by Mick Herron
Claude Whelan didn’t get out much. He travelled from home to Regent’s Park; from Regent’s Park back home again; he shuttled between the Park and Whitehall; he mostly lunched at his desk. Occasionally, true, he would be called upon to attend gatherings further afield, but unlike his lamented/lamentable – according to choice – predecessor Ingrid Tearney, he spent as little time as possible on the Washington circuit, holding that if improved communications didn’t result in fewer air miles, they weren’t worth the fibre optics that produced them. And when the invitation was impossible to refuse, he spent the odd early evening nursing a G&T at one members-only watering hole or another, between whose antique furniture former big beasts like Peter Judd could be glimpsed, plotting their comebacks. But for the most part Claude was an office bod: papers arrived on his desk and were signed and spirited away again; messages pinged into his inbox, and were swallowed by electrical circuitry. There was no shame in being tethered to the furniture. No especial dignity either, or heroism: everything a joe might endure could happen to a drone, treachery not excepted. Whelan well remembered his first traitor, a man he’d shared projects with, sat in meetings with, discussed geopolitics with over a sandwich, back, as they said, in the day. The man had, it turned out, been prey to demons, the kind which had left him in need of money, and open to temptation. A shopping list of secrets had been found in his flat, and a roster of potential buyers. It had been Claude himself who had suggested that the opportunity for spreading misinformation was too good to miss; that his erstwhile friend, if no longer reliable, was at least a valuable conduit. It had been Claude who devised Operation Shopping List, a plan that misfired when the embryonic traitor committed suicide before its full implementation. All very messy, and none of it involving travel. No, Claude had never felt his horizons limited by his disinclination to abandon his safe places; he’d seen enough, good and bad, without having to pack. Not getting out much wasn’t a weakness. It was Claude, playing to his strengths.
Today, though, was a day for leaving the office. The file on Dennis Gimball had landed on his desk, and a swift read-through was enough to have Whelan rearranging his afternoon. Apart from anything else, Gimball had lately taken delight in stamping on Claude’s reputation. Claude wasn’t a vindictive man, but this was largely because the opportunity to be one had rarely presented itself. In this he resembled most other people, with the added advantage that he was head of the Secret Service, with access to files like the one in front of him now.
But before leaving he had another matter to deal with.
‘This man Ho,’ he said.
‘He’s downstairs, sir.’
Which had various meanings in Regent’s Park. Claude was downstairs himself, inasmuch as he was on the hub. But further below lay rooms where you really didn’t want to spend much time, if you were keen on leaving them under your own steam. As opposed to being stretchered out, or carted away in a bucket, by someone much like the man he was talking to now: one of Emma Flyte’s Dogs.
‘Who’s talking to him?’
‘Nobody, sir. We were told to leave him to sweat.’
A good, if obvious, ploy. Sooner or later, if you were in one of the downstairs rooms, with its single plastic chair whose legs weren’t quite of equal length, you would start to wonder why the floor was ever so slightly off-level, and what the tap in the corner was for, when there wasn’t a basin there. Just an open drain, to allow for run-off.
After a few hours’ contemplation, this could start to seem a pressing matter.
There was, as yet, no certainty that the attack on Roderick Ho was part and parcel of the Abbotsfield massacre. ‘Guns are currency,’ Whelan had said to Lady Di earlier. ‘It’s possible the Abbotsfield killers ditched theirs as soon as they were able. And other bad actors picked them up. In which case what we have is a coincidence.’
‘I don’t like those.’
‘No, well, neither do I. But if it’s the same crew, it’s a very different plan. Murdering random strangers is one thing. This was an attempted hit on Service personnel. Chalk and cheese, no?’
‘Yes. Or …’
‘Or what?’
‘Or someone was tying up a loose end,’ said Lady Di. ‘Perhaps Ho was aiding them, intentionally or not. In which case …’
In which case they might want to sever the connection.
