by Mick Herron
Lamb said, “Being on the warpath’s Tearney’s job description. If she wasn’t rattling a sabre, them down the corridor would think she wasn’t up to it.”
“Maybe she isn’t.”
Lamb ran five fat fingers through hair that needed a rinse. “I hope you’re not about to wax political. Because, and I can’t stress this enough, I don’t give a flying fuck who’s stabbing who in the back at the Park.”
But Taverner was venting, and not about to interrupt herself. “Leonard Bradley wasn’t just her rabbi, he was also her Westminster mole. Now she doesn’t have any allies down the corridor, as you put it, and you know how jumpy she gets. So she doesn’t want any boats rocked or any strings plucked. In fact, she doesn’t want anything happening at all, good or bad. Bring her the next Bin Laden’s head on a plate, she’d be worried where the plate came from, in case someone claimed it on expenses.”
“She’s gunna love this, then.”
“Love what?”
“I’m planning an op.”
Taverner waited for the punchline.
“Is that you being quietly impressed?”
“No, this is me not believing my ears. Were you listening to a word I said?”
“Not really. I was just waiting for you to finish.” He flicked his cigarette end into the water, and a duck changed course to investigate it. “Popov was a myth, Katinsky’s a nobody, and Dickie Bow was a part-time spook long ago. But now he’s a full-time corpse, and on the phone he was carrying when he died, there’s an unsent text message. One word. Cicadas. The same word Katinsky heard in relation to a plot dreamt up by the non-existent Alexander Popov. Tell me that’s not worth checking out.”
“A dying message? Are you serious?”
“Oh yes.”
Taverner shook her head. “You know, out of your whole crew, I really didn’t think you’d crack up first.”
“Keeps you on your toes, doesn’t it?”
“Lamb, there’s no way Tearney’s going to stand for Slough House going live. Not with the Park in economic lockdown. And not any other time either.”
“Good job I’ve got you then, isn’t it?” Lamb said. “What with your inability to refuse me anything.”
Slough House on an April afternoon: the promise of spring on the streets occasionally broken by the farting of traffic, but still, it was there. Min could glimpse it in the sunlight glinting off the Barbican Towers’ windows, and hear it in the occasional burst of song, for the students from the nearby drama school were invulnerable to embarrassment, and would happily perform while walking to the tube.
All aches and pains from the cycle-dash, he felt good anyway. A couple of years stuck behind a do-nothing desk, but he could turn it on when he needed to. He’d proved that this morning.
For the moment, though, he was back at that do-nothing desk, completing a do-nothing task: cataloguing parking tickets issued near likely terrorist targets, in case a suicide bomber’s research included checking out the facilities first, by car, without bothering to top up the meter. Min was nearly through February without a single plate coming up twice, while Louisa, immersed in an equally tedious task, hadn’t spoken for a while.
Thumb-twiddling time.
There was a theory, of course, that they were given these jobs for a reason, and the reason was that they’d grow so mind-achingly bored they’d quit, saving the Service the hassle of bringing their employment to an end, with its attendant risk of being taken to tribunal. It was a good job, thought Min, that he had a morning’s real work behind him, and the prospect of more to come. A dosshouse off the Edgware Road. Piotr and Kyril holed up there, waiting for their boss to show: it wouldn’t hurt to know more about that pair. Their habits, their hangouts. Something to give Min an edge, if it turned out he needed an edge. You could never have too much information, unless it was about parking tickets.
It was quiet upstairs. Lamb had disappeared after listening to Shirley Dander’s report on how she’d tracked down Mr. B; or that’s what Min assumed she’d been reporting.
He said, “I wonder what Shirley turned up.”
“Hmm?”
“Shirley. I wonder if she found the bald guy.”
“Oh.”
Not a lot of interest there, then.
A bus trundled past the window, its top deck empty.
“Lamb seemed keen on it, that’s all,” he said. “Like it was personal.”
“Just a whim, knowing him.”
