Slough House Read online

  “Some while ago, as none of you will have forgotten, a disgraceful episode interrupted the tranquillity of our fair and sovereign nation, when, for reasons yet to be fully established, a foreign intelligence service despatched what can only be described as hitmen, a pair of hitmen, their actual gender notwithstanding, to commit murder on our shores. These assassins arrived in the guise of tourists, come to pay obeisance to one of the jewels in our national crown, but rather than guidebook and selfie-stick they arrived armed with a toxic substance and evil intent. So far, so very like some popcorn spectacle of the kind we’re accustomed to seeing on the widescreens of our nation’s multiplexes, or should that be multiplices? And yet, and yet, if I were to invoke a cinematic precedent, it would be more Inspector Clouseau than ah ah James Bond. More Laurel and Hardy than Fast and Furious. For in their blundering idiocy, these fools not only proved themselves unable to carry out their original mission, but left in their wake a woman dead and a man seriously impaired. Innocent bystanders, unfortunate citizens, casual victims of international skulduggery. And there are those among you, I know, who felt—like me—the the the shame of seeing this disgraceful episode go unpunished, to see the perpetrators paraded on their homeland television like returning heroes, and their president describe them as uninvolved passersby, innocent of wrongdoing, and thus subject their victims, and by association every other citizen of this land, to a degree of contempt that in earlier times would have seen boots polished, kitbags packed and gunboats launched.”

  He paused and his mouth assumed its usual pout, his eyes their usual cunning light. Give him a toga, Diana thought, and he’d be Nero absent his lyre.

  His voice dropped.

  “I should say, of course, that as deplorable and sordid as these events were, they could have been worse. Much much worse. Slathering a nerve agent on their ex-compatriot’s doorknob, in a doomed attempt to murder him, was an evil, evil act, but discarding the unused portion of their toxic weapon—in a perfume bottle—in a local park—to be chanced upon by a couple on a community clean-up outing—that was heinous beyond the reach of vocabulary. That the woman died, the unfortunate woman, was quite tragic enough, but it takes no great leap of imagination to envision other outcomes. The murderous miscreants, in abandoning their poisonous armoury, gave no thought to the potential consequences such action might entail. Any number of victims might have suffered contamination. Children might have been involved. Small, British children.”

  His audience was caught up in his rhetoric, their knives and forks at high noon across the bloody swirls on their plates. Damien Cantor was nodding to P.J.’s beat as if he’d first danced to it at his school disco. She’d been taken aback to see him among the company. But he, and the rest of them, had paid for this; had made it happen. So she supposed they were entitled to enjoy the moment, even if that meant—in a typically male way—that they would feel themselves its engineers.

  “And in the aftermath, as I say, shame. The shame of seeing our government do nothing, of seeing sabres apparently unsheathed, but hearing only the plastic rattle of inadequacy. We pulled our aprons over our heads and hid our faces from the world. There we were, taunted and mocked by the global bully, and the best response we could muster was a cowardly wail. Is it any wonder that the common people felt affronted? Is it really a source of surprise that they began to question their leaders? Who among us wouldn’t, when our leaders proved themselves so unequal to the tasks facing them? Tasks, you would have thought, that those occupying the great offices of state would be more than prepared to gird themselves for. Indeed, it’s not too presumptuous to suggest that they should have arrived at said offices with loins already clenched.”

  He paused, his gaze sweeping the table.