Diana had a point, and it needed testing. If there was a link between Ho and Abbotsfield they had to discover it, and the fastest way would be to squeeze Ho none too gently. But Roderick Ho was a slow horse, and though on one level this meant he could be screwed up and tossed away like so much waste paper, there was a complication in that he was one of Jackson Lamb’s crew, and Lamb was inclined to play rough when you messed with his things. Which meant that any attempt to do so would have to involve snookering Lamb: not a step to take lightly, because if it failed, Whelan would be left standing on scorched earth. Lamb knew more about Whelan than Whelan was comfortable with. And Whelan had yet to think himself out of this corner, so for now had to tread carefully.
Lady Di might have delivered Ho. But it was up to Whelan what happened next.
So before he headed out to beard Dennis Gimball, he gave the instruction: ‘Keep sweating him for now. Another couple of hours’ soft time. It’ll pay off in the long run.’
Because soft time or not, a few hours in below-stairs accommodation and Roderick Ho would turn to jelly; just a messed-up ball of anxious worry, dying to spill his guts.
Well for a start, thought Ho, the plumbing’s fucked.
Single tap, jutting out of the wall at a height you’d have to be seriously below average to use comfortably: whose idea was that? But this was what you got when you used cowboys. You’d have thought the Service would rise to something a bit less cheap, a bit more reliable, but the austerity bug bit deep. Look at Slough House, and his own kit – years out of date, and while Roddy Ho could make a PC cable of any vintage come rising from a basket like a snake, that didn’t make it right to foist him off with substandard gear. It had long been on his mind to raise the issue first chance he got, but he wondered whether now was, in fact, the right time. People here had problems of their own. Even the floor was wonky. And besides, there were other matters to discuss.
Someone had tried to kill him last night.
Bad as that was, he couldn’t complain that it wasn’t being taken seriously. Here he was, after all, in protective custody; ferried by Diana Taverner, no less; the Park’s Second Desk (Ops), who hadn’t said much on the ride over, so rattled was she at how close they’d come to losing him. He’d nearly patted her hand, in fact – just in simple reassurance that he was still among the living – but had recognised that a physical overture might be misconstrued: another time, another place, lady. Because there was Kim, his girlfriend, to consider, and seriously: Lady Di ought to be focusing on keeping him safe right now, instead of allowing herself to be distracted by middle-aged fantasies.
(Middle-aged was pure chivalry, mind. She had to be in her fifties.)
Anyway, here he was, in the bowels of the Park, having been escorted here by the Dogs, the Service’s cop squad. Who hadn’t been talkative, and had forgotten his request for an energy drink while he waited. Still, if he got thirsty, he could help himself from that tap. Nobody could say Roddy Ho wasn’t prepared to rough it while the powers that be worked out the best way to protect him.
Dragging the chair to a corner, Roddy entertained himself by discovering how sharp an angle he could balance it at before toppling to the floor. This proved to be about half as sharp as his first attempt but, it turned out, he had plenty of time to improve.
J. K. Coe said, ‘I think we’ve got a problem.’
Lamb said to Flyte, ‘He doesn’t speak much. Perhaps he’s making an effort on your account. Let’s see.’ He turned to Coe and said, very slowly, ‘Why. Might we have. A problem?’
Then he looked at Flyte again, tapping a finger to his temple. ‘Bit simple,’ he mouthed.
> Coe twisted his earbud cord round his fingers. ‘There’s been another incident.’
‘Did you wet yourself again? Don’t worry, we didn’t notice.’
Catherine said, ‘Let’s hear him out, shall we?’
‘A bomb on a train,’ Coe said.
‘And that came to you via the music, did it?’ said Lamb. ‘Might have to try listening to jazz myself. Except I’d rather rub sand in my eyes.’
He put his bottle to his lips, and drank wine like it was water.
‘He’s not listening to jazz,’ Catherine said.
‘Yeah, funny thing, I’d got that far myself.’
‘We’re in lockdown,’ said Flyte. ‘No comms. And you’ve been listening to the radio?’
