Dead Lions (21 page)

Which is called The Downside Man, and faces the green, with a small car park to its left and a tiered patio round back, overlooking the woods’ curving treeline a mile distant. The Downside Man has whitewashed walls and a wooden pub-sign which once flapped in the breeze, but also came loose in high winds, so has now been fixed to its post by Tommy Moult, the village’s honorary odd-job man. Tommy’s rumoured to have a secret life, as he’s only ever seen at weekends, when he can reliably be found outside the village shop, red woollen cap pulled over his ears, selling packets of seeds from his bicycle, which he parks next to the racks of vegetables. He evidently regards this as the linchpin of his commercial enterprise, because every Saturday morning, winter or summer, there he is; networking more than selling, perhaps, because few locals pass without exchanging words.

The shop where he stands is back the way we came, on the corner facing St Johnno’s. To get there from the pub is to pass, on the left, a row of stone cottages, interrupted by the old manor house, now converted into flats. On the right are larger, newer houses, yet to bed down into the landscape; they’re too clean, too neatly brushed. In the gaps between them, though, views of the mile-distant treeline can still be enjoyed, and if the occasional
presence of a cement mixer indicates that some of those gaps were intended to sprout houses of their own, there’s little other sign of building activity. That all came to a halt years back. It might start up again once things improve, but the financial crisis remains as ill-defined as an unbuilt house; you can sketch its possible shape on the air, but there’s no touching its walls to know its limits. And then the road bends again, between shop and church, St John of the Cross: thirteenth century and pretty as a postcard, it has a lych-gate and a well-tended graveyard, whose oldest occupants once inhabited the manor house, and who presumably rolled over when its conversion into flats took place. But services at St Johnno’s are now on a fortnightly basis; far more reliable is the village shop, open eight till ten daily, though this bears no resemblance to the upmarket boutiques of the prettier villages, its shelves stacked high with stuff people need rather than want: tinned foods, dairy foods, frozen foods; sacks of charcoal, bags of kitty litter, breezeblocks of toilet rolls; shampoos, soaps and toothpastes; fridgefulls of lager and wine; cartons of juice and bottles of milk.

For many locals, the shop is as far as they need to go on any pedestrian expedition; the road, though, pootles on, passing a few more raggle-taggle cottages before dwindling into a minor country highway, hedged either side and badly potholed. A mile further on, it reaches the MoD range—when the American base upped sticks the Ministry of Defence stepped in, and land once leased to friendly aircraft is now home to friendly fire. When red flags fly, there’s no rambling across the fields south-east of Upshott; and sometimes, after dark, great balls of light drop from the sky, illuminating the ranges for night practice. Adjoining the road, separated from it by an eight-foot wire mesh fence, lies the last remaining airstrip, at one end of which sit, like properties on a Monopoly board, a hangar and a clubhouse. These see civilian activity several evenings a week, and most weekend mornings
during spring and summer are the launchpad for a single-engined plane, which putters over Upshott before disappearing into the open skies, though so far, it’s always returned.

A quiet place, then—that gunfire notwithstanding. Sleepy, even, though in fact it wakes early by and large, as most of those who live there work elsewhere, and tend to be on the road by eight. So perhaps a better word would be
harmless
—as Jackson Lamb pointed out, it’s hardly Helmand Province.

Though even harmless villages suffer screams in the afternoon.

“Jesus!” River
screamed—too late. Full-body armour wouldn’t have helped him. Prayer was all he had, and then not even that: just prayer’s echo, bouncing around his thoughtless skull as his body went into spasm, and then again, and then stopped, or seemed to stop, and his eyes relaxed behind their tight-shut lids, and the darkness he was locked in became softer.

After a while, his companion said, “Blimey,” but it didn’t sound like a good blimey. Rolling off him, she pulled the sheet up to her shoulders. River lay still, heartbeat returning to normal, skin damp—he’d lasted long enough to work up a sweat.

But doubted he’d be raising that in mitigation.

