Real Tigers

by Mick Herron

  Marcus said, “Yeah, she’s handcuffed. But Shirley’s right. She doesn’t look frightened.”

  “You don’t seriously think she’s part of whatever’s happening?”

  “I can’t see her dumping a body from a van,” Marcus admitted.

  Roderick Ho said, “Would you just get away from behind my desk? I don’t like being crowded.”

  “Keep your hair on,” Louisa told him, and he scowled.

  River retrieved his phone from Shirley and examined the screen again: Catherine, with her wrists in cuffs. Did she look frightened? It was hard to tell. Catherine, mostly, didn’t give much away: she could be screaming on the inside, and you’d never guess. Maybe that’s what she was doing, most of the time. But the fact was, he hadn’t stopped to consider it. Seeing the photo had been enough to light his fuse.

  Louisa said to Ho, “Have you found the CCTV yet?”

  “No. Because I haven’t started looking.”

  “Might now be a good time?” River said.

  “You’re not the boss of me,” Ho announced loudly, making it clear he was addressing everyone present.

  “Grow fucking up,” Shirley suggested.

  “Amen to that,” Jackson Lamb announced, having scaled the stairs soundlessly.

  Everybody froze.

  The two men were on Hungerford Bridge, crossing the sluggish river. The South Bank skyline, so enticing after dusk, looked brutal this time of day. On the railway bridge a train had come to an unscheduled halt, and sat in the sunshine, its passengers slowly poaching. Donovan and Traynor observed their plight with detachment. Both had been in hotter situations.

  “So where’s the body?” Traynor asked. “Monteith’s. You left it in the van?”

  “No, I dumped it outside Anna Livia Plurabelle’s. You eaten there? It’s supposed to be good.”

  Traynor left it a beat before he said, “You’re not kidding. Are you?”

  “If I’d left him in the van, they could have made it never happen. He’d have just disappeared. Or had a heart attack in bed. This way they can’t cover it up, not so easily. So they’ll have to play along.”

  “Have you made contact?”

  “With Dame Ingrid Tearney, yes.” Donovan stopped walking, looked up at the sky. “This bloody weather. The heat. It’s not natural.”

  “In the circumstances, that’s quite fitting, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Good point.”

  They moved on.

  Traynor said, “So what’d she say?”

  “That we use the Slough House crew, Standish’s team. That’s how I know she’s keeping this off the books. This Slough House, it’s where they put the fuck-ups.”

  “That fills me with confidence.”

  “It’s not like we need them for anything. They take us where we want to be. We get what we’re after and fade away.”

  “After dark, then.”

  Donovan nodded.

  Traynor said, “So now we play the waiting game.”

  “You’d rather be under fire, wouldn’t you?”

  “Every time.”

  And the two men, who had sheltered under walls together while bullets chipped at the brickwork, shared a laugh that carried them the rest of the way across the Thames.

  Lamb threw his jacket at the coatrack and missed. “Hang that somewhere,” he instructed nobody in particular, and pulled the chair out from the room’s second desk, the one on which Ho collected software packages and grease-stained pizza boxes. As he dropped into place he swept them to the floor. “That’s better. Now. I could have sworn you all had jobs to do.”

  Ho said, “I told them to go back to their own rooms, but—”

  “Yeah yeah, shut up.” Lamb folded his hands across his stomach. He’d brought odours of tobacco and sweat from the great outdoors, and seemed happy for them to circulate. “So. What are we all looking at?”

  Louisa said, “We’ve found the man who snatched Catherine.”

  “Sylvester Monteith,” said Lamb. “Former chum of Peter Judd, current mess on the pavement.” He observed their bewilderment with a practised sneer. “What, you wanted to surprise me?”

  “Judd’s involved, isn’t he?”

  “My, my,” said Lamb, admiringly. “Here’s me thinking you’d been banging your brains out every night, and it turns out they’re still functioning.”

  Ho threw Louisa a puzzled glance.

  Shirley stifled a giggle.

