London Rules: The fifth book in the series behind SLOW HORSES, an Apple Original

Description: London Rules by Mick Herron THE FIFTH BOOK IN THE SERIES BEHIND SLOW HORSES, AN APPLE ORIGINAL SERIES NOW STREAMING ON APPLE TV+ Ian Fleming. John le Carré. Len Deighton. Mick Herron. The brilliant plotting of Herrons twice CWA Dagger Award-winning Slough House series of spy novels is matched only by his storytelling gift and an ear for viciously funny political satire. "Mick Herron is the John le Carré of our generation."—Val McDermidAt MI5 headquarters Regents Park, First Desk Claude Whelan is learning the ropes the hard way. Tasked with protecting a beleaguered prime minister, hes facing attack from all directions: from the showboating MP who orchestrated the Brexit vote, and now has his sights set on Number Ten; from the showboats wife, a tabloid columnist, whos crucifying Whelan in print; from the PMs favorite Muslim, whos about to be elected mayor of the West Midlands, despite the dark secret hes hiding; and especially from his own deputy, Lady Di Taverner, whos alert for Claudes every stumble. Meanwhile, the countrys being rocked by an apparently random string of terror attacks. Over at Slough House, the MI5 satellite office for outcast and demoted spies, the agents are struggling with personal problems: repressed grief, various addictions, retail paralysis, and the nagging suspicion that their newest colleague is a psychopath. Plus someone is trying to kill Roddy Ho. But collectively, theyre about to rediscover their greatest strength—that of making a bad situation much, much worse. Its a good thing Jackson Lamb knows the rules. Because those things arent going to break themselves. FORMAT Paperback LANGUAGE English CONDITION Brand New Author Biography Mick Herron is a British novelist and short-story writer who was born in Newcastle and studied English at Oxford. He is the author of six books in the Slough House series (Slow Horses, Dead Lions, Real Tigers, Spook Street, London Rules, and the novella The List) and four Oxford mysteries (Down Cemetery Road, The Last Voice You Hear, Why We Die, and Smoke and Whispers), as well as the standalone novels Reconstruction, Nobody Walks, and This Is What Happened. His work has won the CWA Gold Dagger for Best Crime Novel, the Steel Dagger for Best Thriller, and the Ellery Queen Readers Award, and been nominated for the Macavity, Barry, Shamus, and Theakstons Novel of the Year Awards. He currently lives in Oxford and writes full-time. Review Praise for London RulesA Times (UK) 100 Best Crime Titles Since 1945Shortlisted for the CWA Gold DaggerShortlisted for the CWA Ian Fleming Steel DaggerAn Evening Standard Best Crime Novel of the YearA Daily Mail Best Book of the YearAn Irish Times Best Book of the YearShortlisted for the Theakstons Old Peculier Crime Novel of the Year "Mick Herron is the John le Carré of our generation." —Val McDermid "Herron cleverly spins the templates of the spy thriller, and his style can bite with the wit of an Evelyn Waugh or Kingsley Amis." —Tom Nolan, The Wall Street Journal "[Herron] really is funny and his cynicism is belied, here and there, by flashes of the mingled tenderness and anger that seem to define Britains post-Brexit self-reflections." —Charles Finch, USA Today "Scathingly funny." —Newsweek "Slough House, in this winning series, is where incompetent or disgraced British spies spend their days on meaningless busywork. That is, unless they stumble into genuine espionage. Herron is a subtle stylist, and he strikes a perfect balance of big-hearted humor and thrilling spy stuff." —The Seattle Times "Hilarious and suspenseful . . . Sharper than most espionage fiction being written today and manages to stay uncannily contemporary." —St. Louis Post-Dispatch "The new spy master . . . If Slough House on Aldersgate Street EC1 really existed it would already rival the Old Curiosity Shop on Portsmouth Street WC2 as a landmark of literary London . . . Herron has read his Carl Hiaasen as well as his Charles Dickens. The coruscating cynicism and cartoon comedy do not detract from the seriousness of the message: Hate crime pollutes the soul, but only the souls of those who commit it." —Evening Standard "The new king of the spy thriller." —Mail on Sunday "The best modern British spy series." —Daily Express "Herrons comic brilliance should not overshadow the fact that his books are frequently thrilling, often thought-provoking, and sometimes moving and even inspiring. Reading one of Herrons worst books would be the highlight of my month and London Rules is one of his best." —Sunday Express "His character [Jackson Lamb] is a modern Falstaff . . . Hes [Herron] been called the heir to Len Deighton—and Mick Herrons latest mordantly funny espionage novel only backs that up." —Sunday Times "London Rules confirms Mick Herron as the greatest comic writer of spy fiction in the English language, and possibly all crime fiction." —The