Real Tigers (Slough House Book 3)

Praise for Real Tigers A Telegraph Best Crime Novel of the Year Shortlisted for the CWA Gold Dagger Award for Best Crime Novel Shortlisted for the CWA Ian Fleming Steel Dagger Awardxa0for Best Thriller A Boston Globe Best Book of 2016 “[Herron's] cleverly plotted page-turners are driven by dialogue that bristles with one-liners. Much of the humor comes from Herron’s 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 "A pulsating spy thriller about a kidnapped fallen spy whose colleagues uncover a plot threatening the future of the security service." — The Daily Express (UK) "[Herron is the] le Carré of the future . . . The characters are brilliant." —Patrick Neale on BBC's The Oxford Book Club "Heroic struggles, less-heroic failures and a shoot-out-cum-heist . . . with no let-up in the page turning throughout." — Esquire "If you read one spy novel this year, read Real Tigers . Better still, read the whole series." — The Spectator "[Reads] like an episode of Spooks written by Ricky Gervais . . . With his poet's eye for detail, his comic timing and relish for violence, Herron fills a gap that has been yawning ever since Len Deighton retired." — The Daily Telegraph, ★★★★★ "Masterful . . .xa0Deliciously tongue-in-cheek and with a strikingly serpentine construction, it is a thriller that moves Herron close to the class of Graham Greene." — The Daily Mail "All the action you might want from an espionage thriller is to be found in Real Tigers , with betrayal, double-dealing and a fantastically violent climax in an underground facility, but the true pleasures of Mick Herron’s Gold Dagger-winning Slough House series lie elsewhere: in the sharp wit and dry irony and elegant grace of the prose, the razor-sharp characterisation . . . Think Le Carré with fewer posh people and laugh-out-loud funny. Mick Herron is the real deal." — Irish Times "[The Slough House series is] among the finest British spy fiction of the past 20 years . . . Real Tigers sees them dragged center stage when the kidnap of Lamb's assistant sets into motion a narrative of breathtaking ingenuity. Brilliant." — London Metro "Satire, verbal sparring and gunfights are deftly combined in a excellently written novel permeated by Herron's sly, dry and very English sense of humour—rather as if Philip Larkin or Alan Bennett had had a go at spy fiction." — The Sunday Times (London) "Brilliantly twisty . . . Fun and thrilling in equal measure, Real Tigers is an absolute joy." — The Mailxa0on Sunday "Deviously clever." —StopYou'reKillingMe.com "Herron's is the next big name in crime fiction." —The Literary Review "The labyrinthine plot takes off like a NASA rocket . . . What makes this work is top-notch writing and characterization. Thanks to crisp, clever dialogue, the reader is quickly drawn into the odd camaraderie of the Slough House team and their specific quirks." — Mystery Scene "Herron’s strength is in examining at close hand the absurdities, conflicts, and dangers of the intelligence agency as an institution at the center of some of the most central conflicts in the 21st century." — Los Angeles Review of Books "It is impossible not to be impressed by Herron’s use of language . . . A thoroughly entertaining tale." —CrimeReview.com "Misdirection abounds as the Slow Horses work to save their fellow agent and thwart a devious government conspiracy . . . I certainly enjoyed all the little surprising plot twists along the way to the wickedly delightful conclusion." —FreshFiction "A wondrous thing . . .xa0Slough House is axa0marvelousxa0invention." —Reviewing The Evidence "To say this is a great read is an understatement. This book is not your usual thriller ‘good vs. bad.’ It’s much more like always looking for someone to blame as the action and humor continue to skyrocket.xa0" — Suspense Magazine "The disgraced spies at MI5’s Slough House must try to save one of their own in CWA Gold Dagger Award–winner Herron’s outstanding third thriller . . .xa0Herron expertly juggles multiple plot lines and fully formed characters, injecting everything with a jolt of black humor." —Publishers Weekly , Starred Review "[A]xa0tour de force, in which virtually every single player—good guys, bad guys, all the turncoats and in-betweeners—is somehow connected to British Intelligence." — Kirkus Reviews "At heart, there is solid seriousness here as the new Home Secretary unleashes a tiger team (in which your own side tests you to the limit) to expose the weaknesses of British intelligence . . .xa0Readers love this series for its breezy treatment of espionage in which you get to cheer for the underdogs while also showing respect for their opponents. Characters are drawn with the sharpest possible pen." — Library Journal Praise for Dead Lions Winner of the 2013 CWA Gold Dagger for Best Crime Novel of the YearA BBC Front Row Best Crime Novel of the YearA Times Crime and Thriller Book of the YearA Sunday Times Top 50 Crime and Thriller Book of the Past 5 Years "Delightful . . . with a dry humor reminiscent of Greene and Waugh." — The Sunday Times "A great romp." —Jeff Park, BBC Front Row "Clever and funny." — The Times “Unbeatable entertainment for thriller fans.” —Library Journal , Starred Review "Funny, clever . . . Genuinely thrilling. The novel is equally noteworthy for its often lyrical prose." — Publishers Weekly , Starred Review Praise for Mick Herron “The sharpest spy fiction since John le Carré.” —NPR's Fresh Air --This text refers to the paperback edition. