Dead Lions

by Mick Herron

  “Which we could fill with conversation.”

  “You sure you’re not a girl? No, wait. You came too fast to be a girl.”

  “Let’s keep that between us, shall we?”

  “Depends how you make out in round two. That village notice board’s not just for show.” She moved her leg. “Celia Morden pinned a review of Jez Bradley there once. She said it wasn’t her, but everyone knew.” She laughed. “Don’t get that in your big city London, do you?”

  “No, but we have this thing called the Internet. On which similar things happen, I’m told.” Which earned him a nip on the arm. She had teeth. He said, “Were you born here?”

  “Ooh, getting personal?”

  “Well, not if it’s classified.”

  She nipped him again, a little less sharply. “My folks moved here when I was two. Wanted to get out of London. Dad commuted for a while, then joined a practice in Burford.”

  “Not farming stock, then.”

  “Hardly. Mostly urban refugees round here. But we treat strangers nicely, don’t you think?” She stroked him again.

  “And do you get many of those?”

  She tightened her grip. “Meaning?”

  “I was just wondering what kind of … turnover the village sees.”

  “Hmmm.” She resumed stroking. “That better be all you meant. And it still makes you sound like an estate agent.”

  “Background,” he improvised. “For the book. You know, how quiet it is now the base has gone.”

  “The base went years ago.”

  “Still …”

  “Well, it’s pretty dead. But getting livelier.” Her eyes flashed. They were startlingly green, River thought. He was hoping she was going to come up with a sudden memory, suppressed till now: a bald man who appeared a few weeks ago; a name, an address … Three weeks, and he’d yet to catch a sniff of Mr. B. He’d become an accepted feature at The Downside Man, and locals greeted him by name; he knew who lived where and which houses were empty. But of Mr. B he’d glimpsed not hair nor hide, a silly phrase given his naked dome, but it was hard to concentrate with Kelly doing what she was doing with her fingers, and now—“That’s more like it,” she said slowly—with her lips, and then River lost his train of thought entirely, and instead of being an agent in the field he was under the covers with a lovely young woman, who deserved a better accounting than he’d managed earlier.

  Happily, this time he provided it.

  It was the day before the summit, and Arkady Pashkin had arrived. He was in the Ambassador on Park Lane. The traffic outside was an angry mess, a fistfight continued by other means; in the lobby, there was only the trickling of water from a small fountain, and a polite murmur from the reception desk, whose guardians had been drawn from the pages of Vogue. Wealth had once fascinated Louisa Guy, the same way the flight of birds had: the attempt to comprehend something eternally out of reach could be dizzying. But three weeks since Min’s death, she observed how the rich live as a series of security details. Shots fired outside would reach the lobby as corks being popped. Someone mown down by a car would be lost entirely; wouldn’t be countenanced by the purified air.

  Behind her, Marcus Longridge said, “Cool.”

  Marcus and Louisa had been paired. She didn’t like it, but it was part of a deal she’d lately made. This deal was apparently with the Service, or more particularly Spider Webb, but in fact was one she’d made with reality. The hard part was not letting on how much she’d been prepared to give away. What she’d wanted was to stay on the job; specifically, on the assignment she and Min had been handed. What she’d been prepared to give away was everything.

  Pashkin was in the penthouse. Why would anyone imagine otherwise? The lift made less noise than Marcus’s breathing, and its doors opened straight into the suite, where Piotr and Kyril waited, the former smiling. He shook hands with Marcus, and said to Louisa, “It’s good to see you again. I was sorry to hear about your colleague.”

  She nodded.

  Kyril remained by the lift while Piotr led them across the large pale room, which was thickly carpeted and smelt of spring flowers. Louisa wondered if they pumped scent in through vents. Pashkin rose from an armchair at their approach. “Welcome,” he said. “You’re the Energy people.”

  “Louisa Guy,” Louisa said.

  “Marcus Longridge,” Marcus added.

