Slough House полностью

‘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 dung heap, rather, the dung heap 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 tree house 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 multilingual 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 masters 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 doorway, 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.