“This is not about Pashkin, Taverner. If Moscow knew you and Webb had cooked up some scheme to recruit him, they wouldn’t do this. They’d wait till he got home and run him through a compactor.”
“Lamb—”
“We’ve been led here, every step. Killing Dickie Bow, laying a trail to Upshott, they’ve lit a damn flare path. Murdering Min Harper’s the only thing they’ve tried to keep wrapped. Whatever’s really going on, it’s not what we think. What’s happening at the Needle?”
Taverner said, “We’ve alerted security. There are fire teams on the way.”
Lamb said, “What happens when that building goes into lockdown?”
In the flying club’s office, things had changed: the fridge remained, and the chairs; the old desk was still cluttered with paperwork, but the stack of cardboard boxes was a tumbled pyramid, and its plastic sheet lay crumpled on the floor. River dropped to one knee and foraged through the boxes. They’d contained paper, stacks of A4-sized sheets, several copies of which were stuck to the bottom of one. Both showed the same design.
Griff Yates burst in, panting. His face was still streaked with blood, but in his hand he had a phone. “I borrowed this.”
River grabbed it, his thumb pressing numbers before his brain could process them. “Catherine? It’s not a bomb.”
For a moment, she didn’t reply.
“Catherine? I said—”
“So what is it, then?”
“Did you sound an alert?”
“River … You called a Code September.”
“That’s not even a—”
“I know what it’s not. But I know what it means. So I told the Park. What’s going on, River?”
“What did the Park do?”
“Put the City on terror alert. Imminent danger.”
“Oh Jesus!”
“High buildings are being evacuated, especially the Needle, because of the Russian thing. River, talk to me.”
“There’s no bomb. The plane’s not … It’s not a terror attack.” He looked at the papers in his hand. They were reproductions of the same image: a stylised city landscape, its tallest skyscraper struck by jagged lightning. Along the foot of each page ran the words STOP THE CITY. “They’re leafleting the demo.”
“They’re bloody
“Leaflets, Catherine. They’re dropping leaflets on the rally. But somebody, somebody wanted us to think there was a bomb. The terror alert, that’s the whole point. The evacuation.”
“The Needle,” she said.
Louisa had no signal. Nor did Marcus. The microphone-shaped device on the table was gone; taken by Pashkin and Piotr, but still nearby, and blocking their phones.
She checked Webb. The bullet had hit him in the chest, but he was alive, for now. Shallow breaths bubbled out of him, and whistled back in. She did what she could, which wasn’t much, then turned to Marcus, who was standing over Kyril.
“You put that there yesterday?”
The gun, she meant. But how else could it have got there? Taped to the table’s underside.
“Fixing the odds,” Marcus said. “I don’t wander into situations blind. Not with hostiles.”
Kyril was conscious and moaning; a dull counterpoint to the alarm’s shrill wail. Louisa put her hand on his wounded leg. “This hurt?”
He swore in Russian.
“Yeah yeah. You don’t speak English. This hurt?” She pressed harder.
“Jesus bitch you fuck!”
“That’ll be a yes. What’s going on?”
Marcus left her for the kitchen.
“They’ve left you behind. You think they’re coming back?”
“Bastards,” he said. He might have been talking about his absent comrades.
“Where’ve they gone?”
“Downstairs …”
From the kitchen, she heard breaking glass. Marcus reappeared with the fireaxe in his hand.
Louisa turned back to Kyril. “Downstairs,” she said, and understanding dawned. “Rumble? Their new iPhone? That’s what this is about? You’re stealing a fucking prototype?”
Marcus swung the axe, and the doors shuddered.
She put her hand on the fallen man’s wound once more. “Before he gets through that,” she said, “you’re going to tell me why Min died.”
Outside was warm spring air and a drift of pollen. The irritated officer had heard enough to know that whatever was happening was bigger than a trespass on MoD land, and was currently on his phone, establishing the level of national alert. Griff Yates was washing his face somewhere. And nearby, at forlorn attention by the jeep, stood one of the two soldiers they’d had their altercation with.
River showed his Service card again. “I need to be somewhere.”
“Yeah, right.”
“And you’ll need a friend once this morning’s done,” River added, thinking
“You’re James Bond, are you?”
“We use the same gym.”
“Huh …”
A bird of prey wheeled overhead, loudly mewing.
“What the hell. Get in. Quick.”
River used the two-minute journey to speak to Catherine again. “Have they called the Harriers off?”
“I don’t know, River.” There was an unaccustomed tremor to her voice. “I’ve called the Park, but—are you anywhere near a TV?”
“Not exactly.”
“All hell’s breaking loose in the City. Half the world’s trying to get out, and the rally’s trying to get in—Jesus, River … That was us.”
Me, he thought.
