by Mick Herron
None of which indicated that Coe would be proved correct here and now, or that Guy and Dander would strike lucky in Birmingham. Zafar Jaffrey and Dennis Gimball were just examples of the kind of target the template advocated: there’d be others, the deaths of whom would cause a tremor through the body politic, and various levels of grief, stress and rejoicing. There’d be angry mobs on streets, and bottles uncorked in dining rooms. It would all go on for days, and the headlines would stoke up outrage, and when the time came for these clowns to reveal whose strategy they’d been applying, the house of cards would be ready to collapse.
It didn’t matter who they were, he thought. Russians, Chinese, Cornish secessionists. Their identity barely mattered against the point they were making: that the target nation, always so eager to squat the moral high ground, had designed its own destruction.
And then he wondered what Dennis Gimball was doing down below; weaving round the scaffolding; scurrying along the alley to where the wheelie bins were gathered.
There was a decent number of people in attendance: fifty-two, more than she’d have expected. Then again, the last time Louisa had attended a public forum on local issues was never. Jaffrey was talking, outlining what might be challenges, might be opportunities – he was big on proclaiming that it all came down to attitude – and she had to admit he had something. Call it charisma, because people usually did. Whatever it was, it was striking that he could be bothered to turn it on in a local library, uncovered by media; and that he seemed to genuinely care about what he was saying, and so far hadn’t dodged any questions, which ranged from residents’ parking issues to the possible fate of the library itself, which was looking at closure. Louisa should feel worse about that, but she was already mentally ticking it off her spreadsheet: at least she’d be spared having to study the lending stats for its terrorism section.
As for the crowd, she wasn’t expecting a killer to erupt from its midst. It would include a police officer: plain-clothes, probably not armed – the country might have been in a heightened state of tension since Abbotsfield, but that had been indiscriminate violence, and there was nothing to suggest politicians were in greater danger than at any time in the recent past. But Jaffrey had a national profile, and he was a Muslim: there were always going to be those who saw either as inflammatory. A police force with one eye on its reputation would keep the other on its local heroes, so the crowd included a police officer, which she guessed was either the Asian woman in the front row – petite but handy-looking, if you knew the signs – or the bulky man doing his best not to look bored a few seats to her left. There was also a pair who might be from Jaffrey’s own team among the audience: young, male and female, very watchful, very engaged. At first sight, Louisa pegged them as the two most likely, and her heart had accelerated. But when the male half got up to help an elderly woman with her bag, she’d relaxed. Terrorists came in all shapes and sizes, but helping the aged wasn’t the standard package.
Outside, she hoped, Shirley was keeping her eyes open, though more than likely she’d sloped off to find food by now. She’d half a mind to pop out and check, but it didn’t seem worth the bother: Shirley would do what Shirley did, and was unlikely to appreciate commentary. So here Louisa was, and she had to pause to remember precisely why. Back in Slough House, this had felt like a plan worth pursuing; here and now, it seemed like it had been a good way of getting out of Slough House. Trouble was, she was now in Birmingham, a two-hour drive home, with Shirley beside her, doubtless smelling of chips.
Never let anyone tell you it’s not a glamour profession, she thought.
Jaffrey was growing animated – Brexit, and its effect on local manufacturing – and Louisa settled back, but kept an eye on the door. People would burst in soon with guns, and try to kill this man. It didn’t seem likely. Nor was she clear on what she was supposed to do about it if they did.
But she supposed that would resolve itself, should the situation arise.
There was something delicious about sneaking off for a crafty cigarette, thought Gimball. It brought his schooldays back. Out of bounds and after lights out – there’d been friendships based on such adventures.
The air felt fresh after the dusty interior of the meeting hall. It was growing dark, and the people queueing at the entrance – always a gratifying sight – were grey, indistinguishable shapes, but he decided to slip round a corner anyway. Those grey shapes came armed with smartphones, whose standard apps included a bogus sense of journalistic responsibility: light up here and he’d be trending on Twitter two puffs in, the modern equivalent of being collared by a beak. Ten minutes, no more. Time to calm himself, compose his thought. Thoughts. Mentally rehearse his address to his people.
Yes, people, because he had those now. Friendships, not so much. He had alliances, but that was different. Even Dodie, without whom he’d not have got this far – and he was big enough to admit this; careful enough to mention it every so often, too – was his best friend inasmuch as there was little competition for the role. ‘Only friend’ sounded equally valid. Which made what he was about to do, get up in front of the cameras and reveal who he really was, even more dangerous. Because Dodie would support him, but she’d be furious he hadn’t cleared it with her first. She had her own agenda to maintain, and standing up for her husband’s right to express himself might involve a little backtracking on previous public pronouncements, which would hardly be a novel experience for a columnist with forthright opinions, a six-figure contract and a pair of junior hacks to do the actual writing, but nevertheless required a certain amount of ground preparation. So yes, that was a storm he’d have to weather, and he wasn’t looking forward to it. But needs must.
The alternative: he’d be Five’s cat’s paw, now and forever. If he gave in to Claude Whelan’s pressure just once, he could kiss any idea about political independence goodbye. So, again:
this was what he needed to do, so
he was going to do it, and
damn the torpedoes.
