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
“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.