It was mid-afternoon, a Tuesday, River’s third week in Upshott, and he lay in the curtain-darkened bedroom of one of the new-builds on the northern rise, a house rented under his cover name, Jonathan Walker. Jonathan Walker was a writer. Why else would anyone come to Upshott, out of season? Even if Upshott had a season. So Jonathan Walker wrote thrillers, and had an Amazon entry to prove it,
Critical Mass
, whose non-existence hadn’t saved it from a one-star review. He was currently working on a novel set on a US military base in the eighties. Hence Upshott, out of season.

His companion said, “I used to have a T-shirt.
Boys wanted—no experience necessary
. Careful what you wish for, eh?”

“Sorry,” he said. “It’s been a while.”

“Yeah, I read your body language.”

Her name was Kelly Tropper, and she tended bar at The Downside Man: she was early twenties, petite, flat-chested, with crow-coloured hair; a string of adjectives River would have found dispiritingly inadequate if he really were a writer. She also had creamy, unfreckled skin, a curiously flattened nose, which gave her the appearance of pressing up against a pane of glass, and had described herself in his hearing as a cynic. She wrapped her leg round his. “Not falling asleep now, are you?” Her hand explored him. “Hmm. Not totally lifeless. Still need a few minutes, though.”

“Which we could fill with conversation.”

“You sure you’re not a girl? No, wait. You came too fast to be a girl.”

“Let’s keep that between us, shall we?”

“Depends how you make out in round two. That village notice board’s not just for show.” She moved her leg. “Celia Morden pinned a review of Jez Bradley there once. She said it wasn’t her, but everyone knew.” She laughed. “Don’t get that in your big city London, do you?”

“No, but we have this thing called the Internet. On which similar things happen, I’m told.” Which earned him a nip on the arm. She had teeth. He said, “Were you born here?”

“Ooh, getting personal?”

“Well, not if it’s classified.”

She nipped him again, a little less sharply. “My folks moved here when I was two. Wanted to get out of London. Dad commuted for a while, then joined a practice in Burford.”

“Not farming stock, then.”

“Hardly. Mostly urban refugees round here. But we treat strangers nicely, don’t you think?” She stroked him again.

“And do you get many of those?”

She tightened her grip. “Meaning?”

“I was just wondering what kind of … turnover the village sees.”

“Hmmm.” She resumed stroking. “That better be all you meant. And it still makes you sound like an estate agent.”

“Background,” he improvised. “For the book. You know, how quiet it is now the base has gone.”

“The base went years ago.”

“Still …”

“Well, it’s pretty dead. But getting livelier.” Her eyes flashed. They were startlingly green, River thought. He was hoping she was going to come up with a sudden memory, suppressed till now: a bald man who appeared a few weeks ago; a name, an address … Three weeks, and he’d yet to catch a sniff of Mr. B. He’d become an accepted feature at The Downside Man, and locals greeted him by name; he knew who lived where and which houses were empty. But of Mr. B he’d glimpsed not hair nor hide, a silly phrase given his naked dome, but it was hard to concentrate with Kelly doing what she was doing with her fingers, and now—“That’s more like it,” she said slowly—with her lips, and then River lost his train of thought entirely, and instead of being an agent in the field he was under the covers with a lovely young woman, who deserved a better accounting than he’d managed earlier.

Happily, this time he provided it.

It was
the day before the summit, and Arkady Pashkin had arrived. He was in the Ambassador on Park Lane. The traffic outside was an angry mess, a fistfight continued by other means; in the lobby, there was only the trickling of water from a small fountain, and a polite murmur from the reception desk, whose guardians had been drawn from the pages of
Vogue
. Wealth had once fascinated Louisa Guy, the same way the flight of birds
had: the attempt to comprehend something eternally out of reach could be dizzying. But three weeks since Min’s death, she observed how the rich live as a series of security details. Shots fired outside would reach the lobby as corks being popped. Someone mown down by a car would be lost entirely; wouldn’t be countenanced by the purified air.

Behind her, Marcus Longridge said, “Cool.”

Marcus and Louisa had been paired. She didn’t like it, but it was part of a deal she’d lately made. This deal was apparently with the Service, or more particularly Spider Webb, but in fact was one she’d made with reality. The hard part was not letting on how much she’d been prepared to give away. What she’d wanted was to stay on the job; specifically, on the assignment she and Min had been handed. What she’d been prepared to give away was everything.

