Real Tigers

by Mick Herron

  “That takes me back,” Lamb said, though it was doubtful the man could hear him.

  Rolling his victim over, Lamb found a gun in the waistband of his trousers. Well, that solved the problem of whether this was the right house, or at least excused the violence he’d just done the householder if it turned out not to be. Anyone who answered the door to a carol singer armed deserved all he got, thought Lamb piously. Ejecting the magazine, he slipped it into a pocket, and tossed the gun through the nearest doorway. There was nobody else here, Standish aside. He’d have been shot by now otherwise.

  He cleared his throat noisily, and glanced around as if for a spittoon. Then swallowed instead: good manners, as he was fond of explaining to his slow horses, cost nothing. There were stairs to the left, and several doorways other than the one he’d just tossed the gun through, but he’d almost certainly end up climbing the bloody stairs, so might as well get to it. He paused on the first landing to light a cigarette, but before doing so sniffed sharply. Why did this place smell of cheese, he wondered.

  Not important. Cigarette in mouth, Lamb stomped his way upstairs.

  River said, “So what’s your bag, exactly?”

  Traynor threw him a sardonic look, but didn’t reply.

  River was on the floor, back against the wall, a position which offered his sore stomach muscles some relief, though not so much that he was likely to think of Nick Duffy with fondness in the foreseeable future. Douglas, a yard or two away, looked like he was trying to will himself into a different universe; one in which he hadn’t allowed River and Louisa through the hatch. That, or he was trying not to burst into angry tears. As for Louisa, she had disappeared into what River had come to recognise as her silent space: the one into which she wandered whenever her presence was unavoidable, but her full attention wasn’t required. It was somewhere she’d spent a lot of time when she’d first been exiled to Slough House; now, since Min’s death, it looked like she was planning on moving back there. Like revisiting a flat you’d once lived in, River thought: certain it was pokier than you remembered, but give it a day or two, it would be like you’d never left.

  Above their heads, the CCTV monitors continued their automatic surveillance; blinking from coverage of the derelict estate through a montage of the empty corridors and rooms that stretched a mile beneath the western fringe of the capital. Traynor kept glancing at these, presumably checking on Donovan’s progress.

  He tried again. “UFOs? Most of the people who’ve had alien encounters, it’s amazing they can spell ‘UFO.’ That your thing, Traynor? Or no, let me guess, it’s Lady Di. You’re one of those idiots thinks the Secret Service had her taken care of, on the orders of the Lizard Duke.”

  This time Traynor didn’t even use the look. He just stared at River, unblinking, as if River were a buzzing insect: not worth the effort of getting up to squash.

  “Because I’ve got to tell you,” River said, “of all the sad-arsed nutjob theories out there, that one’s got to be the saddest. You think word wouldn’t have got out around the Service if that had been a hit?”

  Traynor said, “From what I hear, you wouldn’t get to know about it if the Service decided to put vinegar on its chips.”

  And then, just as River was congratulating himself on having provoked a rise out of him, Traynor’s expression changed, and he gave his full attention to the monitors. At the same moment Louisa came back from her silent space; she was up in a moment, staring at the screens.

  “Who the hell are they?” she asked.

  Only Douglas remained sitting. The other three were on their feet, watching the monitors; specifically the one showing a corridor that had previously been empty but was now swarming with black-clad figures, masked and utility-belted, moving at a clip in what River could only assume was their direction.

  After they left the main road the streets became narrower; tree-lined at first, giving way to rows of terraced housing, and then, as they approached the railway lines, increasingly run-down storage depots, warehouses, vacant yards. Traffic dwindled, and Marcus kept well back. When the Black Arrow van disappeared between a pair of darkened buildings, he carried straight on while Shirley twisted in her seat to observe its departure. “Some kind of industrial estate. That must be where the off-site facility is.”

  Marcus grunted, turned at the next corner, and parked in front of garage doors marked constantly in use. “Wait here.”

  “Where—”

  “I need something from the boot.”

  He got out and went round the back of the car. Shirley, about to follow, thought better of it, and sat pillaging her pockets instead, suddenly certain there was hidden treasure on her person—an overlooked wrap of coke was aiming high, but she’d been wearing the same jeans for a few days, and it wasn’t unusual to come across the odd crumb of hash in its crevices, picked up on her night-time travels, and forgotten about in the heat of the . . . heat. But there was nothing. She reached for her jacket, ran her fingers down its seams—sometimes a pill could slip through to the lining. Nothing. Fuck. But it didn’t matter. She was fine. Maybe Marcus kept something in the glove compartment—Jesus, aspirin, anything—but a quick rummage produced nothing more useful than an ancient roll of Polo mints and a few CDs that had lost their cases.

  But she was fine, and didn’t need a pick-me-up. Adrenalin would see her through. She didn’t need Marcus telling her that; didn’t even need the lecture from herself. So she flipped through the CDs as a way of clamping down on jittery feelings, and found an Arcade Fire bootleg from last year’s Hyde Park show: way too cool for Marcus, so presumably one of his kids’, which meant asking permission to borrow would result in tedious negotiation. On the other hand, it was a bootleg: the kid obviously had no copyright issues, rendering the ‘property’ thing moot. She wasn’t feeling jittery at all now, she noted, slipping the CD into her jacket pocket, and nearly jumped out of her skin when Marcus reappeared at the window.