  Lamb said, “What about you, Cartwright? Fun day so far?”

  “It’s been . . . different.”

  “I’ll bet. Taking a run at the Park? You’re in the Secret Service, not the Secret Seven. You should know that by now.”

  “Monteith sent me this.”

  He showed Lamb his phone. Something passed across Lamb’s eyes, then flitted away. His lip curled. “She look frightened to you?”

  “That’s what I said,” Shirley announced.

  “Yeah, and when you tie a woman up, I’m sure you do it properly.” Lamb threw River’s phone back at him. “Monteith’s crew was a tiger team. Hired by Judd. And you, you moron, played right into his hands.”

  Marcus said, “So who whacked him?”

  “That’s the thing about tigers, isn’t it? Some of them turn out to be real.”

  “So who were they testing?” River asked. “Us or the Park?”

  Lamb stared at him for what felt like a full minute and, Lamb being Lamb, might well have been, before starting to laugh. Still being Lamb, this was a full-body exercise: his frame shook, and his guffaws filled the room. Head flung back, he looked like an evil clown. Where a shirt button had popped, a hairy patch of stomach winked at the room.

  “Jesus wept,” he said at last. “Sorry, but that is just so fucking funny. Us or the Park. You’ll be wanting a licence to kill next.” He wiped his eyes on his sleeve, and humour vanished. “Do you seriously think Judd wants to test how effective or secure Slough House is? He wants this place packed into a skip, and when I say ‘this place,’ I’m including you comedians.”

  “But evidently his plan backfired,” Marcus said.

  “Silver linings,” Lamb agreed. “His old chum Monteith is tomorrow’s compost, but you, you lucky devils, live to play another day. Because guess what? Now the tigers have eaten their owner, they’ve got a whole new agenda, and it turns out you’re on it. Slough House just went live. The four of you are up.”

  “There are five of us,” Ho pointed out.

  “Oh, are you here too? Put the kettle on, there’s a good lad. I’m parched.”

  Ho chuckled.

  No one joined in.

  Ho dragged himself reluctantly out of his chair, and shuffled off to the kitchen.

  “‘Up’?” Marcus said.

  Lamb said, “Ever heard of the whackjob files?”

  “It’s what they call the Grey Books,” River said.

  “Might have known you’d know. One of grandad’s bedtime stories, was it? Go on, then. Floor’s yours.”

  River said, “They’re the records the Service keeps on conspiracy theories. 9/11, 7/7, the Lockerbie bombing, WMDs—they’re a paranoid’s treasure-chest.”

  “And don’t forget the creepy shit,” Lamb said.

  “Right,” said River. “Downing Street’s run by lizards, the Royal Family are aliens, UFOs visit regularly, and the Soviet Union never really collapsed and has been running the world since ’89.”

  “And these are official records?” Marcus said. “Seriously?”

  River said, “They’re an overview of what’s out there. Back in the war it was noticed that improved communications don’t just let information travel faster, they let bullshit off the leash too. There was a rumour about Churchill being assassinated and replaced by a double, it went what we’d call viral today. And dam
aged morale.”

  “Disinformation,” Louisa said.

  “Except this is the crap people make up for themselves,” said River. “And with the internet, you can have a paranoid fantasy at breakfast and a cult following by teatime. Anyway, the Service learned long ago that when you know what people are prepared to believe, it makes it easier to bury uncomfortable truths. Hence the Grey Books.”

  “So some of it’s true?” said Shirley.

  Louisa, thinking aloud, said, “Throw enough darts, you’re bound to hit the board.”

  “Uh-huh,” River said. “A couple of years ago, if you’d suggested that western intelligence agencies were hoovering up people’s emails, you’d have been laughed at.”

  “So some of it’s true,” said Shirley.

  River shrugged. “Even the complete bullshit, it’s useful to know who’s buying into it. Because they’re the type might decide to strap on a suicide belt and pop down the local shopping centre. So if it’s out there, the Service keeps track. Monitors, records, stores.”

