Dead Lions (12 page)

Lamb ran a thumb down a ream of stiff paper stacked on the nearest shelf, then slid the topmost sheet off the pile. A diploma:
Advanced Studies
, it read,
specialising in
, with three rows of dotted lines underneath. Board-certified, a little rosette-shaped logo promised, without going into detail about which board, or how certified.

Katinsky said, “We get the odd dissatisfied pupil, sure. But you consider the source, yes? The other day there’s a letter, the stupid bastard can’t spell bastard, that’s how stupid the bastard is. I’m supposed to care what he thinks?”

“I’d have thought teaching the bastards to spell would come within your remit,” Lamb said.

“So long as they sign the cheques,” Katinsky said. “Won’t Demetrio be wondering where you are?”

“He’ll be reading the paper. Picking his nose. You know Demetrio.”

“But not as well as you.”

“Probably not.”

“Which is strange, as I’m the one who made him up. Have you finished playing games yet, Jackson Lamb? And if you have, would you mind telling me what you want?

Much earlier
the pale-blue sky had been cross-hatched by contrails, and Shirley Dander was deep in unreclaimed countryside; sheep, fields, and an unignorable smell of shit. There were occasional rows of roadside cottages; one with a peacock strutting outside, for Christ’s sake. Shirley stared as it swept across the road and round a hedge. Chickens, maybe, but a peacock? It was like a Richard Curtis movie.

None of which got her there faster, but at least she knew where she was going. Mr. B—Jackson Lamb’s bald man—had stepped off the delayed Worcester train at Moreton-in-Marsh, which turned out larger than its name suggested. It had a reasonably substantial shopping drag, at any rate, including some outlets Shirley wouldn’t have minded browsing. They weren’t open, though. It wasn’t long past seven. Shirley had been up all night.

The station boasted a car park and a space for taxis, currently vacant. Shirley sat under an awning while morning activity unfolded: citygoers were dropped off by tracksuited spouses, looking ever-so-harassed behind the wheels of their 4x4s; bolder types arrived on bikes which they locked to the nearby rack, or folded into complicated quadrilaterals. Some saddoes even turned up on foot. A taxi arrived, and disgorged a significant blonde. Shirley watched as she smiled and paid and tipped and smiled and left, then slipped into the back seat before the driver knew she was there.

“Miss your train?”

“Not even a bit,” she told him. “Do you just do mornings, or do you take the evening shift too?”

And because a suffering look was now unfolding across his wide country features, she snapped her fingers, propelling a ten pound note from its hiding place in her watch’s wristband; a trick she pulled on waiters, when they were worth the bother.

“Last week, for instance. Were you picking up in the evenings last week?”

“Boyfriend trouble, is it?” he asked.

“Do I look like boyfriends give me trouble?”

He reached a hand out and she dropped the note into it. Then he drove them away from the neat little station just as another taxi arrived to take his place, and gave Shirley Dander a quick tour of the village while she pumped him for info on local taxi services.

A large
, very large, woman lumbered past: she didn’t look more than early twenties, but had amassed at least a stone for each year. She snagged Louisa’s attention. Gravitational pull, probably. “What must that be like?”

They were sitting on a stone plinth wrapped round a column, takeaway coffees in hand. Around them was a constant stream of people: heading into or out of Liverpool Street Station; disappearing round corners, or into shops and office blocks.

“Not just the effort of moving,” she went on. “The whole shebang. How’d you get a man when you’re shaped like that?”

“You know what they say,” Min said. “Anyone with one of those can always lay their hands on one of these.”

His head movement indicated the corresponding parts of their bodies he meant.

“I wouldn’t be too sure. I know some pretty lonely women.”

“Oh, well, if you’re gunna have standards …”

Of the people heading by, none showed interest in them. Somebody would, sooner or later: Spider Webb had set a meeting up.

“There’s two of them,” he’d said. “Kyril and Piotr, they’re called.”

“Are they Russian?” Min had asked.

“How will we know them?” Louisa said hurriedly.

