Dead Lions

by Mick Herron

“You’ll be first in line.”

  A draught at River’s back indicated someone new had just come in, and Barnett said, “Here comes trouble.”

  River didn’t have to turn to know who this was.

  It was growing dark when Louisa emerged at Marble Arch among crowds of young foreign tourists. She threaded past giant rucksacks and breathed the evening air, tasting traffic exhaust, perfume, tobacco, and a hint of foliage from the park. At the top of the steps she unfolded a pocket map, an excuse for pausing. After inspecting it for two minutes, she put it away. If she was being followed, they were good.

  Not that there was reason for anyone to be following. She was just another girl on a night out, and the streets were heavy with them: whole migrating herds of fresh young things, and some less fresh, and some less young. Tonight Louisa was a different woman to the one she’d lately been. She wore a black dress which stopped above the knee and showed off her shoulders, or would do once she removed her jacket, which was four—no, five—years old, and starting to look it, but not so much a man would notice. Sheer black tights; her hair pulled back by a red band. She looked good. It helped that men were easy.

  She carried a bag on a strap, just big enough for a few feminine essentials, the definition of which varied from woman to woman. In her own case, alongside mobile phone, purse, lipstick, credit card, it included a can of pepper spray and a pair of plastic handcuffs, bought off the Internet. Like many Internet-related activities, these purchases were amateurish and ill-thought out, and part of her wondered what Min would have said, but that was arse-backward. If Min had been in any position to know, she’d not have been carrying this stuff.

  The Ambassador looked different at night. Earlier, it had been another imposing urban monolith, all steel and glass and carefully maintained kerb-flash. Now, it glittered. Seventeen storeys of windows, all catching reflections of the whirlwind traffic. She used her phone as she approached, and he answered on the second ring. “I’ll be straight down,” he said.

  She’d hoped he’d ask her up. Still: if not now, later. She’d make sure of that.

  In the mirrored lobby, it was impossible not to catch sight of herself. Again: What would Min have thought? He’d have liked the dress, and the way her tights showed off her calves. But the thought that she’d scrubbed up for someone else would have struck ice through his heart.

  And here came the lift, and out of it stepped Arkady Pashkin. Alone, she was relieved to note.

  Crossing the lobby he was careful not to show teeth, but there was a wolfish gleam in his eyes as he took her hand and—yes—raised it to his lips. “Ms. Guy,” he said. “How charming you look.”

  “Thank you.”

  He wore a dark suit, with a collarless white shirt, its top button undone. Knotted round his neck was a blood-red scarf.

  “I thought we might walk, if that’s all right,” he said. “It’s warm enough, yes?”

  “Perfectly warm,” she said.

  “And I have so few chances to see the city as it should be seen,” he said, nodding at the young woman on reception as he guided Louisa out onto Park Lane. “All the great cities—Moscow, London, Paris, New York—they’re best enjoyed on foot.”

  “I wish more people thought so,” she said, raising her voice to be heard above the traffic. She looked round, but no one was following. “It’s just us, then.”

  “It’s just us.”

  “You’ve given Piotr and—sorry, I’ve forgotten—”

  “Kyril.”

  “And Kyril the night off? Very good of you.”

  “It’s the modern way,” he said. “Treat your workers well. Or they look for pastures new.”

  “Even when they’re goons.”

  He had taken her arm as they crossed the road, and she felt no increase in pressure. On the contrary, his voice was amused as he replied: “Even when, as you say, they are goons.”

  “I’m teasing.”

  “And I like to be teased. Up to a point. No, I gave them the evening off because I took the liberty of assuming that tonight is not business. Though I was surprised to get your call.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.” He smiled. “I won’t play games with you, I get calls from women. Even from English women, who can be a little … is reticent the word?”

  “It’s a word,” Louisa allowed.

  “And this afternoon, you seemed so businesslike. I don’t mean that as a criticism. On the contrary. Though in this particular case, it means I have to ask, was my assumption correct?”

  “That tonight’s not business?”