Gimball felt better, now it was laid out clearly. Still needed a cigarette, though.
He found an alleyway and nipped down it, plugging a cigarette into his mouth before he reached the yard at the end. Catch me here, he thought – what would people make of it if they caught him here, skulking among wheelie bins like a feral cat? He breathed out, and smoke drifted up into scaffolding while a long-lost schoolboy memory retrieved itself and burned across his mind like a cave painting. Three of them behind the gym, passing a cigarette hand to hand. The image vanished, but he wondered: what had happened to those old companions, and what were their names, and what were their lives like? However they’d turned out, they’d be reading about him in the papers tomorrow, or on their screens later tonight. BREXIT HERO ADMITS PERVY LEANINGS. The headline refused to adjust itself, no matter how hard he tried. CROSS-DRESSER CROSSES FLOOR. He shook his head, but it was too late: the full horror of what he planned to do had landed, and there was no pretending it hadn’t. Stand up and publicly announce his most private of peccadillos – really? Spike Claude Whelan’s guns by throwing himself in front of a cannon? It was madness. Because it wasn’t Whelan he had to fear; it wasn’t even the media, which would do what the media always did, and feed on whatever red meat was thrown its way. No, it was his own people who would turn on him if he dared reveal the truth about himself. What had he been thinking?
He could feel damp on his neck, and that loosening inside which comes with narrow escape. It had been a few small hours of angry bravado, that was all. The future that awaited him was too grand, too important, to jeopardise out of pique. So yes, fine, he’d do what Whelan wanted. It would make no difference, not in the long run. He couldn’t announce, tonight, Zafar Jaffrey’s dealings with an underworld enabler; couldn’t undermine the PM by exposing his tame Muslim, but you couldn’t stop the clock on history: the story would break, sooner or later, and if Dennis Gimball wouldn’t be the one to announce it, he’d certainly be there to add colour and nois
e. In the end, that was what counted – that it was you who was there, at the end. Because politics was all about timing: hell, you could stick your dick in a dead pig’s mouth and get away with it if your timing was right. And provided you were shame-free, but that was a given for Eton. He’d come close to forgetting that lesson, but had pulled himself short in time, thanks to the sacred habit of smoking: if he’d not slipped away to clear his head with a nicotine blast, he might still be in the grip of the delusion that exposing himself in public was the thing to do. Christ. And Dodie got on his case about it.
Well, he thought, given what else he kept quiet about, what did the odd cigarette matter? And just to prove that comforting thought true, he lit another from the stub in his hand, and drew deeply on it while gazing up at what could be seen of the sky through the trapezoids of scaffolding, and then down again, along the alley, at the threatening shape heading his way.
Shirley stood with the takeaway wrappings spread out on the car roof, thoughtfully eating, making sure nothing suggested she was on sentry duty. The van was parked so its rear faced her way, and nobody had emerged from it, though Shirley thought she’d detected a rocking motion, as if somebody – some somebodies – were shuffling about inside. But hard to tell. A latecomer hurried past, heels clacking on the pavement, and disappeared inside the library. When the door opened, a brief exhalation of laughter floated out. The local pol, amusing his masses.
The van was grey with lighter patches, as if recently sprayed and some bits missed, and its registration plate was below her sight line. She considered taking its photo, but decided she might as well raise a big red flag at the same time, and jump up and down with her arms in the air. Maintain a nonchalant awareness, she warned herself. Gaze around at things in general; don’t stare at the van. You’re eating fish and chips on an early summer evening. Things like this happen – they happen all the time.
Other things happened too. Last night, she’d been sprawled outside Ho’s house, while somebody, maybe one of the somebodies in that van, fired a gun at her. She’d found brick dust in her hair this morning, proof that it had happened. At the same time, bruised cheek apart, it felt like a chapter from someone else’s memoirs. Marcus had told her about this phenomenon – the way remembered excitement has a distancing effect, so you view action you were involved in as if through a TV screen. This was one of the reasons you kept going back for more. Like any other high, he’d said, an adrenalin rush couldn’t be faked.
Marcus had known about stuff like that, and if he’d been standing here instead of Shirley, he’d be coming up with a plan.
Which would involve assuming the worst. There was no point treating the van as innocent, because being wrong could prove a disaster. So: would they recognise her, that was the first question. Were they watching her through a peephole, planning to whack her before heading into the library? Or had it been too dark last night, and Shirley just a moving target in the chaos? Their bullets had gone high – was that because they’d been aiming to miss, or were they lousy shots? She had a low centre of gravity, of course – in layman’s terms, was ‘short’ – and that might have thrown their aim off. Being a non-traditional shape had its advantages.
None of which would count for much if they emerged from the van, guns blazing.
She ate a chip, nodded as if in appreciation – every move she made now, she had an audience – and then, still nodding, moved round the car and opened the boot. Watching or not, they couldn’t see through metal, so wouldn’t have been able to observe as she rummaged about in Louisa’s detritus – an old blanket, a wine cooler, trainers – until she found, tucked under the blanket, the monkey wrench, and slid it up her right sleeve. Then, her arm ramrod straight, she closed the boot and returned to her meal, her right hand hooked into her jeans pocket, her left plucking chips and lumps of fish from the mound of paper and steering them mouthwards. Watch me now, Marcus, she thought, and imagined him saying You go, girl.
