There’d been a noise, loud enough to distract Louisa and Min from what they were doing.
Three minutes later it wouldn’t have done, but those were the edges on which outcomes balanced.
“Hear that?”
“I heard it.”
“Came from upstairs.”
“Lamb’s office?”
“Or Christine’s.”
They waited, but heard nothing further.
“You think it’s Lamb?”
“If it was, there’d be a light on.”
They eased apart, zipping up, and moved for the door without noise. Anyone watching might think they’d rehearsed movements like these: stealthy progress through dark territory, with an unknown third party lurking near.
“Weapon?”
“Desk.”
It yielded a glass paperweight, which fitted neatly into a fist, and a stapler which would serve as a knuckleduster.
“You sure we want to do this?”
“I’d rather be doing what we just nearly did.”
“Yeah, but—”
“But now we’ve got to do this instead.” Or first, perhaps. Whatever.
— Slow Horses (Mick Herron), Loc. 2967-81