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Like most forms of corruption, it began with men in suits.xa0xa0xa0 A weekday morning on the edge of the City; damp, dark, foggy, not yet five. In the nearby towers, some of which reached upwards of twenty storeys, random windows were lit, making haphazard patterns in the glass-and-steel grids, and some of those lights meant early-bird bankers were at their desks, getting a jump on the markets, but most were a sign that the other City workers were on the job, the ones who wore overalls, and whose pre-dawn tasks involved vacuuming, polishing, emptying bins. Paul Lowell’s sympathies were with the latter. You either cleaned up other people’s messes or you didn’t—and that was the class system for you, right there.xa0xa0xa0xa0 He glanced at the road below. Eighteen metres was a fair distance, viewed vertically. Dropping to his haunches he felt the relevant muscles crunch, and cheap fabric strain unpleasantly across his thighs. His suit was too small. Lowell had figured it was stretchy enough that this wouldn’t matter, but in the event he felt constricted by it, and graced with none of the power he might have imagined it bestowing.xa0xa0xa0 Or maybe he was just getting fat.xa0xa0xa0 Lowell was on a platform, which probably wasn’t the correct architectural term for it, above an arch through which ran London Wall, the dual-lane thoroughfare reaching from St. Martin’s-le-Grand to Moorgate. Above him was another tower block, part of a pair set at an angle to each other, and housing one of the world’s leading investment banks as well as one of its most famous pizza chains. A hundred yards away, on a grassy knoll by the side of the road to which it had lent its name, ran a chunk of the Roman wall which had once encircled the City, still standing centuries after its builders had given up their ghosts. A symbol, it occurred to Lowell now. Some things endured, survived changing attitudes, and it was worth fighting to preserve what remained of them. Why he was here, in a nutshell.xa0xa0xa0 Shrugging his rucksack free he placed it between his knees, drew a zip and unpacked its contents. In an hour or so traffic would build, heading into the City or points east, a quantity of it passing through the arch on which he perched, and all those cars, taxis, buses and bikes would have no choice but to bear witness. And in their wake would come the inevitable: the news crews, the cameras, carrying his message to the nation.xa0xa0xa0 . . . All he wanted was his voice to be heard. After years of being denied his rights he was ready to fight, and like others before him, had chosen a particular mode in which to do so. This was how traditions were born. He didn’t for a moment think anything he achieved today would make a major difference, but others in his position would see, and learn, and maybe act. Someday, that difference would be made. xa0xa0xa0 There was movement, and he turned to see a figure hoisting itself onto the far end of the platform, having scaled the building from the street below as Lowell had ten minutes earlier. It took a second for recognition to sink in, but as soon as it did he felt a thump of excitement, as if he were twelve again. Because this was what every twelve-year-old wanted to see, he thought, as he watched the newcomer approach. This was the stuff young boys’ dreams were made of.xa0xa0xa0 Tall, broad and purposeful, Batman strode towards him through damp ribbons of fog.xa0xa0xa0 “Hey,” Lowell called. “Nice one.”xa0xa0xa0 He looked down at his own costume. Spider-Man was hardly age-appropriate, but it wasn’t like anyone would be offering style points: making the evening news was the aim, and superhero suits ticked the right media boxes. It had worked before and would work again. So he was the Amazing Spider-Man, and the comrade he was meeting for the first time now, with whom all arrangements had been made anonymously through a message board, was Batman, and the pair would be a dynamic duo for one morning only, and blaze through newscasts for the rest of the week. One hand on the roll of canvas he’d unpacked, Lowell levered himself to his feet and extended the other, because this too was part of an ancient narrative: men meeting and greeting, and bonding in a common cause.xa0xa0xa0 Ignoring Spider-Man’s outstretched hand, Batman punched him in the face.xa0xa0xa0 Lowell fell backwards as the world span out of control: lit-up office windows spiralled like stars, and all the air left his body as it hit damp brickwork. But already his mind had slipped into workgear, and he rolled sideways, away from the edge, as Batman’s foot stamped down hard, just missing his elbow. He needed to be upright, because nobody ever won a fight from a prone position, and he concentrated on this for the next two seconds instead of wondering why Batman was kicking the shit out of him, and his focus almost paid off because he’d made it to his knees before he was punched in the head again. Blood soaked through Lowell’s Spider-Man mask. He tried to speak. A formless gargle was all he could manage.xa0xa0xa0 And then he was being dragged towards the edge of the platform. xa0xa0xa0 He shrieked, because it was clear what would happen next. Batman was hauling him by the shoulders, and he couldn’t break free—the man’s hands felt moulded from steel. He kicked out and hit the canvas lump, which rolled towards the edge, unravelling as it went. He swung an arm for Batman’s crotch, but hit muscle-hard thigh instead. And then he was hanging in space, the only thing keeping him aloft the caped crusader’s grip.xa0xa0xa0 For a moment they were locked in near-embrace, Batman rigidly upright, Spider-Man dangling, as if posing for a cover illustration.xa0xa0xa0 “For pity’s sake,” Spider-Man whispered.xa0xa0xa0 Batman dropped him.xa0xa0xa0 The canvas roll had hit the road before Paul Lowell did but wasn’t a roll by then, having unwound itself along the tarmac to become a strip of carpet instead of the banner he’d intended it to be. In foot-high letters, its hand-painted battle-cry, A FAIR DEAL FOR FEATHERS , blurred as the wet ground soaked into the fabric, along with a certain quantity of Lowell’s blood, but remained a gratifyingly newsworthy image, and would feature in many a broadcast before the day was out.xa0xa0xa0 Paul Lowell didn’t see any of them, thought.xa0xa0xa0 As for Batman, he was long gone. --This text refers to the paperback edition. 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 workxa0has won the CWA Gold Dagger for Best Crime Novel, the Steel Dagger for Best Thriller,xa0and the Ellery Queen Readers Award, andxa0been nominated for the Macavity, Barry, Shamus, and Theakstons Novel of the Year Awards. He currently lives in Oxford and writes full-time. --This text refers to the paperback edition. Read more