The elevator eased to a halt. Diana Taverner stepped into a corridor markedly different from those above ground level; here was exposed brickwork and bare concrete floor, pitted and puddled like a temporary pavement. Water dripped. It was an atmosphere that required careful maintenance. To Taverner’s mind, it reeked of cliché, but tests had proved its effectiveness.
Nick Duffy waited, leaning against a door. The door had a peephole, but the cover had been slapped across it.
‘Any problems?’
His look answered that, but he said it anyway. ‘None at all.’
‘Good. Now fetch the rest.’
‘The rest?’
‘The slow horses. All of them.’
He said, ‘Fine,’ but didn’t move. Instead he said, ‘I know it’s not my place to ask. But what’s going on?’
‘You’re right. It’s not your place.’
‘Right. I’m on it.’
He headed for the lift now, but turned when she called. ‘Nick. I’m sorry. Things have gone arse over tit. You’ve probably noticed.’ The vulgarity startled Taverner almost as much as it did Duffy. ‘This kidnapping business—it’s not what it seemed.’
‘And Slough House is involved?’
She didn’t answer.
He said, ‘Jesus Christ.’
‘Bring them in. Separately. And Nick—I’m sorry. He was a friend, wasn’t he? Jed Moody.’
‘We worked together.’
‘Lamb’s story is he tripped over his own feet, broke his neck. But …’
‘But what?’
Taverner said, ‘It’s too soon to say. But take Lamb yourself. And watch him, Nick. He’s trickier than he looks.’
‘I know all about Jackson Lamb,’ Duffy assured her. ‘He put one of my men down earlier.’
‘Then know this too.’ She hesitated. ‘If he’s involved in this kidnapping, he’ll disappear sooner than be brought in. And he’s a streetfighter.’
Duffy waited.
‘I can’t give an instruction, Nick. But if people are going to get hurt, I’d rather it was them than us.’
‘Them and us?’
‘Nobody was expecting this. Go. The Queens’ll give you their mobile locations. Call in soon.’
Duffy caught the lift.
As Diana Taverner tapped the fingerpad to unlock the door he’d been leaning on, she thought briefly of Hassan Ahmed, who had ceased to be a priority. One of two things was going to happen to Hassan. He’d turn up on a street corner, unharmed, or his body would be dumped in a ditch. The latter was more likely. Having killed Black, the Albion crew weren’t likely to let Hassan live. In their shoes, Taverner wouldn’t wait. But maybe that was just her. She set a high priority on watching her own back.
The fingerpad buzzed. The door unlocked.
She stepped inside, prepared to break a slow horse.
There was silence from the boot. They’d have drugged the kid again, but it was Moe who’d had the chloroform, and if he’d had more, they’d not found it. Moe had been responsible for most things: choosing the target, finding the house, all the website stuff. Larry had thought he was in charge, but it was Moe all the time. Fucking spook.
‘We could dump him,’ Larry said suddenly.
‘Where?’
‘Anywhere. We could park and walk away.’
‘And then what?’
‘… Disappear.’
Right. But nobody ever disappeared. They just went somewhere else. ‘Keep driving,’ Curly told him.
It still powered through his arm, the force of that blow. The blade had half-disappeared in Moe’s back—it looked like he’d sprouted an extra limb—and then there was blood everywhere, some of it pounding through Curly’s ears. Larry’s mouth flapped, and maybe he’d shouted and maybe he hadn’t. It was hard to tell. It probably only lasted seconds. Moe coughed what remained of his life on to the kitchen table, and all through Curly’s arm the power sang.
But cutting his head off, leaving it there … Why had he done that?
Because it was legend.
Outside, rows of shops dawdled past. Even when their names weren’t familiar, they were knock-offs of ones that were: Kansas Fried Chicken, JJL Sports. Everywhere was like everywhere else, and this was the world he’d grown up in. Things used to be different. Gregory Simmonds, the Voice of Albion, was very clear on that point. Things used to be different, and if the natural children of these islands were to enjoy their birthright, they had to be that way again.
He checked behind him. There they were on the back seat: the digicam and its tripod; the laptop and all its cables. He wasn’t sure how that worked, but it didn’t matter. Getting it on film was the main thing. He’d work out how to post it to the web later.
The axe was there too, wrapped in a blanket. In videos he’d seen, they’d used swords; whacking great blades that sliced through bone like butter. Curly had an English axe. Different strokes for different folks.
A giggle escaped him.
‘What?’
‘Nothing. Keep your eyes on the road.’