  Pashkin was in his mid-fifties, and resembled a British actor she couldn’t put a name to. Of average height but broad-shouldered, he had thick black hair left deliberately vague; sleepy eyes under heavy brows. There was more hair on his chest, easily visible beneath an open-necked white shirt, which was tucked into dark-blue jeans. “Coffee? Tea?” He raised an eyebrow at Piotr, who was hovering. Had she not known him for a goon, Louisa would have assumed him a butler, or the Russian equivalent. A valet. A man’s man.

  “Nothing for me.”

  “We’re fine. Really.”

  They settled on easy chairs arranged round a rug that looked a hundred years old, but in a good way.

  “So,” Arkady Pashkin said. “Everything is ready for tomorrow, yes?”

  He was addressing them both, but speaking to Louisa. That was apparent.

  And fine by her.

  Because on that bad bad night when Min Harper had died, Louisa had felt she’d fallen through a trapdoor; had suffered that internal collapse you get when the floor disappears, and you’ve no idea how far away the ground is. It should have surprised her afterwards, how swiftly she’d assimilated the fact of Min’s death; as if, all this time, she’d been waiting for the other shoe to drop. But nothing surprised her any more. It was all just information. The sun rose, the clock spun, and she conformed to their established pattern. It was information. A new routine.

  Except, ever since, she’d had an ache at the hinge of her jaw; intermittently, too, her mouth would flood with saliva, repeatedly, for minutes at a time. It was as if she were weeping from the wrong orifice. And when she lay in the dark, she feared that if she fell asleep her body would forget to breathe, and she’d die too. Some nights she’d have welcomed this. But on most she clung to the deal instead.

  It was the deal that stopped her falling further, or at least promised a survivable landing. The deal was the branch growing out of the cliffside; the open-topped truck parked below, bearing a fresh load from the pillow factory. It was in Regent’s Park that it had come to life. This was four days after Min’s death, and the weather had perked up, as if in consolation. There were interview suites on the Park’s upper floors where they enjoyed watercooler moments rather than waterboarding incidents, and this one had comfortable seating, and framed posters from classic movies on the walls. It had been kitted out since Louisa had last been here, and even if everything else in her life had felt normal would still have rung strange. Like returning to school and finding they’d turned the sixth form into an aromatherapy centre.

  James Webb did sympathy like he’d studied the textbook. “I’m sorry for your loss.” An American textbook. “Min was a fine colleague. We’ll all miss him.”

  She said, “If he was that fine, he’d not have been at Slough House, would he?”

  “Well—”

  “Or gone cycling through heavy traffic pissed. In the rain.”

  “You’re angry with him.” He pursed his lips. “Have you talked to anyone? That can … help.”

  What would help more would be to plant her fist in the middle of that mouth. But she’d learned the hard way what others expect from grief, so she lied: “Yes. I have.”

  “And taken leave?”

  “As much as I need.”

  Which had been a day.

  His gaze turned towards the windows. These overlooked the park across the road, and because it was mid-morning there was a lot of pre-school traffic out there: women, prams, toddlers exploring grass verges. A car backfired and a flock of pigeons erupted, swam a figure eight through the air, and resettled on the lawn.

  “I don’t mean
to sound insensitive,” he said, “but I have to ask. Are you okay to continue the assignment?”

  He had lowered his voice. This was theoretically a griefmeeting, but they were alone, and she’d known he’d bring up the Needle job.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Because I can—”

  “I’m fine. Angry, okay, I’m angry with him. It was a stupid thing to do, and he ended up—well, he died. So yes. Angry. But I can still do my job. I need to do my job.”

  She thought she’d pitched that right—with the right amount of emotion. If he thought her a zombie, that would be as bad as thinking her hysterical.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes.”

  He looked relieved. “Well. Okay then. That’s good. It would be, ah, awkward to have to rejig …”

  “I’d hate to be an inconvenience.”