  “Don’t do that.”

  “You okay?”

  “I’m fine. Jesus.” She squinted up at him. “You seriously planning on wearing that?”

  That was a black baseball cap of the kind Marcus had worn in the crash squad, though without the skinny comms mic. He had it low over his brow, but with the peak upturned.

  “It’s what I’m used to.”

  “It keeps the light reflecting off your bald patch, you mean.” Shirley dumped her jacket on the seat behind, and clambered out of the car.

  “You should put that on,” Marcus told her.

  “It’s hot.”

  “A white T-shirt? You seriously want to do this wearing—”

  “O-kay, okay.” She grabbed the jacket and pulled it on. “Just because you’re old enough to be my dad, you don’t have to act like him.”

  “I am not old enough—forget it. You sure you’re ready for this?”

  “They’re just a bunch of Saturday soldiers.”

  “Never underestimate your opponent. Especially when you don’t know how many of them there are.”

  “It was a big van,” Shirley admitted. “What do you reckon they’re here for?”

  “They’re Donovan’s crew. Or they were until he killed Monteith this afternoon. So maybe they’re cool with that, and are here to help him with whatever it is he’s doing. Or else—”

  “Or else they’re narked he whacked their boss and they’re here to piss in his whisky.”

  “Yeah, something like that. Are you armed?”

  “No. Are you?”

  “No,” said Marcus. “Well, a gun.”

  “That’s kind of armed.”

  “It’s not a big gun.”

  “You bring a spare?”

  “What am I, your nanny? No I didn’t bring a spare. This is a family car, not a roving arsenal. Now do your buttons up. Your T-shirt’s showing.”

  Shirley did her bu
ttons up, and the pair of them set off round the corner.

  Nick Duffy checked his watch, wondered again where the hell the Black Arrow crew were, then exhaled when he saw the van appear below, coming to a halt with an unnecessary squeal of brakes near the pile of mesh fencing. Amateurs: they spilled out the back the way they’d seen it done in Vietnam movies, as if they’d set down in a chopper, and Charlie was lurking in the reeds.

  But they didn’t need to be good at what they did. They only had to be there, in large numbers.

  Duffy counted a dozen before letting the binoculars fall to his chest. They were in full-on Cowboys and Indians mode, peeping out from behind whatever shelter they could find: the van itself, the skip, that pile of fencing. The Slough House crew’s vehicle was available too: Cartwright and Guy were that keyed into undercover work, they’d parked it in full view of the slowly appearing stars. In a sense, he’d be doing everyone a favour, taking them off the board. And even as he had the thought, he was aware that this was the mood required for this kind of job: you had to be clear that what you were doing was for the common good, even of those you were doing it to.

  All of them, Dame Ingrid had said. The Slough House crew too.

  He watched the black-clad wannabes at work, some unpacking equipment from the back of their van—a pair of quick-assembly scaffolding towers on which klieg lights perched—while others hopped and jumped from shadow to shadow, preparing their ground, and looking like they were having fun, but only because they’d never done this for real before. If he were of a sentimental persuasion, Duffy might have mused that once upon a time he’d been like that himself, but he wasn’t, and he hadn’t, so he simply stooped to the holdall at his feet and pulled out a black silk balaclava. Black for night, silk for coolness—even now, the heat persisted; like a bakery where the ovens had only just been turned off—but most of all, a balaclava so his face wasn’t on show. When this was over, the Black Arrows were going to be left holding the body bags, and it would be nicer all round if they had no descriptions to chuck about.

  Then he checked his guns, checked his ammunition, and went down to take charge.

  On the top landing, Lamb found a padlocked door and thought: okay, that resembles a clue. The key was no doubt in Sunny Jim’s pocket, and it wouldn’t take two minutes to pop back downstairs and collect it, but it didn’t look like anyone was about to volunteer, so he simply bellowed “Standish? You might want to step back,” and without further warning applied his foot. The first kick threw splinters and pulled the metal clasp holding the padlock halfway out of the frame. The second completed the job, and the door slammed inwards, hit the wall, and bounced back closed. In the split second between, he saw Catherine Standish, framed in another doorway, holding something in her hand. When he pushed the broken door open once more and stepped through it, she was still there, but her hands were empty.

  Lamb looked at her, looked around the room, looked at her again, and said, “Thought this was a kidnapping, not an awayday.”

  “The lock was on the outside,” she pointed out.

  “I’ve seen more secure rabbit hutches.” Walking past her, he poked his head through the doorway into the bathroom. “It’s en suite, for God’s sake.”

  “Maybe. But I requested non-smoking,” she told him.

  “That’s a really bad habit, that passive-aggressive shit.” But he lobbed his cigarette at the toilet anyway. It bounced off the seat, and disappeared behind the sink pedestal, where it probably wouldn’t start a fire and burn the building down.