“And I doubt River was happy Shirley got to go out and play.”
He couldn’t help the smile that went with that. He was remembering the speed with which he’d whipped down Old Street. And of River sitting at his desk while this was happening.
Louisa was watching him.
“What?”
She shook her head and returned to her work.
Another bus went past, this one full. How did that happen, exactly?
Min tapped a pencil against his thumbnail. “Maybe she screwed up, do you think? I mean, she didn’t have a lot to go on.”
“Whatever.”
“And she was Comms, wasn’t she? Shirley. You think she has much field-time?”
And now Louisa was looking at him again. Quite hard, in fact. “What’s with the mention-itis?”
“What?”
“You want to know how Shirley got on, go chat her up. Best of luck.”
“I don’t want to chat her up.”
“Not what it sounds like.”
“I’m wondering if she did okay, that’s all. We’re supposed to be on the same team, aren’t we?”
“Yeah, right. Maybe you should give her some pointers. After your morning’s adventure.”
“Maybe I should. It’s not like I did so badly.”
“You could show her the ropes.”
“Yes.”
“Steer her right.”
“Yes.”
“Spank her when she’s naughty.” Louisa said.
“Yes. No!”
“Min? Shut up now, okay?”
He shut up.
There was still the same promise of spring outside, but the atmosphere inside the office had unaccountably reverted to winter.
“It’s a good job I’ve got you then, isn’t it?” Lamb said. “What with your inability to refuse me anything.”
A crooked yellow smile accompanied this, in case Taverner had forgotten what good friends they were.
“Jackson—”
“I need a workable cover, Diana. I could put one together myself, but it’d take a week or two, and I need it now.”
“So you want to run an op and you want to do it in a hurry? Does any part of that sound like a good idea?”
“I also need an operating fund. Couple of K at least. And I might need to borrow a pair of shoulders. I’m under strength at the House, what with your boy Spider’s recruitment drive.”
“Webb?”
“I prefer Spider. Every time I see him, I want to swat him with a newspaper.” He gave her a sly glance. “You know about his poaching, right?”
“Webb doesn’t rearrange his desk without my permission. Of course I know.” There was a sudden clatter as the duck launched itself out of the canal and headed downwater. “And there’s no way you’re using anyone from the Park. We’ve got Roger Barrowby counting teaspoons. Trust me, he’ll notice if a warm body goes missing.”
Lamb said nothing. The wheel had turned. Any moment now, Taverner would notice she’d gone from saying the door was shut to negotiating about how far it would open.
“Oh Christ,” she muttered.
There you go.
Silently, he offered his cigarettes again, and this time she took one. When she leant in to be lit he caught a wave of her perfume. Then his lighter flared and it was gone.
Taverner leaned back, past caring about any marks the bench might leave. She closed her eyes to inhale. “Tearney doesn’t like undercover,” she said. He had the feeling she was continuing a conversation she’d had in her
head many times. “Given the chance, she’d scrap Ops and double the size of GCHQ. Distance intel-gathering. Just the way Health and Safety likes it.”
“There’d be fewer joes in body bags,” Lamb said.
“There’d be fewer joes full stop. And don’t pretend to defend her. She’d parade your generation before a truth and reconciliation committee. Apologising for every black-ribbon adventure you ever set up, then hugging your oppo for the cameras.”
“Cameras,” Lamb repeated. Then said, “God, you’re not even joking, are you?”
“Know what her latest memo said? That those in line for Third Desk grade should sign up for an in-house PR course. Make sure they’re fully prepared for a ‘customer-facing’ role.”
“ ‘Customer-facing’?”
“ ‘Customer-facing’.”
Lamb shook his head. “I know some people. We could have her whacked.”
She touched his knee briefly. “You’re kind. Let’s make that Plan B.”
After that they sat in silence while she finished her cigarette. Then she ground it beneath her heel and said, “Okay. Enough fun and games. Unless you’re ready to tell me you’re kidding about this?” But a quick glance told her she wasn’t getting off that easy. She checked her watch. “Lay it out.”
