‘We get called a lot of things,’ she said. ‘But nobody’s ever accused us of being assassination specialists.’
‘And nobody thinks we are. But once the label’s been applied, the facts cease to matter. These guys have been given our names and told we’re the targets, and they’re getting on with it. They must have realised while breaking Kay White’s neck that she was more Milly Molly Mandy than Modesty Blaise, but so what? They’re getting paid to do a job, not worry about the details.’
‘But who applied the label? Or do I hear the distant clucking of chickens coming home to roost?’
‘I like to think I’ve made a lot of enemies,’ Lamb conceded. ‘But seriously, this day and age? Even I’d put me way down on a list of people worth killing. You’d have to be halfway through the Cabinet first. Not to mention whoever invented fruit-flavoured beer.’
‘I’m sure the GRU have similar priorities. But either way, this list they’re working from, it must have come from Molly’s archive.’
‘Uh-huh. Can’t have come from current records, because we’re not on them. And while it might be out of date, it overlaps with the present. If White and Loy were on it, then Cartwright and Guy are too. Not to mention you and me.’
‘And Roddy.’
‘Every cloud.’ He made his own final cloud, then squashed his cigarette out on the side of his bin. It was not, Catherine noticed, one of the monstrosities he’d been smoking lately. Just an ordinary filter tip.
He saw her noticing. ‘What?’
‘Just wondering what we do now.’
‘We gather them in,’ he said. ‘Before more bodies hit the streets.’
The activating order came from Catherine Standish, but he knew it originated from Lamb himself.
Roderick Ho stared at the text for a full five seconds, as if waiting for it to self-destruct, then tapped out his answer:
Then thought a few moments, and sent another:
Just in case she didn’t understand the first one.
After that, he was locked and loaded; ready to rock and roll.
Saddle up.
Blake’s grave meant Bunhill Fields, the cemetery not far from Slough House. Blake was some dead guy, but that wasn’t important; what mattered was, it was where the team assembled when heavy shit was going down, and Slough House itself was off-limits. The emergency zone. And getting the call meant dropping everything and travelling light, because when you were called to the graveside, you needed to make sure it wasn’t going to turn out to be your own.
(A brief image struck him: of Lamb cradling Roddy’s body in his arms. Lamb’s broken gaze was directed heavenwards.
Anyway. When word came down from Lamb that he needed his team, everyone knew what the real score was: he needed the Rodster. The rest of them could stand round making up the numbers, and that was fine, but what Lamb wanted was his best guy by his side. The others were camouflage.
And this was the part of the job Dyno-Rod loved: the part where his street skills came to the fore. Roddy Ho was the Duke of Digital; everyone knew that. He was Master of the Monitor, Lord of the Laptop, but that was only half the story. Take him away from his screens and he was also King of the Kerb, Sultan of the Streets, the something of the Pavements. He scrabbled about in his cupboard for his second-best pair of trainers – your second-best pair were your best pair, every fool knew that: they were what you wore when the going got rough – and grabbed his dark-blue hoodie from its hanger. Prez, pro, padrone,
No car. This was what it meant to go dark; you surrendered to the city, let it breathe you in gently, and carry you where you needed to go. Any watchers out there, they might hold you in their gaze for a moment, but then you’d shimmer and vanish, and they’d be left shaking their heads:
So any Regent’s Park newby assigned to pin a tail on the RodMan better bring their A-game, because the Rodinator left no trail. They’d have a happier time of it chasing smoke through a hurricane: Roddy
