Real Tigers (20 page)

Sometimes, sitting at his desk, Shirley grumbling at her keyboard next to him, Marcus would zone out, reliving former glories with the crash squad. “Kicking doors down” was how Shirley referred to it. Which was accurate, up to a point, but left out how you never knew what was going to be on the other side, pointing a gun or strapped in a Semtex vest. In fairy tales, when you were offered a choice of doors, there was generally a tiger behind one of them. That was why it was best to kick them down. Even the thought of it made his muscles tense, and his grip on the baguette tightened—
Way to go
, he thought. Turn up with a peace offering that he'd mangled into paste. But with luck, Shirley would be too hungry to care.

Which was what he was thinking when he realised he'd been coasting on automatic; that instead of rounding the alley to the back of Slough House, he'd just entered the bookie's again, where the roulette machine still wore its demonic grin, daring him to take one step further—to come on in and kick its door down.

Marcus could still feel the weight of his wallet in his jeans pocket, its new thickness filling him with confidence that his world had turned a corner.

Okay, you bastard
, he thought.
Bring it on
.

Molly Doran
said, “My my. Two in one day.”

“Yeah, Cartwright said he'd spoken to you.”

“And how is the young man? He's back at . . . ‘Slough House'?”

“Walking a bit crooked, but he's okay.”

“How unexpected. I imagined he'd have had rather a business of it, explaining this morning's antics.”

Shirley was bored already. “He has a knack for getting off lightly. Anyway, reason I called—”

“Not simply a social call, then.”

Well, duh. Who did that?

But Molly Doran was a kidder, it seemed. “I'm sorry. The novelty of encountering
two
of Jackson's protégés has made me rather skittish. Do carry on.”

“It's about some files.”

“Oh dear. Are we going round this particular mulberry bush again? Perhaps Jackson could just call me himself and explain what he's up to.”

“No, he doesn't do that. Anyway, this isn't about him, it's just a general query. About information storage?”

“You know, I always encourage junior officers to approach me if they have questions, but only in the certain knowledge that they're not actually going to do so. Couldn't you address your problems to the, ah,
Q
ueens
of the
Database
?”

“Yeah, they're not that helpful? It's a simple question. I just need to know where the Grey Books are.”

“The Grey Books?”

“The whackjob dossiers. The nutcase notes.”

“I'm aware of what they get called. I'm just not sure why you feel the need to ask me.”

“Well, you're a document shuffler yourself,” Shirley couldn't keep from saying. “I thought you might know.”

There was a lengthy pause.

“Prolonged exposure to Jackson evidently has its drawbacks,” Molly said drily. “I suppose, like him, you eschew most official communications?”

If eschew meant what she thought it did, Shirley probably did, yes.

“You really ought to check your inbox, young lady.”

And Molly Doran was gone, her voice replaced by the windless vacancy of a dead connection.

She had kind of a bite to her, that one. Maybe, Shirley thought, she'd chewed her own legs off.

Which had got her nowhere, except she might as well check her inbox, just in case that was a clue. But when she looked there was nothing there bar the latest all-Service newsletter circulated by HR: in-house transfer possibilities (slow horses need not apply); health-and-safety; promotions and retirements. Shirley had never encountered anyone who opened these, let alone read them. This was a personal first.

And there it was, under Miscellaneous Information:
recent info-storage issues have now been resolved
. . .

If Marcus had been there, she'd have raised a palm for him to slap, or at the very least to deposit a chicken baguette in; as it was, she had to settle for a quick victory lap round her desk—you
go
, girl, she told herself.
inyourFACE
. It felt like a natural high, making up for all the bullshit of her personal life these past few weeks, and as soon as that thought occurred to her, she knew she should have kept it at bay longer; should have enjoyed the moment for what it was, rather than taken it as consolation for the bad stuff . . . There wasn't anybody back home she could share this with later. There wasn't even Marcus, now, to high-five or fist bump. Jesus, this switch in mood; it was sudden as gravity. She sat down, read the email again, tried to recapture the sense of achievement, or at least of blind stupid luck. But it was gone. You couldn't fake that sort of high.