  They were safely across the road, but he had not released her arm.

  She said, “Nobody knows I’m here, Mr. Pashkin. This is entirely personal.”

  “Arkady.”

  “Louisa.”

  They were in the park, on one of its lamplit paths. It was warm, as Louisa had promised, and the traffic’s hum receded. Last winter, she’d walked this path with Min, heading for the Christmas Fair—there’d been a ferris wheel and skating, mulled wine, mince pies. At an air-rifle booth, Min had missed the target five times in a row. Cover, he’d said. Don’t want everyone knowing I’m a trained sharpshooter. Bury that, she thought. Bury that moment. She said, “We seem to be heading somewhere. Do you have a plan, or are we just seeing where the moment takes us?”

  “Oh,” he told her, “I always have a plan.”

  That makes two of us, Louisa thought, and her grip tightened on the strap of her bag.

  Two hundred yards behind them, out of reach of the lamplight, a figure followed silently, hands in pockets.

  There was damp in the air, and overhanging clouds; a grey mass, hiding the stars. Griff Yates set off at a lick, but River kept up. They met nobody on the village’s main road, and few houses were lit. Not for the first time, River wondered if the place existed in a time warp.

  Perhaps Yates read his mind. “Missing London much?”

  “Peace and quiet. Makes a nice change.”

  “So’ll being dead.”

  “If you don’t like it, why do you stay?”

  “Who says I don’t like it?”

  They passed the shop and the few remaining cottages. St John of the Cross became a black shape and vanished into bigger darkness. Upshott disappeared quickly at night. The road curved once, and that was it.

  “Some of the people, mind. I’d happily be shot of them.”

  “Incomers,” River said.

  “They’re all incomers. Andy Barnett? Talks like he’s farming stock, but he doesn’t know the business end of a bull.”

  Which probably depended on whether you were a cow or a rambler, River thought. “What about the flying crew?”

  “What about them?”

  “They’re a young crowd. Weren’t any of them born here?”

  “Nah. Mummy and daddy moved here when they were small, so the kiddies could grow up in the country. You think real locals have aeroplanes to play with?”

  “It’s still their home.”

  “No, it’s just where they live.” Yates stopped abruptly, and pointed. River turned, but saw nothing: only the dark lane, hedge-rowed either side. Larger outgrowths were trees, waving at the sky. “See that elm?”

  River said, “Yes,” though had no idea.

  “My grandad hanged himself from that. When he lost his farm. See? History, that is. Means your family’s blood’s been spilt there. Somewhere doesn’t belong to you just because your parents bought a chunk of it.”

  “It kind of does, though,” River said. “You know. In the strictly legal sense.”

  They walked on.

  “That’s bullshit about your grandad, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah.”

  They reached a crossroads, one fork of which was a farm track: two ruts in a narrow passage. Griff marched down it without altering speed. The surface was slick underfoot, with random outcroppings of rock. River had a pencil-torch he couldn’t use, partly because they were approaching the M
oD land, but mostly so Griff wouldn’t think him a wuss. It was very dark. There must be a moon, but River had no idea where, or what shape it would be if it showed itself. Meanwhile Griff marched without stumbling or slowing, proving a point: this was his territory, and he could navigate it eyes shut. River gritted his teeth and picked his knees up. Less chance of stumbling.

  Griff halted. “Know where we are?”

  Of course I bloody don’t. “Tell me.”

  Griff pointed left, and River squinted. “Not seeing it.”

  “Start at the ground and move your gaze upwards.” River did as told, and about eight feet from the ground became aware of a change in texture. This wasn’t hedgerow any more. Catching light from somewhere it winked at River briefly, and he understood: this was the MoD range, bordered on all sides by wire-mesh fence, along the top of which razorwire curled.

  “We’re going over that?” He was whispering.

  “Can if you like. But I’m not.”

  They trudged on.