  “And I thought we had dipshit jobs.”

  “It’s mostly outsourced. There are people happily spend their lives paddling about the internet, researching bonkers theories. The Service keeps a few on retainer. It’s like having ready-trained dung beetles.”

  “Doesn’t sound too secure,” Marcus objected.

  “Well. They’re probably not told they’re doing it for MI5.”

  “They probably think they are, though.”

  “But who’s gonna listen to a twenty-four-carat nerd?”

  “Speaking of which,” said Lamb.

  Ho paused in the doorway, mug in hand. “What?”

  “Never mind.” Lamb took the tea and used a surviving software package for a coaster. Ho swallowed an objection, and resumed his seat. “So, now you know. The tinfoil-hat tomes, bedtime reading for teenage boys and middle-aged virgins. Thank God we won the Cold War, eh?”

  “What’s any of this got to do with us?” Louisa asked.

  “It’s what they want. Monteith’s so-called tiger team.” Lamb scratched an armpit, then slid his hand under his buttocks. “They want the whackjob files, and you’re going to help them get them.”

  “Why us?” said River.

  “Well, we’ve established they’re fucking idiots,” Lamb said. “Who else they gonna call?”

  Marcus said, “And where are they kept? These files.”

  “I’m so glad you asked.” Lamb levered himself out of the chair a few inches, and hovered. They braced themselves. Then he shook his head, and lowered back down. “Not gonna happen,” he said. Then: “Yeah, where are the files? Go find out, will you?”

  “Can’t Ho do that?”

  “You’ve changed your tune. Weren’t you calling him a useless twit this morning?” He looked at Ho. “His words. Not mine.”

  Ho nodded gratefully.

  “‘Twat,’ I told him. You’re a useless twat.” He looked back at Marcus. “You still here?” Now he pointed a finger at Shirley. “And you go keep him company, or whatever it is you do round here.” He aimed the finger at River next. “And as for you—”

  “Can’t Ho do it?” River said.

  “Ho, Ho, Ho,” Lamb said. “It’s like Santa’s ghetto round here.”

  “Grotto.”

  “Gesundheit. As for you, and also you”—including Louisa—“go find out who’s behind this tiger team. He’s the one we’re dealing with. All clear?”

  A monstrous fart erupted without warning.

  “Ah, good. I was worried that was trapped. Right, fuck off, the lot of you. Back here with answers, five sharp.”

  This addition to the atmosphere made them glad to troop out, but Lamb called Louisa back. “You ran online interference last year, right? Loitering in restrooms?”

  “Chat rooms.”

  “Whatever. When you’ve worked out who our Mr. X is, see if you can find his footprints in any of the likely places. Bananas hang in bunches, so maybe he’s been seeking company. He wants the whackjob files. Be good to know why.”

  Louisa said, “You do realise, whoever he is, he probably doesn’t use his own name online?”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “Well, it’s a bit like looking for a car without knowing the make, colour or registration.”

  “If you’re not challenged, you won’t grow.”

  Louisa stared.

  Lamb shrugged. “I get emails from HR. Some crap’s bound to rub off.”

  “How deep is the Park into this?”

  “What difference does that make?”

  “Whenever we get mixed up in one of Diana Taverner’s schemes, somebody gets hurt.”

  “I hope you’re not questioning my judgement.”

  “Just an opinion.”

  “Well, you know what they say,” said Lamb. “Opinions are like arseholes.” He showed yellow teeth. “And yours stinks.”

  When Louisa left, he turned to Ho, who was staring sullenly at his screens. “Ready to do some real work for a change?”

  “. . . Suppose.”

  “There’s a good little monitor monkey.”

  He told Ho what he wanted.

  •••

  It was the heat. It was the heat and the bottle, but mostly the heat.

  But also mostly the bottle.

  Catherine was hungry but couldn’t eat, because eating would disturb the unity of the tray. If she ate the sandwich, the apple or the flapjack, or drank the water, she would bring the wine into focus, so it was best if she left things as they were, allowing the wine to blend into the background. If she continued not to notice it, its threat would be neutralised. It would offer no danger.