Luckily, there were other kinds you could rely on.

Judd watched
Diana Taverner leave the small park, enjoying the sway of her hips, and the way she paused briefly at the gate, giving him an extra second or two to study the goods. It was important to treat women with respect, but crikey, he was looking forward to rattling her bones—so much so it was politic to remain seated for a while. Last thing he needed was some citizen journalist bagging a shot of him in this state. Unrolling the paper he spread it on his lap as an extra precaution, and tried to concentrate on the matter in hand: Dame Ingrid Tearney. All outward appearances to the contrary notwithstanding, her Dameship currently had his dick in her handbag, a situation he couldn't allow to continue—one word from her to Number Ten, and he'd be out on his ear before you could say reshuffle. Disloyalty was the one political sin you couldn't survive being discovered committing; though of course, without it, your career would be one long tug at your forelock. That's what made public life such a balancing act. Which, let's face it, was why it was so exhilarating.

It's not so much that you have to go waltzing across the occasional minefield, my boy
, some old fart had told him, his first week in the House.
It's that you've got to do it with a smile on your phiz
.

Yes, well, anyone who didn't have a game face for the plebs didn't deserve their vote in the first place, was Judd's view. Not that he'd say it out loud, of course—always important to stress that. Never say “plebs” out loud.

These ruminations having calmed him somewhat, he felt able to get to his feet.

Heading for the gate, he called Sebastian, his chief scout and bottle-washer—the ghost in his machine, you might say. Some of the bottles Seb had washed over the years weren't the kind you put out for recycling—more the sort you buried at night, in landfill—but his admittedly rather limited range of solutions had seen his master safely over a number of minefields in the past. You never could tell when the need to impose such a solution might arise. And Judd didn't plan to be caught with his trousers down a second time.

Maybe it was that phrase that triggered it, but while waiting for Seb to answer, Judd experienced an almost physical memory of Diana Taverner gripping his crotch, her tone as calm as if she were choosing an avocado.
You don't feel disappointed to me
. Ha! He hadn't felt that much innocent pleasure since choosing Clash tracks for all eight of his Desert Island Discs. He'd afterwards learned that an old Trot in the Isle of Dogs had literally had an apoplectic fit while listening. Which just went to show you couldn't please everyone.

It's said
of Churchill that he'd catnap in an armchair with a teacup in his hand, and when he dropped off the noise of the cup hitting the floor would wake him. He claimed this was all the rest he needed. Jackson Lamb was much the same, the difference being he used a shot glass rather than a teacup, and didn't wake when it fell. Catherine would sometimes find him in the morning, sprawled on his chair like a misplaced squid, the air smelling like water from a vase of week-old flowers.

That was his condition when the slow horses, minus Marcus, gathered on his landing at the appointed hour.

River put a finger to his door, which hung ajar, and pushed it just enough to give them a view of Lamb's corpulent slumbers. A stray piece of paper, marooned on his desk, fluttered with each meaty exhalation.

Shirley said, “Shall we wake him?”

She seemed unnaturally bright; her volume a touch awry. On the other hand, Lamb had told them they'd gone live: maybe, Louisa thought, this was just what Shirley was like, with the prospect of action looming.

“Where's Marcus?” she asked.

Shirley shrugged. “Went for a bagwich. A sandwich. Baguette sandwich.”

Louisa and River exchanged a glance.

Ho said, “He said five. He'll be mad if we don't go in.”

“After you,” River suggested.

Way down below the back door scraped open and slammed shut, and they all thought
Catherine
. But it was Marcus, stomping up the stairs as if they'd done him personal injury. He arrived at the top to find the others huddled there like a praetorian guard.

“What?”

“You're late for the meeting,” Ho said.

“So are you,” said Marcus. “Unless this is it.”

“Where've you been?” asked Shirley.

“Out.”

“I had to do all the research on my own. You know what that's like?”

“If it's like working, yeah. Here.” He handed her a paper bag of indeterminate shape.

She squinted at it suspiciously. “Did this used to be a baguette?”

“Do you want it or not?”

“Whatever.”