“Oh, you’ll know them,” Webb said. “Pashkin doesn’t get here for another couple of weeks. You can talk through the itinerary with this pair. They’ve been told you’re from the Department of Energy, for what that’s worth. Let them know to keep their feet off the furniture, but don’t go putting collars on them. Never wise to stir up the gorillas.”

“Gorillas?” Min had asked.

“They’re on the big side,” Webb admitted. “They’re goons, what did you think? He’d have a pair of mini-mes?”

“How come they’re here already?” Louisa had wanted to know.

But Webb had no information. “He’s rich. Not Rolls Royce rich—moonshot rich. If he wants his cushions plumped up weeks in advance, that’s his privilege.”

Gorillas
, then, was already in Min’s mind, but it would have popped up anyway, because they approached now like a pair of silverbacks. Both were broad-shouldered, and walked in a way that suggested their suits were chafing. One, who would turn out to be Piotr, had a tennis-ball fuzz of grey across his scalp. Kyril was darker and shaggier.

“This will be them,” Louisa said.

Really? You think? Not stupid enough to say that out loud, Min stood, sucked his gut in and waited.

The pair reached them and the one who was Piotr said, “You’re with Mr. Webb, right?” His voice was low and unmistakably eastern European, but he spoke fluently. Introductions made, the pair sat. Louisa waved for more coffee from the nearby booth. It might have been pleasant; four people sitting down to business in a capital city, mid-morning; coffee on the way, and the possibility of sandwiches later. You couldn’t throw a stone from here without hitting someone on their way to such a meeting; but it would have been trickier, Min hoped, to target one where half those convened were carrying guns.

“Mr. Pashkin gets here week after next?” Louisa asked.

“He’s flying in,” Piotr agreed. “He’s in Moscow right now.”

Kyril, it seemed, didn’t talk much.

“Well, maybe we should run through some ground rules before he gets here. Just so we all know where we stand.”

Piotr gave her a serious look. “We’re professionals,” he said. “Your turf, sure. There’s no problem. You tell us the rules. We keep to them as best we can.”

After a brief moment in which he wondered whether he’d ever speak another language well enough to say
fuck you
quite so politely in it, Min said, “Yeah, well, any rules you’re not sure about, let us know. I’ll have someone translate.”

Louisa flashed him the eyebrow equivalent of a kick in the shins, and said, “It’s pretty basic stuff. Like you say, our turf. And we really can’t have you walking round with guns. I’m sure you understand that.”

Piotr was politeness itself. “Guns?”

“Like those you’re carrying now.”

Piotr said something to Kyril in, Min assumed, Russian. Kyril said something back. Then Piotr said, “No, really. Why would we be carrying guns?”

“It’s you I’m worried about. London’s more savvy than it used to be. You’re one phone call away from an armed response.”

“Ah, an armed response. Yes. London has a reputation for that.”

Oh, here we go, thought Min. You shoot one plumber.

“But I assure you,” Piotr continued, “nobody’s going to mistake us for terrorists.”

“Well, if they do,” Louisa said, “it’s Mr. Harper and I who’ll have to clear up the mess. It’s all right for you. You’ll be dead. But we’ll really be in the shit.”

The look Piotr gave her was intense and blue-eyed and utterly humourless. And then the clouds cleared, and he showed big white teeth more American than Russian. “We wouldn’t want
that, would we?” he boomed. He turned to Kyril and rabbited on for a bit. Min counted three thick sentences. Kyril laughed too, making a noise like a bag of marbles. When he’d finished, he produced an unbranded packet of cigarettes: stubby, filterless, lethal. A health warning would have been like subtitles on a porn film. Utterly beside the point.

Min shook his head and swallowed his last mouthful of coffee. It wasn’t a warm day but was bright and clear, and had felt fresh enough when he’d cycled into work. Cycling was a new thing for Min; something to cancel out the smoking. Accepting one of Kyril’s cigarettes in front of Louisa would have been tantamount to confessing he had no plans for a long-term future.