  Spider Webb blinked, and moved on. “Keep me abreast of developments, then.” A phrase from another textbook; one with a chapter on how to let subordinates know the meeting was over.

  He walked her to the door. There’d be someone outside to take her downstairs, repossess her visitor’s badge, and see her off the premises, but these signs of exile, which once would have loosed bees in her mind, were irrelevant. She was still assigned to the Needle job. It was a done deal. That was all that mattered.

  As he held the door, Webb said, “You’re right, though.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Harper shouldn’t have been on the road after drinking. It was an accident, that’s all. We looked into it very carefully.”

  “I know.”

  She left.

  Perhaps, she thought, as she was guided downstairs; perhaps, once this was over, and she’d found out why Min had died, and killed those responsible, she’d come back and throw Spider Webb through that window he enjoyed looking out of.

  It depended on her mood.

  While Kelly showered River pulled boxers and a shirt on, then roamed the bedroom, collecting clothes. Some, it turned out, were still downstairs. Well, she’d only come round for coffee. In the sitting room he found her shirt; also her shoulder bag, a bulky thing which had shed its load across the floor. He uprighted it, returning to its recesses her mobile, her purse, a paperback and her sketchpad, but he leafed through the sketchpad first: the nearby treeline, the road as it left the village, a group gathered on the patio behind the pub. She wasn’t good at faces. But there was a nice study of St Johnno’s, and another of its graveyard, each headstone a pencil-shaded stubbiness around which long grass wilted; and several aerial studies of the village—Kelly Tropper flew. The last page was strange, not so much a sketch as a design: a stylised city landscape, its tallest skyscraper struck by jagged lightning. Scribbled-over words had been scrawled along the bottom edge.

  “Jonny?”

  “Coming.”

  He carried her shirt up to the bedroom, where she stood draped in a towel.

  “You look …”

  “Gorgeous?”

  “I was going to say damp,” he said. “But gorgeous works.”

  She stuck her tongue out. “Someone’s pleased with himself.”

  He lay on the bed, enjoying the view while she dressed. “Didn’t know you drew,” he said.

  “A bit. Saw my book, did you?”

  “It fell open,” he confessed.

  “Don’t tell me. I can’t do faces. But you need a hobby round here.”

  “And flying is …”

  “Not a hobby.” Her green eyes were serious now. “It’s the most alive you can ever be. You should try it.”

  “Maybe I will. When are you next going up?”

  “Tomorrow.” A smile came and went. A special secret flashed. “But no, you can’t come with.” She kissed him. “Gotta go. Need to do stock before we open doors.”

  “I’ll be along later.”

  “Good.” She paused. “That was nice, Mr. Walker.”

  “I thought so too, Ms. Tropper.”

  “But that doesn’t mean you can look at my stuff without permission,” she said, and bit his earlobe.

  When he heard the front door close, he rang Lamb.

  “If it isn’t 007. Got anywhere yet?”

  “Nothing but dead ends and blank looks,” River said. He was staring at his bare toes. “If Mr. B was ever here, he dropped out of sight immediately afterwards.”

  “Blimey. So he might be, what, hiding? Or something?”

  “If he was ever here. Maybe his feet didn’t touch the ground. Maybe he was heading somewhere else before the taxi driver flipped his for-hire sign.”

  “Or maybe you’re useless. How big’s that place anyway? Three cottages and a duck pond? Have you checked the cowshed?”

  “Why come all the way from London to hide in a cowshed? If there was one. Which there isn’t.” River noticed a sock hanging from the curtain rail. “He doesn’t live here. Not as Mr. B or under any other name. I guarantee it.”

  “You’ve infiltrated the community, then?”

  “I’ve, er, made some progress, yes.”

  “Oh Christ,” said Lamb. “You’re shagging a local.”

  “Most of the population’s either retired, or commutes, or teleworks, but a lot of the houses are empty. There’s talk of the local school closing, always a sign of a dying community—”

  “If I want a bleeding heart editorial I’ll read the Guardian. What about the MoD place?”