Shirley said, ‘Give him some slack. He carries a knife.’ She’d found a plastic glass somewhere and poured herself some wine, and her mouth was red from that or the Haribo. She looked like she’d applied lippy while no one was looking.
‘Where was the bomb?’ said River. ‘How many hurt?’
‘Nobody. The device was found and disabled.’
‘Where?’
‘On an HST from Bristol. Heading into Paddington.’
The others already had their phones out, checking the news websites.
Flyte said, ‘Do I have to say this again? Turn your devices off. We’re in lockdown.’
‘It’s because you’re new,’ Lamb said. ‘They’re testing the boundaries.’
‘When I need your input, I’ll ask.’
River, eyes on his phone, said, ‘Nobody’s claimed responsibility yet.’
‘Yeah, well,’ Lamb said. ‘Taking the credit for fucking up, that would be your department.’ He looked at Coe. ‘And as for you. I make a big announcement about the Abbotsfield killers having a crack at Ho, and you trump it with a story about nobody being hurt somewhere else?’ He shook his head. ‘We have to start playing cards for money round here.’
‘There’s more, isn’t there?’ said Louisa.
Coe had put his hands on the desk in front of him, and his fingers seemed agile and twitchy. ‘Yes.’
Lamb’s sigh would have filled a sail. ‘A few fucking details wouldn’t go amiss. Whenever you’re ready.’
Coe collected the agile fingers on his right hand and turned them into a fist. He unbent them one at a time, still staring at the desk in front of him. ‘One. Destroy the village.’
River opened his mouth to speak, but changed his mind.
‘Two. Poison the watering hole.’
Lamb leaned back in his chair, looking grim.
‘Three. Cripple the railway.’
Coe folded his hand away again, and stuffed it into the pouch of his hoodie.
There was a short silence, broken by Shirley. ‘Am I missing something?’
‘He’s saying these aren’t random acts of terrorism,’ said River, not taking his eyes off Coe. ‘It’s a destabilisation strategy.’
‘A bunch of penguins get shredded?’ said Shirley. ‘Who’s that supposed to destabilise? David Attenborough?’
‘It’s not the penguins,’ said Catherine. ‘It’s the name. Is that what you’re saying?’
Coe nodded.
‘The Watering Hole,’ said River. ‘Why is that significant?’
‘Think about it,’ said Lamb.
They thought about it; all except Coe, who seemed to have withdrawn into his private universe again.
At length, Emma Flyte said, ‘Well, if it’s a destabilisation plan, it’s not working, is it? Because whatever grand plan they’re working to, the effects still look random. Which is bad enough, but hardly world-shattering. I mean, Abbotsfield? It’s a tragedy, but nobody had heard of the place last week.’
‘Congratulations,’ said Lamb. ‘You’re now an honorary slow horse.’
‘Because I contributed?’
‘No, because you missed the fucking point.’
‘But she’s right,’ said Louisa. ‘If this goes on, people’ll get nervy about public spaces, worried what might happen. But it’s not like they’ll think some supervillain has a strategy. I mean, if this was happening in a tiny state somewhere …’
She broke off.
‘There you go,’ said Lamb. ‘Penny drops.’ He looked at Coe. ‘They’re operating to a plan that might pacify a local population. Because it’s all singular, isn’t it? The village. The watering hole.’
Coe nodded.
‘It was never meant for a state the size of Britain.’
‘So why,’ River began, then stopped. Then said: ‘If the strategy’s not going to achieve its original aim, why is it being deployed?’
‘And as long as we’re playing twenty questions,’ said Lamb, ‘anyone want to hazard a guess as to how come our mad monk here recognises it?’
‘Oh Christ,’ said River. ‘It’s one of ours, isn’t it?’
Coe nodded.
The others stared at each other in incomprehension. Only Lamb, who had closed his eyes, and Catherine, who was shaking her head, seemed to grasp the implications.
