Slough House полностью

The drive felt shorter this time, though Lech wasn’t approaching the mad speeds River had reached. Several times, they had to pull into the side to allow an oncoming car to pass. He’d got lucky, River thought, on his earlier journey. Just the one near-collision. And only two assassins. Could have been worse, which it was about to be. Because as Lech turned into the parking space among the trees, his headlights caught movement: there were now three other vehicles there; two in the far corner, and one beside the car containing the bodies. Around it, three shapes had gathered.

‘Oh shit,’ said River, and remembered the hide. ‘Birdwatchers?’

‘Uh, not exactly,’ Lech said. ‘I think they’re dogging.’

I’ve just the man for the job, Lamb had said, so Louisa was heading into the underground again, alongside drinkers and filmgoers, the theatre crowd, late-shift retailers, and those with cleaning and maintenance jobs, heading from one place of work to the next. You could always tell day from night on the Tube, she thought. Lighting was constant, temperature didn’t much vary. But you could always tell day from night.

Roderick Ho was with her, not because she needed back-up, but because Lamb wanted rid of him.

Waiting, she scanned ads for banks, for estate agencies, for online services. Credit was available, at rates set by Satan. She thought of Lamb’s face on the phone to River; that pause when River told him the hit team was dead. No details, but River had no gun, and improvisation was messy. Meanwhile, people went to and from work, and stopped out late for a drink, and sank deeper into debt. She had a foot in both worlds: owned her own flat, drove her own car, had shot a few people. But she never had money over at the end of the month, her pension forecast wasn’t rosy, her team had gone dark, there were bodies somewhere, and Lamb had a plan up his sleeve.

A train was approaching. She glanced at Roderick Ho, engrossed in an ad for bathroom fittings, which featured, inevitably, a barely clad female. He’d answered no when Catherine asked who remembered Kay White, who remembered Struan Loy, but Louisa would bet he remembered Sid Baker. Sid had been smart, and while that wasn’t likely to figure among Ho’s priorities, she’d been a looker too, and that ticked his box. Roddy was a looker himself, but only in the active sense: when a woman wandered into view, he looked. Sometimes, she’d noticed, his lips moved, as if he were adding a silent voice-over. In some ways she’d like to hear that, but in many more ways wouldn’t. What happened inside Roderick Ho’s head was best kept secret, like a nuclear launch code, or the PM’s browsing history.

The train stopped, and as they boarded Louisa said, ‘Probably best if we don’t sit together.’ With a quick movement of her head, she indicated the other travellers. ‘You never know.’

Roddy nodded wisely. He’d been going to suggest the same thing. They didn’t call it the underground for nothing. Well, it was under the ground, but even so: exactly the territory you’d find the opposition lurking. You had to be sharp to spot a pro, mind. Case in point, Roddy himself: black hoodie, black jeans – classic, but blended in. Edgy undercurrent, because you couldn’t switch that off, but it wasn’t like he was making it obvious; not like he was sporting a branded baseball cap … There was a poster on a council building near his home, something about fostering children. ‘Not all superheroes wear capes,’ it read. Well duh, thought Roddy. Spider-Man? Captain America? Sheesh. Who writes this stuff? But anyway, yeah, there was an underlying truth there: you didn’t have to dress the role, you just had to play the part. Always be alert, that was the key. Always bring your A-game. Like earlier, when he’d lured that tail into Lamb’s trap – they’d only got this far because he’d done that. The Rodster on all cylinders as usual, ensuring Lamb got the outcome he needed, and now working the underground with the same silent dedication: never a moment’s downtime. Dude has no off button, they probably said about him. Dude is like permanent. Though now he thought about it, a branded baseball cap might be cool. There was a place near him, they did T-shirts and stuff, he could probably get them to slap a slogan on some headgear. Spook at work. Little private joke, because everyone would assume he was wearing it to win cool points, never realising that beneath the outward flair lay constant vigilance.

Someone was kicking his foot. ‘Hey!’

‘… Huh?’

‘It’s our stop.’