a brick wall, full tilt.

  Time for an older, wiser mind to take charge.

  He farted, and settled into Catherine’s chair.

  Lamb didn’t often come into this office. The rest of Slough House he prowled at will, poking into nooks and late-night corners, but Standish’s office he left alone. If it contained anything she genuinely didn’t want him to find, he probably wouldn’t find it without causing structural damage. And by the time he was drunk enough to find this prospect appealing, he was usually beyond putting a plan into action.

  The desk was neatly organised, which was no surprise. Front and centre was a pile of reports that should, by rights, have been on Lamb’s own desk when he’d arrived this morning; by now, he’d have pawed them out of their pristine state, and spilled enough of one beverage or another onto them, in lieu of actually reading the damn things, to warrant their being reprinted before they were shuffled into secure folders and shipped off to the Park. The knowledge that they’d receive equally scant attention there had never prevented Standish from rendering them as professional-looking as possible. It was one of the ways Lamb could tell she didn’t have sex any more.

  He picked up the reports, weighed them reflectively as if gauging the intelligence they contained, then dropped them into the wastebasket. “Prioritise,” he murmured to himself. Then he stood and moved around the small office.

  A faint smell of blossom lingered in the air, or had done until quite recently. The culprit wasn’t hard to find: a small muslin bag hanging from the window frame. Lamb tugged at it gently between thumb and forefinger, but not gently enough not to snap the thread it hung from. Letting it fall, he continued his circuit. Two sets of filing cabinets. A coat stand from which a linen tote bag dangled, alongside an umbrella. All of it like a Disneyfied version of his own office: smaller translating into cosier; neater into cleaner. Well, cleaner into cleaner too, to be honest. She’d been here as recently as last night, but already the room was subsiding into a museum piece. He had the strange sensation that, given another twenty-four hours, everything would be laced with cobweb.

  Get a grip . . .

  There was no point turning the office over, because he already knew there were no clues here. Standish had called him twice after leaving last night, indicating that whatever had happened happened after she left Slough House . . . Still, he went through her desk anyway, on principle. The spare keys to her flat were missing, which gave him a moment’s pause before he remembered Louisa Guy had checked her place out. There was nothing else of interest except, in the bottom drawer, a bottle-shaped object wrapped in tissue paper so old it crinkled to his touch. He pulled it free. The Macallan. Seal unbroken. After studying it a moment he rebundled it, and stuffed it back in the drawer.

  He looked up to find Louisa leaning on the door frame.

  “What?”

  “Looking for something?”

  “If I was, I’d have found it by now.”

  He fell back into Standish’s chair, which registered its discomfort with a sharp twang.

  Louisa said, “You don’t think she’s drunk somewhere.”

  “No.”

  “You’re sure.”

  Instead of replying, Lamb fumbled in his jacket pocket and produced a cigarette. He lit it eyes closed, and wheezily inhaled.

  “What did they say at the Park? About River?”

  “He’s under arrest. Something about an attempt to steal a file. You can go clean his desk out if you want.”

  “Didn’t take long, did it?”
Louisa said. “Catherine goes off reservation, and we’re one down not twenty-four hours later. I’d give us till the end of the week.”

  “‘Us’?”

  “Slough House.”

  Lamb chuckled.

  “You don’t think we’re a team?”

  “I think you’re collateral damage,” said Lamb.

  “And yet here you are, looking for clues. What was the file River was trying to steal?”

  “Wrong question. You should be asking, what the hell was Cartwright doing, trying to steal a file?”

  “Well, I assume it was a ransom demand,” Louisa said. “Whoever took Catherine got in touch with him.”

  “Has Ho traced her phone?”

  “She’s taken the battery out. Or someone has.”

  Lamb grunted.

  “So what now?”

  “Well it’s long past lunchtime,” he said. “And no bugger’s fetched me a carryout yet.”

