Read Online Real Tigers by Mick Herron - Free Book Online Page A

River’s deepest prejudices.
    At River’s approach, he removed his hand from the railing. Extended it, as if expecting a handshake.
    Instead, River took him by the lapels. “Where’s Catherine?”
    â€œShe’s perfectly safe.”
    â€œNot what I asked you.” River drew him closer. “Answer carefully. Speak slowly.”
    â€œShe’s. Perfectly. Safe.”
    Making a joke of it; in vowels, if not cut glass, at least precision-tooled.
    River shook him like a stick. “The photo showed her handcuffed. With a rag in her mouth.”
    â€œTo get your attention. You’re here, aren’t you?”
    â€œOn a bridge above a busy road, yes. You want to go over that railing?”
    That earned a broader smirk. “You’re not going to tell me you don’t know how this works, are you? Ms. Standish is safe and will continue to be so provided I make a phone call within the next thirty seconds. So I rather think you’d better stand back, don’t you?”
    Over grey-suit’s shoulder, River saw a couple on the street below pause, and one of them point their way.
    He loosened his grip.
    â€œThat’s better. Much more civilised.”
    â€œDon’t push it.”
    The man produced a phone and exchanged a few brief words with someone. That done, he put the phone away and said, “So you’re River Cartwright. Unusual name.”
    â€œIt means someone who makes carts.”
    â€œMs. Standish said she trusted you. With her life , as it happens.”
    â€œWhere is she?”
    A mock-sad shake of the head. “Let’s move on to how you get her back, shall we?”
    He was enjoying this too much, River thought. As if whatever it was he wanted was secondary to the method of acquiring it.
    â€œWhat are you after?”
    â€œInformation.”
    â€œAbout what?”
    â€œYou don’t need to know about what. You simply have to steal it.”
    â€œOr?”
    â€œDo you really want me to go into details? Very well . . . ”
    He paused and River knew, without turning, that someone was behind him. It turned out to be the couple who’d pointed up at them a minute ago. They walked past, trying not to appear curious; maybe civic-minded types who wanted to be sure a violent assault wasn’t underway; maybe locals who were hoping one was. When they reached the Barbican side they looked back, but only once, and then were gone.
    â€œThe men holding her have . . . poor impulse control.”
    â€œImpulse control,” River repeated.
    â€œPoor impulse control, yes. I’d say about eighty minutes short of going critical, in fact. If you wanted to put a figure on it.”
    River reached out and smoothed down the man’s lapels where his two-fisted grip had crumpled them. “You might want to remember this later,” he said. “That you once found all this funny.”
    â€œCan’t wait. Meanwhile, you have an errand to run. And,” and he looked at his watch, “seventy-nine minutes before those men I mentioned start loosening their belts. Do you want to waste any more of them threatening me?”
    â€œWhat do you want?” River said.
    The man told him.
    Two minutes after River left the bridge at a run, Marcus Longridge and Shirley Dander emerged from the alley onto Aldersgate Street. Marcus looked one way and Shirley the other. Pedestrians, freshly released from the underground, were trooping across the road at the lights, and more were clustered round the entrance to the gym on the corner. There were buses heading in both directions, and a cyclist who, judging by his disregard for other vehicles, had an organ donor card and was in a hurry to use it; there was a woman in Council livery pushing a dustcart their way, and a man in a grey suit observing all this from the pedestrian bridge into the Barbican. But there was no sign of River Cartwright.
    â€œSee him?” Marcus asked.
    â€œNope,”