Times "Superb." —Irish Times "Sharper, funnier and more distorted than ever." —Literary Review "This is modern British spy fiction at its brilliant best; taut, tense, quirky, funny and thrilling." —Choice "Le Carré looks sugar-coated next to the acid Slough House novels . . . As a master of wit, satire, insight and that very English trick of disguising heartfelt writing as detached irony before launching a surprise assault on the readers emotions, Herron is difficult to overpraise." —Daily Telegraph "Herron adeptly negotiates the rules of satire and the laws of libel to create fictional public figures who simultaneously hit more than one real-life bullseye . . . Stylistically, Herrons narrative voice swoops from the high to the low but its the dialogue that zings: the screenwriters of the inevitable TV version wont have to change much . . . Herron is a very funny writer, but also a serious plotter." —The Guardian "A terrorist attack in Derbyshire kills 12, leading to a difficult manhunt with twists and turns in a strong plot combining espionage, bureaucracy and the power of a communitys response to a terrorist attack." —The Gainesville Sun "Herrons sharp wit makes the Slough House novels something special, his team of maverick spies bringing a delightful, freewheeling edge to the genre. This is prime spy fiction with more than a touch of wry." —Booklist, Starred Review "The most remarkable and mesmerizing series of novels, set mostly and explicitly in London, to have appeared in years. It is hypnotically fascinating, absolutely contemporary, cynical and hopeful." —The Arts Desk "Jackson Lamb—subtle of brain but outrageously gross in almost every other way—still rules over his band of misfit agents in this fifth title in Herrons hilarious take on the contemporary spy thriller. Based at decrepit Slough House, dumping ground for the security services awkward squad, his team get the jump on their disdainful colleagues when a weird terrorist plot starts to play out." —Sunday Times Crime Club "Herron shows once again that the United Kingdoms intelligence community is every bit as dysfunctional and alarmingly funny as Bill James cops and robbers." —Kirkus Reviews "Superlative . . . Heady stuff for a powerful thriller cleverly disguised as entertainment." —Open Letters Monthly "London Rules is often so funny that you ought to avoid reading it on public transport, where solitary giggling is looked at with some disquiet." —Reviewing the Evidence"This blackly humorous fifth in the series is a deserved finalist for the 2018 Gold and Steel Dagger Awards." —Stop, Youre Killing Me! "London Rules may be the best Jackson Lamb thriller yet, and thats saying something, considering how brilliant the previous ones are." —Mark Billingham, author of the internationally bestselling Tom Thorne novels "London Rules takes the Jackson Lamb series to new levels of nerve-shredding tension, leavened as always with moments of eye-watering hilarity—often on the same page." —Christopher Brookmyre, author of the Jack Parlabane thrillers Praise for CWA Gold & Steel Dagger Winner Mick Herron "Terrific spy novel . . . Sublime dialogue, frictionless plotting." —Ian Rankin, bestselling author of the Inspector Rebus series"[Herrons] cleverly plotted page-turners are driven by dialogue that bristles with one-liners. Much of the humor comes from Herrons sharp eye for the way bureaucracies, whether corporate or clandestine, function and malfunction. The world of Slough House is closer to "The Office" than to 007."—The Associated Press"The sharpest spy fiction since John le Carré."—NPRs Fresh Air "Compulsively readable, tightly plotted."—Los Angeles Times"Mick Herron never tells a suspense story in the expected way . . . In Herrons book, there is no hiding under the desk." "The New York Times Book Review "Stylish and engaging." "The Washington Post "Heroic struggles, less-heroic failures and a shoot-out-cum-heist . . . with no let-up in the page-turning throughout." —Esquire "A funny, stylish, satirical, gripping story . . . Memorably seedy characters, sharp dialogue, complex plot. Im hooked." —The Guardian "This is blackly funny, tense and worryingly plausible. The most enjoyable British spy novel in years." —Mail on Sunday "[A] deliciously sleazy and sophisticated spy thriller." —The Irish Times "Herron combines the thoughtful characterizations of John le Carré, the humor of Len Deightons Harry Palmer books and the puzzlebox plots of Brian Freemantle into an altogether new and satisfying spy concoction." —Spywrite (website) Review Quote Praise for London Rules Shortlisted for the 2018 Crime Writers Association Gold Dagger Shortlisted for the 2018 Crime Writers Association Ian Flemming Steel Dagger "Mick Herron is the John le Carr Excerpt from Book The killers arrived in a sand-coloured jeep, and made short work of the village. There were five of them and they wore mismatched military gear, two opting for black and