  Catherine said, “What did you do with Bailey?”

  “If he’s the work-experience type they left in charge, he’s having a lie down. Another old flame, is he?”

  “How much of a lie down?”

  “I didn’t kill him, if that’s what you’re asking.” Lamb had spotted the tray now, and made a beeline for it. “Don’t get me wrong, I disapprove of Service personnel being abducted. But it’s not like you’re important.”

  Deliberating for a moment, he scowled at the apple, pocketed the flapjack and tore open the sandwich.

  “Who’s with you?”

  “Nobody.”

  “You came by yourself?”

  She couldn’t keep the incredulity out of her voice.

  “Yes. Well, Ho drove.” Lamb bit into the sandwich and made a face. “Christ. How long’s this been sitting there?”

  “What did Donovan want?”

  “In return for you?” Lamb chewed for a moment, swallowed, then took another bite. Once his mouth was full, he went on, “Well, he says he wants the Dipshit Chronicles.”

  Catherine looked confused, then more so. “The Grey Books?”

  “Yeah, that was my reaction. On the other hand, if, as seems likely, he shagged you back in the way-back-when, it’s more plausible.” Another pause for chewing. “On the grounds that he’s obviously a nutcase, I mean.”

  “Can we leave now?”

  “I haven’t had my flapjack yet.” He paused, and sniffed the sandwich. “Has this got cheese in it?”

  “Oh God, not again. Turn round.”

  Lamb did so, and a moment later felt her peel something from the seat of his trousers. When he turned back, Catherine was holding a flattened disc of what looked like mozzarella. “Always check before you sit down in Roddy’s room. What are your laundry bills like?”

  “What’s a laundry bill?”

  She left the room ahead of him, and paused on the landing for a moment to look back. Lamb didn’t bother. It was an ordinary room, and nothing much had happened in there. There were worse things to endure than boredom.

  From the next landing, they could see Bailey’s comatose body in the hallway. He looked like he might have been asleep, Catherine reflected, if people generally smashed their faces against an anvil before settling down for the night. “He’s only a kid, Jackson,” she said.

  “He had a gun. Why d’you call him ‘Bailey’?”

  “He had a camera too.”

  Lamb thought about that for a moment, then dismissed it. “Well, you’re gonna have to wake him up now. I want to know what Donovan’s really after.”

  “Because you don’t think he’s really a nutcase.”

  “Well, he’s probably that too. But that doesn’t mean he hasn’t got a hidden agenda.”

  She said, “Thanks for coming to get me, Jackson.”

  “Did you think I wouldn’t?”

  “Oh, I knew you would. I just thought there’d be more mayhem involved, that’s all.”

  And that was when Roderick Ho drove a bus through the front door.

  “They’re Black Arrow,” Traynor said.

  Black Arrow, and they were moving down the corridor the way it was done in the movies; one forging ahead a few yards then dropping to a crouch, allowing another to overtake him, and secure the next few yards. Most held nightsticks; some carried what might be guns, but looked too clunky. Tasers, River thought, triggering a sense-memory at the base of his spine. He’d encountered Tasers before.

  Louisa said, “Your crew?”

  “They wish.” Traynor looked at Douglas. “Where are they? Where is that?”

  Douglas, who was still on the floor, shrugged sulkily.

  “Christ on a bike,” Traynor muttered. He grabbed Douglas by the collar, hauled him to his feet, and pointed him at the screen. “That. Where are they?”

  It took Douglas’s voice a moment or two to catch up with his lips. “That’s C Corridor.”

  “A big help. Where’s C Corridor?”

  “This side of B,” Douglas explained.

  “How far are they from the warehouse room?”

  “That’s just after E Corridor.”

  Traynor said, “Okay.” Taking his gun from his belt he checked its load, then held it loosely by his side. “Right, change of plan. I’m going that way
.” He pointed towards the corridor down which Donovan had disappeared. “Make sure you’re not in our way when we head back.”

  “You still have our colleague,” Louisa said.

  “She’ll be released at nine come whatever. Unharmed. You think we’re animals?”

  “Jury’s still out.”

  River’s eyes were on the monitor on which the Black Arrow crew were securing the complex. “You plan to shoot them?”

  “I plan to back up my CO.”

  “They’re Noddy squad,” River said. “They’ve got sticks and stones.”

  “Some of them are ex-forces,” Traynor said. “And they’re not all unarmed. Ever worked private security?”

  “Not yet,” Louisa muttered.

  “Trust me. The types who do are the kind to squirrel away illegal handguns.”

  “What are you really after?”

  But Traynor was gone; through the swing doors, and off down the corridor at a trot.

  River looked at Douglas. “Do you keep weapons down here?”

  “Are you kidding?”

  Only sort of, thought River. He looked up at the monitors again. Armed or not, there were plenty of men out there. Probably more than enough to deal with two ex-soldiers.

  Probably.

  Douglas had thrown the lever that opened the overhead hatch.