  “Common land, this used to be,” Griff said. “Before the war. Till the government invoked some whatyecallit, emergency provision, and used it for training. Then the war ended, but they never gave it back, did they? Leased it to the Yanks, then when they buggered off, it went back to the M of bloody D.” He hawked noisily, and spat. “For more training. So they say.”

  “Artillery range, isn’t it?”

  “Oh aye. But that might just be cover.”

  “For what?”

  “Weapons research, maybe. Chemical weapons, you get? Or other stuff they don’t want us knowing about.”

  River made a non-committal noise.

  “You think I’m joking?”

  “Truthfully,” River said, “I haven’t the faintest idea.”

  “Well here’s your chance to find out.”

  It took River a moment to realise Yates was pointing at a section of dark overgrowth. It looked no different than any other stretch they’d passed this last half hour, but that’s what Griff was here for: to show him a way in he wouldn’t find for himself.

  “After you,” he said.

  “So how long have you been with the, ah, Department of Energy?”

  “I thought we agreed. No business.”

  “Forgive me. One of my vices, I find it difficult to relax.” He glanced at her chest, a fair proportion of which was on display. “Not impossible. Just difficult.”

  “We must see what we can do about that,” she said.

  “Something worth drinking to.” He raised his glass. She had already forgotten the name of the wine he’d ordered, and its label was obscured now as it wallowed in its bucket, but he’d specified the year, and that was a first for Louisa. Her dining experiences mostly involved sell-by dates, not vintages.

  “I was sorry to hear about your colleague,” he said. “Mr. Harding?”

  “Harper,” she said.

  “My apologies, Harper. And my condolences. Were you close?”

  “We worked together.”

  “Some of my closest friendships have been born of work,” he said. “I’m sure you miss him. We should drink to his memory.”

  He raised his glass. After a moment, Louisa raised hers to meet it.

  “Mr. Harper,” he said.

  “Min.”

  “I’m sure he was a good man.” He drank.

  After another moment, so did she.

  The waiter arrived and began unloading food, the sight and smell of which made her want to gag. She’d just drunk a toast to Min’s memory with the man she was sure was the force behind his death. But now would not be a good time to retch: she had the whole evening to get through. Keep him sweet and keep him happy; keep him eager until they were back in his suite. Then business could begin.

  She wanted to know who, and she wanted to know why. All the questions Min himself would seek answers to, if he were here.

  “So,” she said, her voice far away. She cleared her throat. “So. You’re happy with tomorrow’s arrangements?”

  He waved a finger like a disappointed priest. “Louisa. What were we just saying?”

  “I was thinking about the building. Impressive, isn’t it?”

  “Please. You must try this.” He was arranging bits of starter on her plate. She still had no hunger; she had an ache inside, but it wasn’t food she needed. She forced a smile and thought she must look grotesque, as if her mouth had fish-hooks at the corners. But despite his enormous wealth, he was too much the gentleman to shudder or point.

  “Impressive, yes,” he said, and she had to change mental gear: he was talking about the Needle. “Capitalism at its most naked, rearing high above the city. You don’t need me to mention Freud, I’m sure.”

  “Perhaps not this early in the evening,” she heard herself say.

  “And yet it’s impossible to avoid. Where there is money, there is also sex. Please.” He gestured with his fork. “Eat.”

  It was as if he’d prepared it himself, and she wondered if that were a symptom of wealth; that you assume yourself the source of all your company’s needs and pleasures.

  She ate. It was a scallop, over which had been drizzled a nutty-looking sauce which tasted of too many things for her tongue to process. And yet that ache inside, which food could not pacify, rolled over on its back and quietened. Eat. Eat some more. It wasn’t wrong to be hungry after all.

  He was saying, “And where there’s sex, trouble follows. I’ve been seeing posters everywhere, hearing news reports. This Stop the City rally. Are your masters at the Department of Energy worried about it?”

  That joke could wear thin. “It’s not ideal timing. But our route avoids it.”

  “I’m surprised your authorities allow it on a weekday.”