Louisa watched fascinated as Shirley tugged a squashed object from the paper bag, and peeled away its cellophane membrane. It was so much no longer baguette-shaped, she was able to eat it sideways.

River asked Marcus, “You okay?”

“Why?”

“You look . . . peeved.”

“‘Peeved'? What is this, Hogwarts?”

“Pissed off, then.”

“I'm fine.”

“This is actually pretty tasty,” said Shirley, or so the others assumed. Her mouth was too full to be sure.

“Good,” said River to Marcus. “Because you might want to be on your game tonight.”

“Trust me, Cartwright. I get the opportunity to shoot anyone, I'll be on my game.”

“Nice to know.”

“Not fussy who, either.”

“I think they put paprika in it or something.”

“Christ,” Louisa said. “Nobody said anything about shooting. We're a glorified escort service, that's all.”

“For a crew who took Catherine,” said River.

“Precisely. Until we know she's safe, no one's shooting anybody.”

“I nearly asked you to get me a tuna, but I'm glad I didn't now. Chicken's definitely my favourite.”

“I think we should go in,” said Ho.

“I think you're right,” said River, pushing him through the half-open door.

Ho went sprawling onto the carpet.

Without opening his eyes Lamb said, “You're ten minutes late.”

“Five,” said Ho.

Lamb pointed at the clock on his shelf.

“That's fast,” Ho objected.

“It's always fast. Do I have to specify local time?” Lamb opened his eyes, and his tone changed to a roar. “Get in here.”

They trooped in while Ho scrambled to his feet, shooting daggers at River.

“Jesus,” said Lamb, wiping a paw across his face, blurring his features to a screaming pope's. “One of these days I'm gonna wake up and it will all have been a bad dream.”

“That happened to me once,” Shirley said, her mouth full.

“What are you eating?”

“. . . Chicken baguette.”

“Give.”

Shirley looked at what was left of her lunch, then at Lamb's implacably outstretched hand. She glanced at Marcus for support, but he was having none of it.

“Don't look so glum,” said Lamb. “You could do with skipping a few.”

“Are you even allowed to say stuff like that?” she complained, surrendering the sandwich.

“Not sure. Haven't read the manual.” He examined her offering suspiciously. “Did this get hit by a bus or what? You can buy them new, you know.” He took a bite out of it anyway, reducing it by about half. “All done your homework?”

There was a muttered chorus of assent.

“Right. Cartwright first. Sean Donovan. What have you got?”

“Sean Donovan,” River said. “He's a career soldier, a combat veteran. Sandhurst, tour of duty in Northern Ireland, then an attachment to the Ministry of Defence. After that, he served with the UN Protection Force in the Balkans, then with NATO during the Kosovo War. He was a lieutenant colonel once that was over, and reckoned to be in the running for higher things.”

“How high?” Shirley asked, then giggled abruptly.

Lamb stopped chewing to train a basilisk stare in her direction.

River said, “He was well thought of at the MoD. Sat on some high-level commissions, including one on domestic terrorism which had Regent's Park connections, and was on an advisory body to the UN in '08. A newspaper profile of him that year called him the perfect modern soldier, part warrior, part diplomat.”

“I do like a man without faults,” Lamb said, scrumpling greaseproof paper into a ball and tossing it over his shoulder. “Reminds me of me.”

“Only he had a reputation for being a drinker.”

“There you go,” said Lamb. “A real prince.”

“What,” said Marcus, “he's in the closet? In the arms trade? Or likes dressing up as a Nazi?”

Lamb glared. “What's your problem? You look like you've lost a fiver and found a button.”

“. . . A button?”

“Forgive my folksiness. Woodstock generation.”

River trundled on. “Donovan's career went to hell overnight. Not long after his UN stint he visited an army base in Somerset to give a lecture to an audience of cadets. Apparently there was a party afterwards, a knees-up in the mess, following which Donovan left the base in a car. He lost control, wrote the vehicle off, and his passenger, a Captain Alison Dunn, was killed. He was tried before a military court, and served five years, dishonourably discharged upon release. That was a year or so ago.”