  “So it is with awe and admiration that I offer our communal thanks to the fair Diana, for the efficiency and aplomb with which she turned her sights on the prize. That prize being, I don’t need to tell you, an evening of the score. Two hitmen, I said, two hitmen were dispatched to our sovereign shores, though of course, as we all know, one of those hitmen was, in actual fact, in actual fact, a hitwoman. And she, the female of the species—which we don’t need our national poet to remind us is far deadlier than the male—has now been returned to the soil from which she sprang, or dungheap, rather, the dungheap which spewed her forth, one of our own unsung heroes—or possibly, who knows, heroines? —performing the ah, the ah, termination. On the instructions of our gallant huntress Diana, she who sought to take life has now herself been taken, and I can only imagine, as I’m sure we all can, the terror that must now be afflicting her erstwhile comrade-in-villainy. Vengeance, gentlemen—gentlemen and lady—vengeance is an oft-maligned impulse. We are told to turn the other cheek, to forgive the wrongs done to us. And this is well and good, well and good. But there is a time, too, for anger and chastisement, a time to take up the sword and lay waste those who have done us wrong. That this has now been done is a matter for celebration, and while I pay tribute, as we all do, to the fair Lady Diana, I also want to thank all of you for making her acts possible. You provided the steel and the lead, you provided the weapon. Diana took aim and her aim, as we all know, proved true. Once more we can hold our heads high in the world, even if our pride, for the time being, has to remain a matter of quiet satisfaction rather than triumphant bellowing. But the time for bellowing will come, rest assured of that. The time for bellowing will come. And when we bellow, the world will hear. Thank you.”

  The boisterous reaction took some minutes to quieten down.

  Taverner had to hand it to him. Judd knew which buttons to press.

  It was more treehouse than clubhouse, the room above Old Miles’s shop; wooden floorboards, and no furniture to speak of. Packing cases along one wall provided a surface on which bottles had been set—red wine, vodka and whisky—their haphazard groupings punctuated by overflowing ashtrays. The remainder of the floor was occupied by similarly haphazard groupings of old men, or men nearly old; some in suits that had seen better days; others in peacock apparel. The common factor was that each held at least one glass. Through the small sash window, propped open the height of a tobacco tin, came a distant muddle of chanting.

  Inside the room conversation was multi-lingual and overlapping. A blue cloud hung overhead, and the gently swaying lightbulb was the moon on an overcast night.

  Lamb had found a bottle of malt and was in a corner smoking, looking like a bin someone had set fire to. Next to him, at shoulder height, hung a dartboard to which a picture of Vladimir Putin, topless on horseback, had been taped. One small postcard aside, of a wooden church in a snow-clad landscape, it was the room’s only decoration.

  “Are you smoking that or is it smoking you?”

  The speaker was a shade younger than most others present, and wore a charcoal suit with a faint pinstripe. His thinning hair was sandy and his spectacle frames blue.

  “It smells Soviet-era. Where do they make them, Chernobyl?”

  Lamb gazed around the room. Though everyone had looked at him when he’d entered, most had made the effort not to appear to be doing so. “There’s a few here might have been assets at one time,” he said, “and more than a couple probably sold secrets when the weather was fair. But even Russian tobacco can’t cover up the odour I’m getting from you. You’re a suit.”

  “Suit? I was nearly a desk at one time.”

  “What happened? Someone lose your Allen key?”

  The man laughed. “Someone was better at their job than me. It happens. Smith, by the way. Corny, I know. Chester Smith.”

  “And what desk did you nearly fill, Chester Smith?”

  “US Liaison. Went to a woman who’d done her master’s at Barnard. Turns out that was a good place to make future contacts. Form your networks early. There any spare in that bottle?”

  Lamb held it up; it was three quarters full. “No.”

  A small figure appeared in the do
orway, and was immediately obscured by others.

  Smith said, “It’s like the United Nations in here.”

  “What, a dosshouse for the weird and lonely?”

  “Exactly. Old Miles has never been on the books, did you know that? Been running this place as an out-of-hours spooks’ club since the seventies, but it’s always been under the bridge. More than a few ops planned here, you can bet your braces.”

  “You still with the Park, Chester Smith?”

  “No, I took the option when the desk job fell through. Handy little benefits package.” He sipped from his glass. “I dabble in real estate now.”

  “You don’t say.” Lamb drained his own glass, then refilled it.

  “Office space, mostly. A few luxury apartments. But I have this thing, call it a principle. I don’t deal with Russian money.”

  “That must make you very proud.”