  “Well, they don’t like you to wander about, but they don’t test secret weapons there, do they? It’s a target range.”

  “Which used to belong to the Yanks. Who knows what toys they kept in their cupboards?”

  “Whatever they were, I doubt they’re there now.”

  “But if there’s evidence of them ever being there, it could still cause embarrassment,” said Lamb.

  Like you’re an expert on that, thought River. “Yeah.” He retrieved his sock. “Which is what I was calling about. I’m going in tonight, take a look around.”

  “About time.” Lamb paused. “Are you dressed? You don’t sound dressed.”

  “I’m dressed,” River said. “How’s Louisa?”

  “Doing her job.”

  “Good. Yes. Obviously. But how is she?”

  Lamb said, “Her boyfriend got smeared by a car. I don’t suppose she wakes up whistling happy tunes.”

  “You checked out the accident?”

  “Did we change places when I wasn’t looking?”

  “Simple question.”

  “A pissed cyclist. Which part doesn’t spell organ donor?”

  “Fuck off, Jackson,” River said bravely. “Harper was one of yours. If he was struck by lightning, you’d be questioning the weather. I’m just asking what came up.”

  There was a pause, during which River heard the click of a lighter. Then Lamb said, “He was drunk. He’d been over the road, had several beers there. Stopped elsewhere and loaded up on vodka. They’d had a row.”

  River squeezed his eyes shut. Course they had. You have a row; you get pissed. How it works. “Where’d he drink the vodka?”

  “We don’t know. You want to guess how many bars there are west of City Road?”

  “Does he show up on—”

  “Why didn’t we think of that?” Down the line, Lamb sucked up smoke. “He flashes past cameras on Oxford Street, or we think he does. Black and white footage, and all cyclists look the same. And there was nothing at the scene. Camera was buggered up when a car sideswiped its pole.”

  “Now there’s a coincidence.”

  “Yeah. One which says it’s a junction where accidents happen. The Dogs okayed it.”

  “Huh.” Even River didn’t know what he meant by that. The Dogs were the Dogs. “Okay then. I’ll call later.”

  “Do that. And Cartwright? Next time you tell me to fuck off, make sure you’re a long way away.”

  “I am a long way away,” River explained.

  “Apology accepted.”

  He dropped
the phone and went to shower.

  “So,” Pashkin said, addressing them both, but speaking to Louisa. “Everything is ready for tomorrow, yes?”

  “It’s all under control.”

  “And not wanting to throw any spanners around, but you’re not from the Department of Energy.”

  Longridge opened his mouth, but Louisa beat him. “No.”

  “MI5, yes?”

  “A branch of it.”

  Marcus said, “The details aren’t important.”

  Pashkin nodded. “Of course. I’m not trying to compromise you. I’m just establishing … parameters. I have my men here to protect me—”

  He had Kyril by the door, and Piotr hovering nearby; an entirely different pair today to the brusque, almost jolly couple they’d seemed three weeks ago, the day Min—

  “—and you, I presume, have been assigned to make sure all other arrangements run smoothly.”

  “They will,” Marcus said.

  “I’m pleased to hear it. Department of Energy or not, you’ll be aware your Government is keen to, ah, reach a mutually beneficial understanding regarding certain fuel demands my company can meet.” His features adopted a self-deprecating expression. “Not enough to drive your entire country, of course. But a reserve. In the event of difficulties arising elsewhere.”

  He spoke fluently, with a medium-thick accent Louisa suspected was cultivated. A deep and sexy growl never hurt when you were opening negotiations, whatever they happened to be.

  “And given the obvious delicacy of the situation, it’s in all our interests that the meeting goes smoothly. And with that in mind, I have a request.”

  Watching his mouth form words, Louisa had the impression they were little clockwork toys he was winding up and setting free, to waddle across this wide expanse of carpet. “All right,” she said.

  “I would like to go there. This afternoon.”

  “There …?”