Lamb said, ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake. He might be simple, but compared to you lot he’s a walking Sudoku. The plan they’re working to isn’t a foreign plot to destabilise Britain, it’s a British plot devised to destabilise some troublesome tin-pot nation. And no, murdering penguins and failing to blow up trains isn’t going to bring the country to its knees, but when these jokers, whoever they are, reveal that they’re operating to a strategy developed by British Intelligence to undermine developing nations, well … Anybody want to join the dots?’
‘It’ll be an omnifuckingshambles,’ offered Shirley.
‘For once, you have a point.’
River said, ‘Poison the watering hole? How old is this plan?’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Catherine said. ‘It may not be state of the art, but it’s still a black op. People have died.’
‘And penguins,’ Shirley added.
Louisa said, ‘It could have been a lot worse. How many wine bars are called the Watering Hole?’
‘How sure are we any of this is true?’ said Emma Flyte. ‘I mean, forgive my scepticism. But – it’s Coe, isn’t it? Mr Coe here mumbles something about this being a British plot, and just like that you’re all convinced. I’d need to hear more, personally. And you’re not going to smoke,’ she added, as a cigarette appeared in Lamb’s fist.
‘Ordinarily I wouldn’t dream of it,’ said Lamb. ‘But it’s the only thing keeps my upset stomach in check.’
Before Emma could reply, Catherine said, ‘Seriously. Don’t call his bluff.’
Lamb inhaled, blew smoke everywhere, then said to Coe: ‘Well, you going to tell us the origins of this plot? Or is that your party piece done?’
Coe glanced at Lamb, then looked down at the desk in front of him. ‘It’s from a working paper the weasels produced postwar. A strategy for destabilising a developing region, should the need arise.’
‘Before he was a fuck-up,’ Lamb explained to Emma Flyte, ‘he used to be a dickhead. Unless I mean egghead. I get them mixed up.’
‘You worked across the river?’ said Flyte.
Coe nodded.
‘Psych Eval,’ Shirley said. ‘He knows about the history of black ops.’
‘Maybe so,’ said Flyte. ‘It still sounds like a reach to me.’
‘Except for the watering hole bit,’ said Catherine quietly. ‘Because Louisa’s right. There are plenty of bars called the Watering Hole. But if they’d chosen one of them, nobody would have said hey, watering hole! They’d have said, they bombed a bar.’
‘And this paper, it was dug out of its drawer a while ago,’ Coe said. ‘Some bright spark suggested it had value as a template. You take the basic principles and apply them on a larger scale. Or replicate them across a wider region, so the same events happen in more than one location at the same time.’ He paused, then said, ‘It was one of those games that gets played over there. Never likely to be put into operation. Except some of t
hem are.’
‘But this one wasn’t.’
He shrugged. ‘Is now.’
‘I’m not convinced,’ said Flyte.
‘Yeah, well, the thing is, fuck off,’ Lamb told her. ‘Because you’re overlooking the clincher.’
‘Which is?’
‘Which is where whoever’s doing this got the Watering Hole paper from in the first place.’
‘Ho,’ said River, Louisa and Shirley in unison.
‘Poor Roddy,’ Catherine murmured.
‘And Kim—’ Louisa began.
‘—his girlfriend—’ inserted River.
‘—must be the point of contact between him and the bad actors.’
‘Which explains why someone tried to whack him.’
‘Twice.’
‘And why Ho’s got a girlfriend,’ finished Shirley.
Flyte looked like someone had just clapped her round the head with a bedpan.
‘Someone tried to kill our resident tech-head,’ explained Lamb. ‘His colleagues here are suggesting that that’s because he was honey-trapped into handing over this destabilisation template. And whoever he handed it over to didn’t want him spilling the beans before they were ready.’
‘So why didn’t Ho say he’d done that?’ Flyte objected. ‘Once he realised people were trying to kill him?’
‘Well, there’s a strong chance he hasn’t yet noticed that that’s what’s going on,’ said Louisa.
‘There’s a reason you lot are all here, isn’t there?’ said Flyte after a while. ‘I keep forgetting that.’
‘Whereas your own brilliant career,’ Louisa reminded her, ‘hangs by a thread that’s dangling from Claude Whelan’s thumb.’
