Slough House is a dumping ground for British intelligence agents who've screwed up a case in any number of ways--by leaving a secret file on a train or blowing a surveillance. River Carter, one such "slow horse," is bitter about his failure and about his tedious assignment transcribing cell phone conversations. When a young man is abducted and his kidnappers threaten to broadcast his beheading live on the Internet, River sees an opportunity to redeem himself. Is the victim who he first appears to be? And what's the kidnappers' connection with a disgraced journalist? As the clock ticks on the execution, River finds that everyone has his own agenda. *From the Hardcover edition.*
Copyright © Mick Herron, 2010
First published in the UK by Constable,
an imprint of Constable & Robinson, 2010
First US edition published by SohoConstable,
an imprint of Soho Press, 2010
Soho Press, Inc.
853 Broadway
New York, NY10003
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Herron, Mick.
Slow horses / Mick Herron.
p. cm.
US PB ISBN 978-1-61695-416-1
International PB ISBN 978-1-61695-513-7
eISBN 978-1-56947-901-8
1. Intelligence service—Great Britain—Fiction. I. Title.
PR6108.E77 S57 2010
823′.92—dc23 2010002459
v3.1
DA, SC, AJ & RL
John Berryman
This is how River Cartwright slipped off the fast track and joined the slow horses.
Eight twenty Tuesday morning, and King’s Cross crammed with what the O.B. called
The O.B.’s delivery turning this to Roman numerals in River’s head. MCMXIV.
Stopping, he pretended to check his watch; a manoeuvre indistinguishable from actually checking his watch. Commuters washed round him like water round a rock, their irritation evident in clicking of tongues and expulsions of breath. At the nearest exit—a bright space through which weak January daylight splashed—two of the black-clad achievers stood like statues, their heavy weaponry unremarked by non-combatants, who’d come a long way since 1914.
The achievers—so called because they got the job done—were keeping well back, as per instructions.
Twenty yards ahead was the target. ‘White tee under a blue shirt,’ River repeated under his breath. Adding details, now, to Spider’s skeleton outline: young, male, Middle Eastern looking; the blue shirt’s sleeves rolled up; the black jeans stiff and new. Would you buy new trousers for a jaunt like this? He stuffed the information away; a question to be asked later.
A rucksack on the target’s right shoulder listed, suggesting weight. The wire coiled into his ear, like River’s own, might have been an iPod.
‘Confirm visual.’
River, touching his left ear with his left hand, spoke quietly into what looked like a button on his cuff. ‘Confirmed.’
A gaggle of tourists crowded the concourse, their distribution of luggage suggesting they were circling the wagons. River skirted them without taking his eyes off the target, who was heading for the annexe platforms; those which waved off trains towards Cambridge, and points east.
Trains generally less packed than the northbound HSTs.
Unbidden images arrived: of twisted metal scattered along miles of broken rails. Of trackside bushes lit with flame, and hung with scraps of meat.
‘What you have to bear in mind’—the O.B.’s words—‘is that worst sometimes does come to worst.’
The worst had increased exponentially over the last few years.
Two transport cops by a ticket barrier ignored the target but studied River. Don’t approach, he warned silently. Don’t come anywhere near me. It was the small details on which enterprises foundered. Last thing he wanted was an audible altercation; anything that startled the target.
The cops went back to their conversation.
River paused, and mentally regrouped.
He was of average height, this young man River Cartwright; was fair-haired and pale-skinned, with grey eyes that often seemed inward-looking, a sharpish nose and a small mole on his upper lip. When he concentrated, his brow furrowed in a way that led some to suspect him of puzzlement. Today he wore blue jeans and a dark jacket. But if you’d asked him that morning about his appearance, he’d have mentioned his hair. Lately, he’d favoured a T urkish barber, where they go in close with the scissors, then apply a naked flame to the ears. They give no warning that this is about to happen. River emerged from the chair scoured and scalded like a doorstep. Even now, his scalp tingled in a draught.
Without taking his eyes off the target, now forty yards ahead—without, specifically, taking his eyes off the rucksack—River spoke again into his button. ‘Follow. But give him room.’
If the worst was a detonation on a train, next worst was one on a platform. Recent history showed that people on their way to work were at their most vulnerable. Not because they were weaker. But because there were a lot of them, packed in enclosed spaces.
He didn’t look round, trusting that the black-clad achievers were not far behind.