the others for piebald variations. Neckerchiefs covered the lower half of their faces, sunglasses the upper, and their feet were encased in heavy boots, as if theyd crossed the surrounding hills the hard way. From their belts hung sundry items of battleground kit. As the first emerged from the vehicle he tossed a water bottle onto the seat behind him, an action replicated in miniature in his aviator lenses. It was approaching noon, and the sun was as white as the locals had known it. Somewhere nearby, water tumbled over stones. The last time trouble had called here, it had come bearing swords. Out of the car, by the side of the road, the men stretched and spat. They didnt talk. They seemed in no hurry, but at the same time were focused on what they were doing. This was part of the operation: arrive, limber up, regain flexibility. They had driven a long way in the heat. No sense starting before they were in tune with their limbs and could trust their reflexes. It didnt matter that they were attracting attention, because nobody watching could alter what was to happen. Forewarned would not mean forearmed. All the villagers had were sticks. One of these--an ancient thing bearing many of the characteristics of its parent tree, being knobbled and imprecise, sturdy and reliable--was leaned on by an elderly man whose weathered looks declared him farming stock. But somewhere in his history, perhaps, lurked a memory of war, for of all those watching the visitors perform their callisthenics he alone seemed to understand their intent, and into his eyes, already a little tearful from the sunshine, came both fear and a kind of resignation, as if he had always known that this, or something like it, would rear up and swallow him. Not far away, two women broke off from conversation. One held a cloth bag. The others hands moved slowly towards her mouth. A barefoot boy wandered through a doorway into sunlight, his features crumpling in the glare. In the near distance a chain rattled as a dog tested its limits. Inside a makeshift coop, its mesh and wooden struts a patchwork of recycled materials, a chicken squatted to lay an egg no one would ever collect. From the back of their jeep the men fetched weapons, sleek and black and awful. The last ordinary noise was the one the old man made when he dropped his stick. As he did so his lips moved, but no sound emerged. And then it began. From afar, it might have been fireworks. In the surrounding hills birds took to the air in a frightened rattle, while in the village itself cats and dogs leaped for cover. Some bullets went wild, sprayed in indiscriminate loops and skirls, as if in imitation of a local dance; the chicken coop was blasted to splinters, and scars were chipped into stones that had stood unblemished for centuries. But others found their mark. The old man followed his stick to the ground, and the two women were hurled in opposite directions, thrown apart by nodules of lead that weighed less than their fingers. The barefoot boy tried to run. In the hillsides were tunnels carved into rock, and given time he might have found his way there, waited in the darkness until the killers had gone, but this possibility was blasted out of existence by a bullet that caught him in the neck, sending him cartwheeling down the short slope to the river, which was little more than a trickle today. The villagers caught in the open were scattering now, running into the fields, seeking shelter behind walls and in ditches; even those who hadnt seen what was happening had caught the fear, for catastrophe is its own herald, trumpeting its arrival to early birds and stragglers alike. It has a certain smell, a certain pitch. It sends mothers shrieking for their young, the old looking for God. And two minutes later it was over, and the killers left. The jeep, which had idled throughout the brief carnage, spat stones as it accelerated away, and for a short while there was stillness. The sound of the departing engine folded into the landscape and was lost. A buzzard mewed overhead. Closer to home a gurgle sounded in a ruined throat, as someone struggled with a new language, whose first words were their last. And behind that, and then above it, and soon all around it, grew the screams of the survivors, for whom all familiar life was over, just as it was for the dead. Within hours trucks would come bearing more men with guns, this time trained outwards, on the surrounding hillsides. Helicopters would land, disgorging doctors and military personnel, and others would fly overhead, crisscrossing the sky in orchestrated rage, while TV cameras pointed and blamed. On the streets shrouds would cover the fallen, and newly loosed chickens would wander by the river, pecking in the dirt. A bell would ring, or at least, people would remember it ringing. It might have been in their minds. But what was certain was that there would still be, above the buzzing helicopters, a sky whose blue remained