And she would.
She was just waiting for her moment.
He had no clue where Coe had got to, and when he tried calling got no response. This probably meant the dickhead wasn’t answering, rather than – say – that the dickhead had cornered a hit squad and had his hands full, so River couldn’t get too worked up about it, except for Coe being a dickhead: that never got old. The meeting hall was full now, an air of expectation hanging like fruit. Dennis Gimball, River gathered, was set to make some grand pronouncement: a declaration that he was about to rejoin the party he’d once defected from, a return trip across the Rubicon which many expected would end in his contesting the leadership. That would make as much difference to the ship of state as a koala taking over from a wombat, River thought, though he accepted he wasn’t a political expert. If he were he’d be looking for honest work, like every expert since 2016 should have been.
Anyway: no Coe that he could see. And nothing else to alarm him, or no more than such gatherings always offer: the swivel-eyed fervents; the Union Jack bowler brigade. A man wearing the widest pinstripes River had seen outside a zoo; a woman carrying a pot plant. The one thing absent was Gimball himself. A group by the stage, chatting among themselves and checking their watches, were presumably local dignitaries, and the dangerous-looking woman in blue might be Mrs Gimball, but there was no sign of her husband. Perhaps, like a rock star, he delayed his entrance until every seat in the hall was damp, though with this particular demographic that might prove a risky business.
He headed outside. There were people still waiting to get in, and the TV truck was mildly buzzing: all powered up and ready to shoot. But not that kind of shooting, River reminded himself. He tried to recollect the odds Coe had quoted on anything going down here tonight, but couldn’t. What he did remember was Coe’s equal insistence that he was right; that machinery was whirring; had already chewed up Abbotsfield and fourteen innocent penguins. Dennis Gimball wasn’t necessarily next on the list, but that there was a list was beyond dispute. That was what the dickhead reckoned, anyway. And dickhead logic was as powerful as any other kind.
So where was Gimball, anyway? Maybe he had nerves before an event of this kind, and was bent double over a toilet.
And where was Coe?
Deciding to walk the block once more, River rounded the corner and approached the building clad in scaffolding, which flaunted a cemetery spookiness now, the metal poles lending it a rackety, haunted air. And he was just starting to reach for his phone, to call Coe again, when he reached the alleyway instead, and saw two figures at the far end: one large, broad, intimidating; the other Dennis Gimball.
‘She’s eating chips,’ Shin said.
‘So?’
‘So would she be eating chips if she was on surveillance?’
Danny shrugged. It might be a good disguise; somebody saw you eating chips, they figured you were hungry and that was all. But they saw you hanging around outside a building, they might think you were keeping an eye on it. So he thought it best to keep an open mind.
Shin, though, was keen to close it down. ‘We don’t move until the streetlights have come on. I expect she will have gone by then.’
Danny caught An’s eye, but neither spoke.
This last twenty-four hours, every order from Shin’s lips sounded like a suggestion.
An had drilled a peephole in the van’s back door. Danny shuffled across to it, and Shin – weak-willed fool that he was – moved away to let him see through.
The woman was short, a little wide, would probably have been better off with a salad, and was clearly on her own. What kind of operation involved a woman on her own? She moved awkwardly too: stiff-armed. Not what you’d expect from a soldier.
Still, there had been a woman outside the target’s house last night, at the exact moment Joon came tumbling from the sky like a stork had dropped him. She’d hit the ground when Danny shot at her, and maybe that was because she’d been well trained, and maybe it was the human instinct at work: when bullets were flying, you dr
opped to your knees. He couldn’t recall anything specific about her: he had learned this at Abbotsfield, that when you held a gun in your hands, the people around you lost definition. They became wraiths, and anything they carried of personality dropped away, no longer of consequence. If you wished to retain your human stamp, stay away from the battlefield. This proposition remained true whichever end of a gun you were looking down.
Besides, they’d been out of there so quickly – Joon stuffed into the car like a bin bag – that he couldn’t be sure the woman hadn’t been shot: that might have been why she’d hit the deck. So maybe there was a dead woman in London, and this one was someone else, just eating chips.
It didn’t matter to Danny either way.
He said, ‘If she’s still there when we move, I will take her.’
‘I have given my instruction,’ said Shin, but he glanced at the others as he said it – at An; at Chris, who was up front, in the driving seat – as if enlisting their support.
When it was at last offered to him, Danny held Shin’s gaze as if it were something grubby he couldn’t put down, for fear of soiling the nearest surface.
It was his moment, he realised.
He said, ‘I wonder if your commitment is total.’
‘… Total?’
‘At Abbotsfield, your aim was all over the place.’
‘What do you mean? What are you saying?’
‘That your bullets flew wild and free, but didn’t actually hit anything. Except a chicken coop. You killed a chicken coop.’
‘I fired straight and true.’
‘You shot up the sky.’
‘I killed two, maybe three.’
‘I don’t think so.’