  The small figure appeared again briefly, in the space between taller bodies. The room had filled since Lamb arrived, and Old Miles himself squeezed in now, to general hubbub. The shop had closed its door for the last time. It was a sad moment, but sad moments were to be celebrated as much as happy ones, or half the liquor in the world would go undrunk. And there were no better friends than old comrades to share such moments with. This, or something like it, formed the basis of a short speech. Cheers were attempted, and glasses raised. Through the window came another burst of chanting, as if distant strangers were old comrades too.

  “You were a joe, weren’t you?” Smith said, once the clamour had subsided. “That why you’re here? You miss the old days?”

  “What I like about the old days is, they’re over,” said Lamb.

  “And you know what? I think I’ve just worked out who you are. You’re Lamb, aren’t you? You’re Jackson Lamb.”

  Lamb’s face was expressionless. But after a moment, he nodded.

  “. . . Ha! Jackson Lamb! If I’d known I’d be meeting a legend I’d have brought my autograph book.”

  “If I’d known this was a date I’d have freshened up.” Lamb farted, possibly in compensation, and took a last drag of his cigarette before the tube fell from the filter, scattering a Catherine-wheel of sparks across the floor. Lamb ignored every part of this process apart from the inhalation: when he breathed out again, it was as if he were conjuring a storm cloud.

  Smith stepped on the small fire, extinguishing it. “Jackson Lamb. Didn’t you once—”

  “Whatever I did or didn’t once, I don’t now.” He produced another cigarette. “Or did the whole ‘secret’ part of Secret Service pass you by?”

  Chester Smith pressed a finger to his lips. “Mea culpa. But imagine the awe a desk man feels for the field agent.”

  “I’m a desk man myself these days. And you’re, what do you call it, an investment opportunist? Property consultant? Or does wanker cover it all?”

  “Now that’s classic. ‘Does wanker cover it all?’ Priceless. Here, let me get that.” Producing a lighter, Smith snapped a flame into life. “And I’m not exactly a civilian. I lunch with Oliver Nash once a month. A club off Wigmore Street. He keeps me in the loop.”

  Nash was chair of the Limitations Committee, which oversaw the Service’s spend, so technically kept Diana Taverner on a leash. It was no surprise he dined off the stories that came his way. He was every joe’s nightmare: a career bureaucrat with an operational veto.

  Lamb said, “How very considerate of him. Does he print a newsletter, or just use a megaphone?”

  The lighter went back in Smith’s pocket. He said, “You know your Service carried out an assassination last month?”

  “Megaphone it is, then.”

  “One of the GRU creeps involved in that Novichok business. Whacked her on home turf, somewhere in the Volga. That’s what I call taking it to the enemy.” He swirled his empty glass. “Word is, Putin’s spitting teeth.”

  “He’s always spitting teeth. If not his own, someone else’s.”

  “You sure you couldn’t squeeze a small one out of that?”

  “I hate freeloaders.” But Lamb poured a tiny amount into the proffered glass, once he’d made sure his own was full.

  “Thank you.” Smith toasted the picture on the dartboard, and broke softly into song. “Rah-rah-rah Putin, homicidal Russian queen. Gay porn lost a superstar when he went into despotism, right? Could have been the new Joe Dallesandro.”

  Lamb grunted.

  “That man he tried to have poisoned. Here in England.”

  “What about him?”

  “He was a swapped spy. Out of the game. He—”

  “I know how it works,” said Lamb. “I’m not the fucking janitor.”

  “But welcome to the brave new order, eh? No holds barred. Don’t get me wrong, three cheers for Lady Di. I mean, I’m all for peace and love and all that, but only once the body count’s even. Otherwise we run the risk of being Russia’s bunny.” He swallowed his drink in a single draught. It’s possible that sarcasm was intended. “I’m sure he’ll have rolled a head or two back home, won’t he? The Kremlin’s Gay Hussar. Assigned some locals to Siberia. What you might call the Naughty Steppes.” He glanced slyly at Lamb saying this. “But that won’t be enough, will it? The Park carried the fight to him, he’ll bring it on back. Couldn’t look his photographer in the face otherwise.”