somehow unbroken, and a distant buzzard mewing, and long shadows cast by the stunned Derbyshire hills. PART ONE COOL CATS In some parts of the world dawn arrives with rosy fingers, to smoothe away the creases left by night. But on Aldersgate Street, in the London borough of Finsbury, it comes wearing safecrackers gloves, so as not to leave prints on windowsills and doorknobs; it squints through keyholes, sizes up locks and generally cases the joint ahead of approaching day. Dawn specialises in unswept corners and undusted surfaces, in the nooks and chambers day rarely sees, because day is all business appointments and things being in the right place, while its younger sisters role is to creep about in the breaking gloom, never sure of what it might find there. Its one thing casting light on a subject. Its another expecting it to shine. So when dawn reaches Slough House--a scruffy building whose ground floor is divided between an ailing Chinese restaurant and a desperate newsagents, and whose front door, made filthy by time and weather, never opens--it enters by the burglars route, via the rooftops opposite, and its first port of call is Jackson Lambs office, this being on the uppermost storey. Here it finds its only working rival a standard lamp atop a pile of telephone directories, which have so long served this purpose they have moulded together, their damp covers bonding in involuntary alliance. The room is cramped and furtive, like a kennel, and its overpowering theme is neglect. Psychopaths are said to decorate their walls with crazy writing, the loops and whorls of their infinite equations an attempt at cracking the code their life is hostage to. Lamb prefers his walls to do their own talking, and they have cooperated to the extent that the cracks in their plasterwork, their mildew stains, have here and there conspired to produce something that might amount to an actual script--a scrawled observation, perhaps--but all too quickly any sense these marks contain blurs and fades, as if they were something a moving finger had writ before deciding, contrary to the wisdom of ages, to rub out again. Lambs is not a room to linger in, and dawn, anyway, never tarries long. In the office opposite, it finds less to disturb it. Here order has prevailed, and there is a quiet efficiency about the way in which folders have been stacked, their edges squared off in alignment with the desktop, and the ribbons binding them tied in bows of equal length; about the emptiness of the wastepaper basket, and the dust-free surfaces of the well-mannered shelves. There is a stillness here out of keeping with Slough House, and if one were to seesaw between these two rooms, the bossmans lair and Catherine Standishs bolt-hole, a balance might be found that could bring peace to the premises, though one would imagine it would be short-lived. As is dawns presence in Catherines room, for time is hurrying on. On the next level down is a kitchen. Dawns favourite meal is breakfast, which is sometimes mostly gin, but either way it would find little to sustain it here, the cupboards falling very much on Scrooges end of the Dickensian curve, far removed from Pickwickian excess. The cupboards contain no tins of biscuits, no jars of preserves, no emergency chocolate and no bowls of fruit or packets of crispbread mar the counters surface; just odds and ends of plastic cutlery, a few chipped mugs and a surprisingly new-looking kettle. True, there is a fridge, but all it holds are two cans of energy drink, both stickered "Roddy Ho," each of which rubric has had the words "is a twat" added, in different hands, and an uncontested tub of hummus, which is either mint-flavoured or has some other reason for being green. About the appliance hangs an odour best described as delayed decay. Luckily, dawn has no sense of smell. Having briefly swept through the two offices on this floor--nondescript rooms whose colour schemes can only be found in ancient swatches, their pages so faded, everything has subsided into shades of yellow and grey--and taken care to skirt the dark patch beneath the radiator, where some manner of rusty leakage has occurred, it finds itself back on the staircase, which is old and rackety, dawn the only thing ca Details ISBN1641290242 Author Mick Herron Short Title LONDON RULES Pages 368 Series Slough House Language English ISBN-10 1641290242 ISBN-13 9781641290241 Format Paperback DEWEY 823.92 Series Number 5 Year 2019 Country of Publication United States AU Release Date 2019-05-28 NZ Release Date 2019-05-28 US Release Date 2019-05-28 Place of Publication New York UK Release Date 1900-01-01 Publisher Soho Press Inc Publication Date 2019-05-28 Imprint SohoCrime,US Audience General Subtitle The fifth book in the series behind SLOW HORSES, an Apple Original series now st reaming on Apple TV+ We've got this At The Nile, if you're looking for it, we've got it. 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