The List (Slough House, #2.5)

by Mick Herron

“Coe’s still slimy with afterbirth, so you can’t blame him for being ignorant. But Bachelor’s third-rate at best. Know him?” “Of him.”

She waved away smoke and said, “It’s a ghost network.” “There you go. All you’ve ever done for the Service is type memos and boil the kettle, and even you can work it out. I despair for this generation, I really do. Bunch of Gideons.”

Catherine stood. “Maybe we’ll put that on your gravestone.” She was halfway out the door before he said, “You’ll tell him all this, won’t you?” “Coe? Yes, I will.” “Another lame duck. Collect as many as you like, it won’t help you fly again.” “I’m under no illusions about my future, thanks.” “Just as well. It’s not clear you have one. Unless you count this place.” Catherine turned. “Thanks. And by the way, what is that round your neck?”

Lamb finished his drink, then reached for Catherine’s untouched glass. A ghost network. He didn’t especially approve—in Lamb’s lexicon, a joe was not to be trifled with; even an imaginary joe—but the old lag had doubtless done it for beer money, which left Lamb half-inclined to applaud. A ghost network didn’t require joes. All it took was a little identity theft; enough to convince your paymasters you were nurturing the real thing: verifiable names, plausibly sympathetic to whatever cause you’d hired out to.

Milked John Bachelor for office gossip and passed it off as product, explaining the lack of substance everywhere else as being early yield; a thin harvest from a too-green vine, but let it grow, let it grow

Hannah Weiss,

Clive Tremain,

And that was all it took for her to know that Clive Tremain wasn’t coming to collect her; that Clive Tremain wasn’t showing up in her life ever again. That Clive Tremain, in fact, had never existed at all.

because she had after all listened to him when he’d explained that Clive wasn’t going to be able to make it

It was a long journey to make on the off-chance, so he went on a work day, and made River Cartwright drive. “This is official business?” “It’s the secret service, Cartwright. Not everything we do is officially sanctioned.”

intention. And if a ghost network consisted of nine shut-ins and one living breathing young woman, well: a suspicious mind might think that resembled bait.

So the tenth name would come into the hands of the Service, and maybe—just maybe—its owner, already in the employ of the BND, would be adopted by MI5.

It wasn’t impossible. She had influential support, after all, even if it had to remain covert. This was the life she had chosen.

“Wir sind alle sehr stolz auf dich, Hannah,” he said. Then the train halted, the doors opened, and he was gone. We’re all very proud of you.