  “So that’s the bigger picture sorted. But what about these other issues? You know, the danger your team’s in. That sort of thing.”

  “Cartwright’s not in danger. They might work him over a bit, but they’ll give him to the plod soon enough. He’ll be perfectly safe.”

  “But in prison.”

  “Yeah, well. Silly sod should have thought of that before having his awfully big adventure. He’s in MI5, not the Famous Five.” Lamb flicked ash onto Catherine’s desk. “You’d think he’d have worked that out by now.”

  “And what about Catherine?”

  “Remember what I just said about collateral damage?”

  “So whoever’s fucking about with Slough House, you’re just going to let it happen.”

  The chair creaked dangerously as Lamb leaned back, dangling his arms over the sides. “What do you expect me to do?” he said. “It’s not as if we know who’s doing the fucking about.”

  “And when we find out?” Louisa asked.

  “Ah,” said Lamb. “That’ll be a different story.”

  “Slough House,” Judd said. “Close it down. Today.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Just like that. Do we own the building?”

  “Yes.”

  “Better still. We can flog it off now the market’s recovered. That’ll pay for the odd decoder ring, what?”

  “And the agents?”

  “Have them put down.”

  “. . . Seriously?”

  “No. But it’s interesting you felt the need to ask. No, just sack them. They’re all retards or they wouldn’t be there anyway. Hand them their cards, tell them goodbye.”

  “Jackson Lamb—”

  “I know all about Jackson Lamb. He’s supposed to know where some bodies are buried, yes? Well, newsflash, nobody spends a decade in this business without stumbling across the occasional corpse. And if he feels like kicking up a fuss, he’ll find out what the Official Secrets Act’s for. Wormwood Scrubs is more than big enough to hold him as well as Cartwright. Speaking of whom, yes, hand him over to the woolly suits. Don’t see why having a grandfather in the business should buy him any favours.”

  Thus spoke a man whose own grandfather had paid his school fees.

  Tearney knew what this was, of course. Slough House meant nothing to Judd; he cared less about it than she did, and she didn’t care at all. Were it not that it acted as a thorn in Diana Taverner’s side, she’d have erased it without a moment’s thought. Lamb was a Service legend, but there were museums full of one-time legends: label them, hang them on a hook, and they pretty soon lost their juju. The slow horses could be history by teatime, and would have passed from her thoughts before supper. But to wipe Slough House out of existence on Peter Judd’s word was a different matter entirely. And if she let him get away with it, she’d wind up in his pocket.

  Of course, a pocket was a good place to be if you were probing the wearer for soft tissue.

  She said, “Consider it done.”

  •••

  Donovan turned away and opened the van, producing something from its depths which for one heart-quelling moment Monteith thought was a pistol, with elongated neck. A silencer? But when Donovan unscrewed the cap and took a pull from it, Monteith saw it was a bottle of water.

  He shook his head. Too much heat, too much excitement. From the bright sun outside to the petrol-fumed air of the car park had been like stepping from one form of battery to another: having been slapped silly by sunshine, he was now being rabbit-punched by pollution. It occurred to him, not for the first time, that London was more than one city. There was the one he was taxied comfortably about in, whose views were spacious and spoke in agreeable accents of wealth and plenty, while the other was cramped, soiled and barbarous, peopled by a feral race who’d strip you bare and chew the bones. The divide itself didn’t worry him—it was why the security business paid dividends—but he didn’t like being caught on the wrong side.

  He remembered a late instruction he’d given, and something tightened behind his waistband. “The woman. Did you, ah . . . ”

  “Shake her up a bit?” said Donovan, screwing the cap back on the bottle. His voice was flat, but Monteith heard judgment in it.

  He bridled. Rank be damned: money went one way, respect the other. That was business.

  “Just a joke, man. Is she still at the house?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I want to speak to Judd in person before we all stand down.” He paused to look around before continuing. “No point changing shirts before the final whistle.”

