A rattling at the gates meant that others were arriving.
Min, Louisa and Roderick Ho strode into view, Ho clutching a laptop. Min and Louisa looked as pale as River felt, but were walking tall. Things were happening. They weren’t on the sidelines any more.
Ho said, ‘Moody really dead?’
River nodded.
Ho said, ‘Right,’ and sat on the bench opposite. He opened his machine, booted up and attached a dongle. Nobody asked what he was doing. If he’d sat and listened, or tried to kickstart a conversation, they’d have asked, but Ho diving into the web was business as usual.
‘White?’
River shook his head. ‘Too late.’
‘Not—’
‘No. Christ, no. She was just being driven away. What about Loy?’
‘No sign.’
Louisa sat next to River. Min stood. He stretched suddenly; went on to tiptoe, and extended his arms as if crucified.
‘It’s the Dogs, isn’t it?’
‘Guess so.’
‘They think we killed Jed?’
River said, ‘I think they think we killed Alan Black. How well did you two know him?’
Both shrugged.
‘He was around. But not much of a talker.’
‘Let’s face it, there are no big talkers at Slough House.’
‘He ever say why he quit?’
‘Not in my hearing. You never knew him?’
‘He was before my time,’ River said.
‘Why would they think we killed him?’
‘Because we’re being set up,’ River said. ‘Is that a car?’
It was. It slowed, parked and the engine died; all of this out of sight, behind the trees lining the cemetery’s western edge. River and Louisa got to their feet. Ho, absorbed in his screen, paid no attention. At the far end of the path, there came a clinking sound, and the noise of a bolt being shot.
‘It’s Lamb,’ said River.
‘He has a key?’
‘Well, that would explain why he wanted to meet here.’
A moment later Lamb and Catherine Standish appeared.
This was what it had come to: Curly was in a foreign country, undercover, in time of war. His own country, and he was the stranger.
They were driving past a mosque—a fucking mosque. Here in the capital of England. You couldn’t make it up.
For years, there’d been warning voices raised, but what good had it done? Sweet FA. Anyone who wants can wander in and take the country: we’ve given them the jobs, the houses, the money, and if they don’t want jobs, we give them money anyway. Welfare state? Don’t make us laugh. Whole country’s a charity case.
Plus, they were lost. Had no idea where they were. Follow the signs: North. How hard could it be?
But Larry was flaking. Coward was what it was. We were only supposed to give him a scare. Yeah, because that’s how you fight a war, right? The 7/7 killers didn’t open their rucksacks and show their bombs, say See what we could’ve done if we felt like it? They just did it. Because give them this much: they knew they were fighting a war. And you couldn’t fight a war without both sides taking part.
He hadn’t realized it was a mosque until they were right next to it, but now he could see it properly, it couldn’t ever have been anything else. It bulbed into foreign shapes. As if they’d driven off the map, and wound up the last place they wanted to be. Panic clutched him: the thought that the kid would know where they were—would pick up on the smells and sounds—and start kicking at the boot. Curly had a vision of a crowd surrounding the car; rocking it side to side. Pulling the kid free, and then what? Setting fire to them. Dragging them on to the street and stoning them. Fucking medieval, the lot of them. The reason he was doing this in the first place: give them a taste of their own medicine.
He swallowed the panic. The Paki was in the boot. No way could he know where they were.
None of them knew where they were.
‘You got any clue where you’re trying to get to?’
‘You said to get some distance, right? I’ve been—’
‘I didn’t mean bring us into bloody India.’
The mosque was behind them. The buildings everywhere were concrete, with barred windows. The only hint of green was a Poundshop’s metal shutter.
‘We need to get out of the city.’
Lamb perched on the rail around Bunyan’s tomb, eating a bacon sandwich. In his other hand he held a second sandwich, wrapped in greaseproof paper. The slow horses were gathered round him.
He said, ‘Black was recruited by Taverner. The kidnapping was a set-up. Only now it’s real, so Taverner’s looking for scapegoats.’ He paused to swallow. ‘That would be us.’
‘Why?’ Min asked.
Catherine said, ‘Well, it’s not like anyone’ll miss us.’
‘And she already had Black signed up,’ Louisa put in. ‘That’s one slow horse in the frame already.’
‘And he won’t be contradicting anyone soon,’ Lamb agreed. ‘For all we know, Taverner has a papertrail in place. Saying Black was working for Slough House, not her. Not the Park.’
‘She’s going to a hell of a lot of trouble,’ River said. ‘Okay, so there’s two dead, and it doesn’t look rosy for the kid, but ops have gone haywire before. Why’s she running scared?’
Lamb said, ‘The name Mahmud Gul mean anything?’
‘He’s a General,’ River said automatically. ‘In the Directorate for Inter-Services Intelligence. The Pakistani secret service.’
That earned him a look. ‘I bet you used to play Top Trumps with grandad. With spooks instead of racing cars.’
Ho’s laptop was cradled in front of him like an ice-cream seller’s tray. ‘Gul’s Joint Intelligence Department,’ he read. ‘Equivalent to our Second Desk.’
River was racking his memory for more details. Nothing came to mind that wasn’t painted with a broad brush. ‘He’s a bit of a hardliner.’
‘Aren’t they all?’
Ho said, ‘Back at the turn of the war, it was thought there were elements inside Inter-Services who were alerting Taliban militants to missile strikes. Gul was one of the likely suspects. Nobody was ever charged, but a Park analyst wrote him up as likely to go either way.’
‘On the other hand, he’s always supported the government in public,’ River said. ‘And he’s usually mentioned when the next Director’s being discussed.’ Which used up all he knew about Gul. ‘What’s he got to do with this?’ But before Lamb could answer, he said, ‘No. Wait. Don’t tell me.’
‘Oh great,’ Catherine said. ‘Twenty questions.’
Louisa gave her a glance. That comment didn’t sound like Catherine. But then, she didn’t much look like Catherine. Her nose was red-tipped in the chill, sure, and her cheekbones were tinted the same, but the spark in her eyes was out of the ordinary. Perhaps she was enjoying this adventure. Then Catherine’s eyes met hers, and Louisa quickly looked away.
Lamb finished his sandwich, and belched appreciatively. ‘That was bloody excellent,’ he said. ‘Five stars.’
‘Where’s open this time of morning?’ Louisa asked.
He waved vaguely in the direction of Old Street. ‘Twenty-four-hour place. It wasn’t far out of the way. Didn’t think you’d mind waiting.’
‘I hate to interrupt,’ River said. ‘Hassan Ahmed. He’s one of Gul’s?’
‘He’s not an agent.’
‘Sure?’
Lamb let his breath out slowly.
‘Okay, so—oh, Christ.’ The truth hit River with a thrill. ‘He’s family?’