  “Well, you carry right on not selling him flats. That’ll take the wind out his sails.”

  “Wouldn’t be surprised if he weren’t behind that lot, come to think of it. Les gilets jaunes.” Smith nodded towards the open window, through which distant grumbling could still be heard. “The real-world equivalent to a bunch of internet trolls.”

  “If you say so,” said Lamb. “But I’d take them more seriously if they spent less time accessorising.” He slipped the bottle into his coat pocket, and thrust his free hand out. Chester Smith made to clasp it in his own. “No, I need your lighter. Mine’s empty.”

  Smith handed it over, then watched as Lamb crossed the room, the press of bodies parting for him without fuss. At the door he halted without looking back, though Smith had the sense he was checking the room out anyway. But whatever it was he’d been looking for he didn’t appear to have found, because a moment later he was gone, and the room seemed half as crowded for his absence.

  “Jackson Lamb,” Smith murmured aloud, for no obvious reason. Then went to find someone new to talk to.

  Judd sat next to Diana, satisfaction oozing from every pore, and she put a hand on his elbow. “I’m not too proud to admit it,” she said. “I nearly got an erection there.”

  “Me too.”

  “And thank you for those kind words.”

  “Every syllable deserved.”

  She was unused to praise from Peter Judd. Achievement, in other people, was not something he admired: it was like watching somebody walk around in shoes he’d planned to buy. On the other hand, he’d been running a PR company since leaving the political limelight. Perhaps he’d learned something, if only which lies to tell.

  “And it achieved the required response,” he went on. “Rage and fury from the Kremlin, I gather. He’ll do such things, he knows not what they are, or something like that. King Lear, yes?”

  “Quite possibly.”

  “Did it for A-level. You think he’ll start a war?”

  “If I’d thought that,” Diana said, “I’d not have greenlit the operation.”

  “Oh, come on. What’s life without a little risk?”

  “Longer?”

  “You never disappoint me, Diana.”

  She said, “He won’t start a war. Because he broke the rules. Sanctioning a hit on a swapped spy, that’s not done. He should have known that.”

  “And now you’ve carried out a hit on the hitter we’re all square, or should be. But as you’ve already pointed out, he’s not playing
by the rules.”

  “You’re aware that it wasn’t actually an agent who consigned the target to, as you put it, the dunghill?”

  “Heap,” said Judd. Then: “No, I’d rather assumed you acquired the services of a soldier of fortune of some sort.”

  She nodded.

  “But we’re here to inspire national pride, and if that means blurring the odd detail, so be it.” He reached for his glass. “Besides, the underlying point remains. The good chaps here, they provided the wherewithal. Whether to a salaried operative or a freelance journeyman hardly matters. Our political overlords, so-called, fell at every available hurdle, but these good men and true stepped up. National pride was at stake. They heard the call, and opened their chequebooks.”

  “Now that’s a stirring image.”

  “Behave. You took their money. Don’t look down your nose.”

  In other company she might have tried to look contrite, but Judd had as little time for social pieties as she did.

  “And you have to admit, it’s working nicely so far.”

  It was. Or seemed to be.

  It had been the tail-end of winter when Judd had approached her with, as he’d termed it, an opportunity. These had felt few and far between at the time. An agent had died, in the snow, in Wales; one of Jackson Lamb’s crew—a slow horse—but it all went down on the books. A recently departed Park operative had been killed in the same debacle. The way it span, no blame was laid at Diana’s door, but an odour had lingered; worse, this had happened shortly after her application for a root-and-branch overhaul of operational practices—effectively a plea for a major increase in spend—had been rejected. And that had been before the budgetary fallout from You-Know-What kicked in. The last full-scale retreat from Europe, by way of amateur armada, had seen defeat dressed up as victory; this latest version, a supposed triumph, might as well have been made on the Titanic. No wonder Peter Judd’s siren song had fallen sweetly on her ears.