Louisa said, “So we’re agreed.”

Piotr gave an expansive shrug, taking in not only Louisa’s question but the general surroundings, the sky above, the whole of goddamn London. “No guns,” he said.

“We can get down to business, then?”

He gave a gracious nod.

Nobody took notes. They talked dates and places: when Pashkin was due, what transport he’d be using (“Car,” said Kyril at this point. That was the one word of English he came up with. “Car.”). And they talked about the Needle, where the meeting would be taking place.

“You’ve seen it, obviously,” Louisa said.

“Of course.”

It was over her shoulder, in fact. Its tip could be seen from where they sat.

“It’s … cool.”

“It is.”

His eyes crinkled as he smiled.

Jesus, thought Min. He’s coming on to her.

“Where are you staying?” Min asked.

Piotr turned to him politely. “I beg your pardon?”

“Where are you staying?”

“The Ambassador. On Hyde Park.”

“Already?”

Piotr looked puzzled.

“I mean,” Min said, “I can see your boss might want to stay there. But I’m surprised he’s checked you two in a fortnight before he arrives.”

Kyril was watching him with a mildly interested expression. He understands every word I’m saying, thought Min.

Louisa said, “Good boss to have. Can’t see ours doing that.”

“He’s okay,” Piotr said. “But no, we’re not actually there yet.”

He nodded at Min. “I misunderstood. I thought you meant where we’ll be later. Once Mr. Pashkin arrives.”

Course you did, thought Min. “So you’re … where?”

“Near Piccadilly. Off Shaftesbury Avenue. What’s its name again?”

He rattled off some more chunky vocabulary at Kyril, who grunted back. “The Excelsior,” he said. “Excalibur? Something like that. Forgive me, I’m stupid with names.” His contrition was aimed exclusively at Louisa. “Maybe I should call you later. Confirm the name.”

“Good idea,” she said. “We’d hate you to get lost.” Fishing a card from her bag, she handed it to him.

And it seemed they were done, because the Russians were standing, offering their hands. Piotr held onto Louisa’s while saying, “This could be a good thing. An oil deal between our nations. Good for us, good for you.”

“And wonderful for the environment,” Min added.

Piotr laughed, without letting go of Louisa’s hand. “You,” he said. “I like you. You’re funny.”

Louisa freed herself. “You’ll let us know your hotel.”

“Of course. We can get a taxi from here?”

“That way.”

Kyril nodded at Min very seriously, and the pair rolled off. People heading their way, Min noted, swerved round them. Louisa said something, but he didn’t catch what. “Take this.” Slipping his jacket off, he hurled it at her.

“Min?”

“Later,” he called, but it wasn’t likely she heard him; he was already twenty yards away.

It cost
her a second tenner, but by 7:15 that morning Shirley Dander had had numbers for all the station’s pick-up drivers, by 7:30 had deeply annoyed three of them, and by 7:40 was talking to a fourth, who’d been working the previous Tuesday evening, the night the westbound trains were late. And yes, he’d picked up a bald guy, and no he wasn’t a regular. And what was this, some kind of wind-up?

It’s an opportunity, Shirley told him. She’d buy him breakfast.

She was still jazzed from last night’s raid on DataLok, where the train company’s onboard-CCTV footage was stored. Subduing the infant on security hadn’t proved taxing, and chances were the morning shift would have unwrapped him by now: the kid had thought she was going to kill him. Finding the right files had taken longer, but the system wasn’t a closed book, not after four years at Regent’s Park Comms, and she’d uploaded everything and more to a website she’d created yesterday and had since taken down. Then she’d gone home, woken her lover, and committed a borderline act of rape. Lover had justifiably collapsed afterwards, but Shirley had taken a twist of coke then gone piledriving through the data, decoding the filing system in minutes: date, time, train number, destination, carriage. Recording was on, she estimated, a seven-second stutter, though that might have been the coke talking. The thought inspired a second hit: if this was going to take all night, she’d need all the help she could get.

It had taken a shade over two hours.