Real Tigers полностью

“In 1952 there was a serious flood in Lynmouth, in Devon. Thirty-five people died. There are those, BigSeanD among them, who think this was the work of Project Cumulus. What was meant to be a demonstration of rainmaking potential got out of hand.”

“Fifty-two’s a long time ago,” Marcus observed.

“But the theories continue. There’s an American outfit, military funded, called HAARP—something about high frequency transmissions—which is reckoned to be developing a weather-control system. Floods, hurricanes, tsunamis—a lot of big stuff has been laid at their door. Man-made climate change, according to the webheads, isn’t a by-product of over-consumption. It’s a deliberate attempt to interfere with weather patterns. Specifically, to weaponise them.”

Shirley said, “That’s like . . . ”

What it was like escaped her.

Lamb said, “And there’ll be stuff in the Grey Books relating to this?”

“Well, evidently they’re a Looney Tunes jukebox. A one-stop shop for the conspiracy brigade. The Lynmouth flooding—there are still classified government documents on that one, the findings of a Select Committee investigation. If they’re included, that’d be exactly the sort of thing Donovan’s after. Apparently.”

“You don’t sound convinced. You’re not sure it’s him?”

Louisa shrugged. “It fits the dates. Like I said, BigSeanD didn’t start posting until Donovan came out of prison. I’m guessing they don’t let you have the internet in a military chokey.”

“No, the brass band accompaniment is punishment enough.” Lamb leaned back in his chair, always a potential Buckaroo moment. But its springs held. Staring at the ceiling, he said, “Okay. Golden Boy finds his career derailed, gets banged up for five years, and develops an obsession with X-Files mumbo jumbo. And now we have to help him get his hands on it. Have you finished fizzing yet?”

“Has who finished whatting?” Shirley asked.

“Give me strength.”

Marcus said, “He’s asking where they’re kept. The Grey Books?”

“Oh, right, yeah, you know how I found out? It’s actually on an email, one of those corporate-type Service catch-ups HR send round? With job vacancies and promotions and links to where you can find out about your pension—”

“Any time you feel like it, jump right in and shoot her,” Lamb said.

Marcus rested a hand on Shirley’s shoulder. “Where? Are? The Grey Books?”

“I don’t know, but a new off-site confidential info-storage facility has just gone operational where all Ops’s quote non-key data unquote is now being housed so they’re pretty likely to be there, wouldn’t you think?”

“You want to be any more specific about where ‘there’ is?”

Shirley said, “Out west of Hayes. That’s still London, isn’t it?”

“Depends whether you’re an estate agent or a sentient being,” Lamb said. “But yeah. That’s where they’ll be, all right.” You know what I’ve spent the past few months overseeing? Diana Taverner had said. Off-site storage for the whackjob files . . . He surveyed his crew. “Jesus. An ex-soldier with a screw loose versus you lot. A bunch of losers with fewer moves than an arthritic tortoise. Wonder how this is going to pan out?”

“We can take him,” Marcus said.

“‘We’ aren’t taking anyone,” Lamb said. “Reason being, the whole point is to let him get away with it. Or did you forget that part when you were out pretending to be the Sundance Kid?”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.”

“So I got a little practice in. Keeps me sharp.”

“No, what you got was out of order. Next time you take my name in vain, do it while you’re sitting my medical. Meanwhile, when I give you a job to do, you do it. Even if it involves sitting in front of a monitor.”

“Hey, the job got done. Shirley just told you where the books are kept.”

“And I’m amazed she stopped talking long enough for us to make sense of what she was saying.” Lamb’s gaze swung her way. “I’ve tasted what passes for coffee round here. And that’s not what’s got you buzzing.”

“We’re technically outside of work hours,” Shirley muttered.

“Yeah, that was then,” said Lamb. “But as of now, you’re just technically outside of work.”

Marcus and Shirley exchanged a puzzled look.

“Christ,” said Lamb. “It’s getting so you can’t sack anyone round here without a phrase book.”

River, Louisa and Roderick Ho unconsciously shuffled a little closer together.

Marcus glared at them, then at Lamb. “You can’t do that.”

“I just did.”

“It’s unfair dis—”

“You disobeyed a direct order, not to mention forging my name on a Park register. And her eyeballs are still spinning from whatever she’s put up her nostrils. You seriously think you’ve a case for unfair dismissal?”

“You need us. Need me. How you gonna get Catherine back without—”

Lamb’s coffee cup spun past Marcus’s shoulder and shattered on the office wall, the spatter from its dregs Pollocking Marcus and Shirley en route. Marcus’s words were swallowed by breaking crockery, and the sympathetic ringing of the windowpane.