Pashkin was in the penthouse. Why would anyone imagine otherwise? The lift made less noise than Marcus’s breathing, and its doors opened straight into the suite, where Piotr and Kyril waited, the former smiling. He shook hands with Marcus, and said to Louisa, “It’s good to see you again. I was sorry to hear about your colleague.”

She nodded.

Kyril remained by the lift while Piotr led them across the large pale room, which was thickly carpeted and smelt of spring flowers. Louisa wondered if they pumped scent in through vents. Pashkin rose from an armchair at their approach. “Welcome,” he said. “You’re the Energy people.”

“Louisa Guy,” Louisa said.

“Marcus Longridge,” Marcus added.

Pashkin was in his mid-fifties, and resembled a British actor she couldn’t put a name to. Of average height but broad-shouldered, he had thick black hair left deliberately vague; sleepy eyes under heavy brows. There was more hair on his chest, easily
visible beneath an open-necked white shirt, which was tucked into dark-blue jeans. “Coffee? Tea?” He raised an eyebrow at Piotr, who was hovering. Had she not known him for a goon, Louisa would have assumed him a butler, or the Russian equivalent. A valet. A man’s man.

“Nothing for me.”

“We’re fine. Really.”

They settled on easy chairs arranged round a rug that looked a hundred years old, but in a good way.

“So,” Arkady Pashkin said. “Everything is ready for tomorrow, yes?”

He was addressing them both, but speaking to Louisa. That was apparent.

And fine by her.

Because on that bad bad night when Min Harper had died, Louisa had felt she’d fallen through a trapdoor; had suffered that internal collapse you get when the floor disappears, and you’ve no idea how far away the ground is. It should have surprised her afterwards, how swiftly she’d assimilated the fact of Min’s death; as if, all this time, she’d been waiting for the other shoe to drop. But nothing surprised her any more. It was all just information. The sun rose, the clock spun, and she conformed to their established pattern. It was information. A new routine.

Except, ever since, she’d had an ache at the hinge of her jaw; intermittently, too, her mouth would flood with saliva, repeatedly, for minutes at a time. It was as if she were weeping from the wrong orifice. And when she lay in the dark, she feared that if she fell asleep her body would forget to breathe, and she’d die too. Some nights she’d have welcomed this. But on most she clung to the deal instead.

It was the deal that stopped her falling further, or at least promised a survivable landing. The deal was the branch growing
out of the cliffside; the open-topped truck parked below, bearing a fresh load from the pillow factory. It was in Regent’s Park that it had come to life. This was four days after Min’s death, and the weather had perked up, as if in consolation. There were interview suites on the Park’s upper floors where they enjoyed watercooler moments rather than waterboarding incidents, and this one had comfortable seating, and framed posters from classic movies on the walls. It had been kitted out since Louisa had last been here, and even if everything else in her life had felt normal would still have rung strange. Like returning to school and finding they’d turned the sixth form into an aromatherapy centre.

James Webb did sympathy like he’d studied the textbook. “I’m sorry for your loss.” An American textbook. “Min was a fine colleague. We’ll all miss him.”

She said, “If he was that fine, he’d not have been at Slough House, would he?”

“Well—”

“Or gone cycling through heavy traffic pissed. In the rain.”

“You’re angry with him.” He pursed his lips. “Have you talked to anyone? That can … help.”

What would help more would be to plant her fist in the middle of that mouth. But she’d learned the hard way what others expect from grief, so she lied: “Yes. I have.”

“And taken leave?”

“As much as I need.”

Which had been a day.

His gaze turned towards the windows. These overlooked the park across the road, and because it was mid-morning there was a lot of pre-school traffic out there: women, prams, toddlers exploring grass verges. A car backfired and a flock of pigeons erupted, swam a figure eight through the air, and resettled on the lawn.

“I don’t mean to sound insensitive,” he said, “but I have to ask. Are you okay to continue the assignment?”

He had lowered his voice. This was theoretically a griefmeeting, but they were alone, and she’d known he’d bring up the Needle job.

“Yes,” she said.

“Because I can—”

“I’m fine. Angry, okay, I’m angry with him. It was a stupid thing to do, and he ended up—well, he died. So yes. Angry. But I can still do my job. I need to do my job.”