  There was nobody in sight, and the only vehicle in earshot was on the level below, and getting lower. Out on the street, traffic noise didn’t count; it was simply the natural state of being, like the buzzing round a hive.

  Donovan said, “You don’t trust him, you mean.”

  “. . . Why wouldn’t I trust him?”

  The van’s back doors were still open. The soldier put a foot on its floor and began retying a bootlace. “Because he’s a sneaky piece of shit.”

  “. . . I beg your pardon?”

  “Your pal. Peter Judd. He’s a sneaky piece of shit.”

  “He’s also a senior officer in Her Majesty’s Government. So I’d thank you to keep a civil—”

  “Where are you meeting him?”

  “—Did you just interrupt me?”

  Donovan put his boot back on the ground, and Monteith was forcibly reminded that the older man was bigger, fitter; altogether more . . . substantial.

  He took a step back. “Let’s not forget who pays your salary, Donovan.”

  “Yes, let’s not do that.”

  “You’re lucky to have a job at all, with your record.”

  “Don’t kid yourself. My record’s the reason you hired me. Puts hair on your balls, doesn’t it, Sly? Having the real thing about the place, instead of plastic heroes.”

  “What did you just call me?”

  “Oh, I thought you enjoyed it. Makes you think people like you, doesn’t it, when they call you Sly?” Donovan leaned closer, to bestow the following confidence. “I have to tell you, though. That’s not the reason they do it.”

  “Ring Traynor. Now. Tell him to release the woman, and get back to the office. And you can consider that your final act in my employment. You’re sacked.”

  Even Monteith could hear the quiver in his voice, the barely repressed anger. Let Donovan give him one more excuse . . .

  Donovan laughed. “Sacked? You don’t want to try for, what, ‘cashiered’? Tinpot little general like you, I’d have thought ‘cashiered’ more up your street.”

  “If it wasn’t for me, you’d still be queuing up for your jobseeker’s allowance. Bit of a change from the parade ground, that, was it? Lining up with all the ex-squaddies for your charity handout?”

  Donovan shook his head,
facing the floor, but when he looked up, Monteith saw he was laughing. For a moment he thought the last few minutes had just been erased, that Donovan had been having a soldier’s joke, but that bubble burst in short order. Donovan wasn’t laughing with him, but at what he’d just said.

  “‘Charity handout’? I swear to God, I’ve fought wars against people I had more respect for.”

  Monteith said, “I’ve had enough of this. Ring Traynor. And give me the keys to the goddamn van.”

  “Where are you meeting Judd?”

  “This conversation is over.”

  “Not yet it isn’t.”

  Forgetting the keys, Sly Monteith turned to leave, and the next moment the world whipped past him like it was a yo-yo: he was heading for the doorway and its urine-perfumed stairwell, and then he wasn’t. Instead, he was slammed back against the van’s panels, breathless, his ankles dangling in space. Donovan’s fists were scrunching his lapels, and Donovan’s voice was drilling into his ear.

  “Once more,” Donovan suggested. “Where are you meeting him?”

  There was a sudden sense of release, several sudden senses of release, and Monteith’s feet were back on the ground, and the contents of Monteith’s bladder were heading the same way. Donovan’s face twisted in contempt, and as much to prevent him expressing it as anything else, Monteith found the words tumbling out.

  “Anna Livia Plurabelle’s.”

  “. . . Where?”

  “Park Lane. Really quite decent, they do a good . . . ” Monteith’s memory, or imagination, tailed away. What did they do that was good? A sudden taste of spring lamb in a blackcurrant jus filled his mouth, almost real enough to wash away the smell of his own piss.

  Standing in a car park, slumped against a van. Discovering that the scheme he’d been orchestrating had been someone else’s all along . . . Every age calls forth its heroes: he’d thought that just this morning. Back when he’d been one of the heroes he was talking about, surrounded by memorials to idiots who’d thrown everything away.