This choking feeling was nothing new. He felt it every morning, familiar as an alarm clock. It was what dragged him out of sleep.
And now here was Sid telling him someone else had been responsible—that someone had been pulling River’s strings. Sid had been put in Slough House to keep an eye on him. And who could have done that, except whoever had put River there to start with?
‘Sid—’
And now her eyes were widening and she was pointing over his shoulder. ‘River? What’s that?’
He turned in time to glimpse a black shape disappearing over the five-foot wall to the right of Hobden’s window.
‘Sid?’
‘Looked like—’ Her eyes widened. ‘One of the achievers?’
Black-clad. Heavy weaponry. So called because they got the job done.
River was out of the car before she’d finished. ‘Watch the door. I’ll take the wall.’
But pretty much hit the wall, in fact, misjudging his vault. He had to back up and try again. An undignified scramble dropped him into a garden: mostly lawn, trimmed by a narrow flowerbed. Plastic furniture here and there; a table with a forlorn, dripping umbrella. And nobody in sight.
How long since that shape had appeared? Fifteen seconds? Twenty?
The building had a shared lobby round the back. This had a double-fronted, glass-panelled door, which hung open. Down the corridor to River’s left another door closed as he stepped into the lobby, cutting in two a noise that had barely begun. Half a syllable. A note of shock.
River’s boots click-clacked on the lobby’s tiles.
There were two doors to choose from, but if his mental map was accurate, Hobden’s was on the left. He guessed the man in black had gone straight in—skeleton key or pick. But was this really an achiever? And if it was, what did River think he was doing … But it was too late, time was happening too fast; he was here and now, bracing himself against the corridor wall. The same boot that had click-clacked across the lobby hit the door with a splintering thud, and the door broke open, and River was inside the flat.
A short corridor, more doors to either side, both ajar, bathroom and bedroom. The corridor ended in a sitting room, on the far side of which was the front door he’d been watching from across the road; the rest of the room was books, papers, portable TV, shabby sofa, table strewn with leftover takeaway, curtained window through which he’d watched Hobden’s shadow prowling, prowling; a restless movement suggesting he’d been expecting something. And here he was, the shadow’s owner.
River hadn’t laid eyes on Hobden before, but this had to be him: average height, thinning brownish hair, look of terror as he turned to face this new intrusion even while crushed in an arm-lock by the previous invader, the achiever—except this wasn’t an achiever: he was blackclad, wore a balaclava, had a utility belt round his waist, but the ensemble lacked the hi-tech tailoring of the genuine article. Besides, what he held to Hobden’s head was a .22: small, and non-Service issue.
And now the gun swung towards River, and its size became insignificant. He held out an arm, as if trying to placate an upset dog. ‘Shall we put that down?’ Astonishing himself with his banality of expression and evenness of tone. Hobden erupted, an unpunctuated gabble—‘What’s going on who are you why’—and the black-clad man silenced him with a tap on the head, then made an on-the-floor gesture at River. Disconnected thoughts held a confab in River’s head.