Lamb told her what he had in mind.
When he’d finished, she said, “The Cotswolds?”
“I said an op. I didn’t say al Qa’eda.”
“You’re going to do this anyway. Why bother even telling me about it?”
Lamb looked at her solemnly. “I know you think I’m a loose cannon. But even I’m not stupid enough to run an op on home ground without clearing it with the Park.”
“I meant really.”
“Because you’ll find out about it anyway.”
“Damn right I will. You worked out which one of your newbies is reporting back to me yet?”
His expression betrayed nothing.
She said, “This better not turn into a circus.”
“A circus? This guy planted one of ours. If we let that happen without, what would you call it, due diligence? We let that happen without checking out who, what and why, then we’re not only not doing our job, we’re letting down our people.”
“Bow wasn’t our people any more.”
“It doesn’t work that way, and you know it.”
She sighed. “Yes, I know it. Didn’t know you did speeches, though.” She thought a moment. “Okay. We can probably rustle up a pre-used ID without ringing bells. It won’t be watertight, but it’s not as if you’re sending anyone into Indian country. And if you fill out a 22-F, I’ll pass it through Resources. We’ll lay it off as some kind of archive expense. I mean, face it, you’re exploring ancient history. If that’s not an archive matter, I don’t know what is.”
Lamb said, “You can nick it from petty cash for all I care. No skin off my arse.”
To verify this assertion, he gave the area in question a scratch.
“Jesus wept,” said Diana Taverner. Then said, “I do this, we’re free and clear, right?”
“Sure.”
“You’d better not be pissing about on company time, Jackson.”
In a rare moment of tact, Lamb recognised when someone needed the last word, and said nothing. Instead, he watched her out of sight, then rewarded himself with a slow grin. He had Service cover. He even had an operating fund.
Neither of which he’d have got, if he’d told her the truth.
Retrieving his phone from his pocket, he called Slough House.
“You still there?”
“Yes, that’s why I’m answering the—”
“Get your arse to Whitecross. And bring your wallet.”
Snapping the phone shut, he watched as the wayward duck returned, coming to a skidding halt on the canal’s glassy surface, shattering the reflected sky, but only for a moment. Then it all shivered back into shape: sky, rooftops and overhead cables, all in their proper place.
Ho would have been happy about that.
“You took your time,” Lamb said.
River, who’d arrived first, knew a Lamb tactic when he heard one. “What did I need my wallet for?”
“You can buy me a late lunch.”
Because it had been a while since his early lunch, River surmised.
The market was packing up, but there were still stalls where you could buy enough curry and rice to feed an army, then stuff it so full of cake it couldn’t march. River paid for a Thai chicken with naan, and the pair walked to St Luke’s and found a bench. Pigeons clustered hopefully, but soon gave up. Possibly they recognised Lamb.
“How well did you know Dickie Bow?” River asked.
Through a mouthful of chicken, Lamb said, “Not well.”
“But enough to light a candle.”
Lamb looked at him, chewing. He kept chewing so long it became sarcastic. When he’d at last swallowed, he said, “You’re a fuck up, Cartwright. We both know that. You wouldn’t be a slow horse otherwise. But—”
“I was screwed over. There’s a difference.”
“Only fuck ups get screwed over,” Lamb explained. “May I finish?”
“Please.”
“You’re a fuck up, but you’re still in the game. So if you turn up dead one day, and I’m not busy, I’ll probably ask around. Check for suspicious circumstances.”
“I can hardly contain my emotion.”
“Yeah, I said probably.” He belched. “But Dickie was a Berlin hand. When you’ve fought a war with someone, you make sure they’re buried in the right grave. One that doesn’t read Clapped Out when it should say Enemy Action. Grandad never teach you that?”
River remembered a moment last year when he’d had a glimpse of the Lamb who’d fought that war. So despite Lamb now being a fat lazy bastard, he was inclined to believe him.