  “I suppose the organisers felt there was little point in bringing the City to its knees at the weekend, when the City’s out of town.” Her bag buzzed. That was her phone receiving a text, but there was nobody she wanted to hear from. She ignored it, and speared another scallop.

  He said, “And it won’t get out of hand?”

  Similar demonstrations had seen burning cars and shattered windows. But the violence tended to be contained. “These things are strenuously policed. The timing’s a pain, but it’s just one of those things. We’ll work round it.”

  Arkady Pashkin nodded thoughtfully. “I’ll trust you and your colleague to get me there and back safely.”

  She smiled again. It felt more natural this time. Maybe because she was thinking that there was no chance Pashkin would be trusting her to do anything, once this evening was over.

  Always supposing he was still alive.

  For some reason River had expected it to be different, this side of the fence; lighter, perhaps; easier underfoot. But having followed Griff through not much of a gap in the spiky undergrowth, to a sheared-through section of the wire fence that peeled back, he found everything much the same, except that there was no defined track, and he was muddier.

  “Where now?” he asked, breathing hard.

  “The main complex’s two miles that way.” River couldn’t tell which direction Griff was pointing. “We pass some abandoned buildings first, half a mile or so. Ruined. Leave buildings untended, that’s gunna happen.”

  “How often do you come here?”

  “When I feel like it. It’s a good place for rabbiting.”

  “How many other ways in are there?”

  “That one’s easiest. Used to be another towards Upshott, where you could lift a post clean out of the ground and just walk in over the fence. But it was cemented back in place.”

  They began to walk. The ground was slick, and inclined downwards; he slipped and would have hit the ground if Griff hadn’t steadied him. “Careful.” Then the clouds thinned, and a sliver of light gleamed from behind a gauzy curtain. River saw Griff’s face clearly for the first time since leaving the pub. He was grinning, showing teeth as grey as his pitted skin, his mottled scalp. He seemed to be reflecting that scrap of moon.<
br />
  Darker shadows waited at the foot of the incline. River couldn’t make out whether they were trees or buildings, then understood they were both. There were four buildings, mostly roofless, and jutting out from their broken walls were long spectral branches, which caught a shiver of wind as he watched, and beckoned him onwards. Then the heavens shifted again, and the moonlight faded.

  “So,” River said. “If someone just turned up looking for a way in, he’d not be likely to find it?”

  Griff said, “Might, if he was smart or lucky. Or both.”

  “You ever run across anyone in here?”

  Griff made a snickering noise. “Scared?”

  “I’m wondering how secure it is.”

  “There’s patrols, and some places are wired. You want to avoid them.”

  “Wired?”

  “Tripwires. Lights and sirens. Mostly near the base, though.”

  “Any round here?”

  “You’ll know soon enough, won’t you? If you tread on one.”

  That would be a laugh, thought River.

  Holding an arm out for balance, he followed Griff towards the smashed-up buildings.

  Pashkin said, “I ought to ask, you’re not married?”

  “Only to the job.”

  “And these, ah, messages you’re getting. They’re not from an irate lover?”

  Louisa said, “I have no lover. Irate or otherwise.”

  She’d received three further texts, but hadn’t read them.

  They had eaten their starters, and their main courses; had drunk the first bottle, and most of the second. It was the first proper meal she’d eaten since Min’s death. Pricey, too. Not a detail that would bother Arkady Pashkin, who owned an oil company. Louisa wondered if condemned men reviewed their final meals; sent compliments to the chef en route to the scaffold. Probably not. Though they had the excuse of knowing they were condemned.

  She would blind him with the pepper spray. Plasti-cuff him hand and foot. Then all she’d need was a towel and a shower hose. In the Service they trained you in interrogation resistance, which was a covert way of teaching you interrogation methods. Pashkin was a big man, seemed in good health, but she imagined he’d last five minutes. Once she’d learned how Min had met his death, and which of Pashkin’s goons had killed him, she’d put him out of his misery. There’d be something around she could use: a letter opener. Picture wire. They taught you to be resourceful, in the Service.