  She had run a bath a while ago—what kind of kidnapping was this, where they served you drinks in an en suite prison?—but the action had dredged up unwanted images, because the bath was where she’d found Charles Partner’s body. A shot to the temple was not as neat as it could be made to sound. The contents of a head were untidy when displaced. She let the water drain away, and wearing only her slip returned to the bedroom, where the tiny bottle of Pinot waited like a hand grenade.

  Partner had called her Moneypenny occasionally, an offhand note of affection. She had been sober for some time when he killed himself, and had remained sober ever since. So why did the wine bother her now?

  No sober day is wasted.

  A familiar thought—it was a bedtime mantra, a grace note on which to end her days. No sober day is wasted, meaning that whatever else she’d done or failed to do on any given day, there was always this achievement to reflect on in the violet hour. Every sober day was one more to her total, and though she did not keep a tally in the manner of many recovering alcoholics, she did not need to: each individual day was the only one worth counting, because the present was where she lived.

  It occurred to her now, though, that her mantra had another aspect. If no sober day was wasted, then nobody could take one from her. Even if today brought a slip, the total would stay the same. All that would happen was that she would not be adding to it. It was like money in the bank. If you missed making a deposit, that didn’t mean the sum grew smaller.

  She returned to the bathroom to splash water on her face. Perhaps she should eat the apple, drink the water. The wine would remain camouflaged by the sandwich and whatever it was, the flapjack. What kind of kidnappers brought flapjacks? It was beyond absurd. She could mix the wine with the water; it would barely be noticeable. Like taking medicine. And then it would be gone, and she need think of it no more.

  There was no mirror in which to talk herself down. Look herself in the eye, and ask what she thought she was doing.

  And really, she was past this stage. No alcoholic, she knew, was ever past this stage, but in the comfort of her own head she allowed herself to believe she
was, in the same way that her colleagues allowed themselves to believe that their careers might yet revive. Because belief was not about actually believing; belief was simply somewhere to shelve hope. But in her own defence, she had passed every test she had set herself, or been set. For some time, Jackson Lamb had been in the habit of pouring her a glass of whisky when they sat in his office at night. She had never yet succumbed, but often wondered what his reaction would be if she did. She thought he would snatch the glass away. Perhaps all that meant was, she hoped he would. But she suspected that he enjoyed testing the limits of other people’s survival instincts, probably because his own had been subjected to rigorous examination over the years. The forms this had taken, she’d never heard him speak about—a thought she’d once had about Lamb was that when they’d pulled the Wall down he’d built himself another, and had been living behind it ever since. Hard to understand another human once they’d bricked themselves up like that. So she might be right, might be wrong: it was possible that when Lamb tempted her, it was because he wanted her to fall. The important thing to remember was that she’d not yet done so.

  Besides, one night—the odds were in her favour—he’d run out of booze, and be forced to reclaim the glass he’d poured her. That was going to be sweet. And once he’d drunk that, she’d fetch the bottle she kept in her desk drawer, provided he hadn’t found and drunk it before the opportunity presented itself. That, too, would be a kind of victory. Though of course, to aim for victory would be to admit she was playing the game.

  Back in the bedroom the bottle of wine sat waiting for her, obdurate on its untouched tray, and shimmering in the heat.

  Caviar had been on the menu at Anna Livia Plurabelle’s, and while Judd had refrained from indulging, now, as he brushed a vacant bench with a rolled-up copy of the Standard, he recalled an article he’d read on how the roe was harvested. Sturgeon were big fish, four foot long, and kept in tanks significantly smaller than that. When their time came, they were dispatched by hand, this, apparently, ensuring minimal damage to the roe. Given the size of the fish, those tasked with its demise tended towards the muscular, as well as—by implication—the violent. The resulting image had been indelible: stocky bruisers, sleeves rolled up, punching fish to death. Thuggery run riot in the kitchens of the rich.