On the other hand, he didn’t like Lamb slighting his grandfather, so said, “He might have mentioned it. When he wasn’t telling me Bow was a pisshead who claimed to have been kidnapped by a non-existent spook.”
“The O.B. told you that?” Lamb cocked his head. “That’s what you call him, right? The old bastard?”
It was, but how Jackson Lamb knew passed all understanding.
Aware that River was thinking this, Lamb gave his stalker’s grin. “Alexander Popov was a scarecrow, sure,” he said. “What else did grandpa tell you?”
“That the Park put a file together,” River said, “to see what it revealed about Moscow Centre’s thinking. It was mostly fragments. Place of birth, stuff like that.”
“Which was?”
“ZT/53235.”
“Why doesn’t it surprise me you remember that?”
“There was some kind of accident there,” River said, “and the town was destroyed. That’s a detail that sticks in your mind.”
“Well, it would,” Lamb said. “If it had been an accident.” Scraping the last of his curry from its foil container, he shovelled it into his mouth, oblivious to the look River was giving him. “That wasn’t bad,” he said. With a practised flick of the wrist, he sent his spork spinning into a nearby bin, then sponged the remaining sauce up with his last hunk of naan. “I’d give it a seven.”
“It was deliberate?”
Lamb arched his eyebrows. “He didn’t mention that bit?”
“We didn’t go into great detail.”
“He probably had his reasons.” He chewed the naan thoughtfully. “I’m pretty sure your gramps never did anything without a reason. No, it was no accident.” He swallowed. “You’re still too young to smoke, right?”
“I’m still not stupid enough.”
“Get back to me when you’ve had a life.” Lamb lit up, drew in, exhaled. Nothing about his expression suggested he’d ever considered this might be harmful. “Z whatever you called it was a research facility. Part of the nuclear race. This is before my time, you understand.”
“Didn’t realise they had nuclear capability before your tim
e.”
“Thanks. Anyway, to our best understanding, Moscow Centre decided it harboured a spy. That someone on the inside was feeding information about the Soviet nuclear programme to the enemy. Who would be us. Or friends of ours.” Lamb became still. For a few moments, the only thing moving was the thin blue trail of smoke aching wistfully upwards from his cigarette.
River said, “And they destroyed it?”
Lamb said, “Did gramps never mention, all these secret history lessons he’s been giving you, how fucking serious it got? Yes, they destroyed it. They burnt the place to cinders to make sure whatever was happening there stayed hidden.”
“A town of thirty thousand people?”
“There were some survivors.”
“They destroyed it with the people still—”
“More efficient. They could be reasonably sure their spy ceased his activities forthwith. The joke being, of course, that there was no spy.”
“Some joke,” River said.
Some punchline, he thought.
“That was one of Crane’s favourite stories,” Lamb said.
Amos Crane, long before River’s time, had been a service legend, for all the wrong reasons. Not so much poacher turned gamekeeper as fox turned henhouse warden.
“Crane liked to say you had the whole hall of mirrors wrapped up in that episode. They build a fort, then worry we’ll burn it down. So they burn it down first, to make sure we can’t.”
“And Popov’s supposed to be one of those survivors, yes?” River said. In his mind, he was seeing a perfect circle. “They destroy their own town, and years later make a bogeyman from the ashes to wreak vengeance on us.”
“Yeah, well,” Lamb said. “Like I say, it tickled Crane.”
“What happened to Crane anyway?”
“Some chick whacked him.”
Lesser talents would need a whole novel to tell you that much, River thought.
Lamb stood, gazed at the nearest tree as if in sudden awe of nature, lifted a heel from the ground and farted. “Sign of a good curry,” he said. “Sometimes they just bubble about inside you for ages.”
“I keep meaning to ask why you’ve never married,” River said.
They crossed the road. Lamb said, “Anyway. Scarecrow he might be. Bogeyman he was. But Dickie Bow’s still dead, and he’s the only one who ever claimed to set eyes on him.”
