“That’s enough,” says Dr. Tring, finally condescending to drag the seminar back on course. “Ah, Ms. Steele, if you don’t mind telling us a little about your specialty, which would be managing an audit team for HMRC…?”
And Ms. Steele—thin-faced and serious as sudden death—launches straight into a series of adventures in carousel duty evasion and international reverse double-taxation law, during which I retreat into vindictive fantasies about setting my classmates’ cars on fire.
FOUR HOURS OF SOUL-DESTROYINGLY BANAL TEDIUM—VAPID nostrums about leadership values, stupid role-playing games involving pretending to be circus performers organizing a fantasy big top night, sly digs from the Ministry of Sport—pass me by in a blur. I go upstairs to my bedroom, force myself to shower and unkink my clenched jaw muscles, then dress again, and go downstairs.
They’ve set up a buffet in one of the meeting rooms. It’s piled high with tuna mayo sandwiches, cold chicken drumsticks, and greasy mini-samosas, evidently in a misplaced attempt to encourage us to mingle and network after working hours. Halfway across the campus there’s a bar, although the beer’s fizzy piss and the spirits are overpriced. I check the clock: it’s only six thirty. If I do the mingling thing they’ll start badgering me about their aunts’ speeding tickets, but the prospect of drinking on my own does not appeal.
I make the best of a bad deal and strike out across the campus to the nearest bar, where I order a pint of lemonade to calm my nerves and contemplate the menu without much enthusiasm. The ghastly truth is beginning to sink in when one of my fellow victims walks in and approaches the bar. At least I think he’s a victim; he might be staff. Three-piece suit, mid-fifties, distinguished gray hair and a salt-and-pepper mustache. Something about his bearing is familiar, then I realize where I’ve seen it before—ten to one he’s ex-military. As he taps the brass bell-push he catches me watching him and nods. “Ah, Mr. Howard.”
I stare at him. “That’s me. Who are you?” It’s rude, I know, but I’m not in a terribly good mood right now.
“I heard one of you young people would be here, and thought I ought to meet you.” The barman, who looks younger than most of the single malts behind the bar, sticks his head up. “Ah, that’ll be a Talisker, the sixteen-year-old, and”—he looks at me—“what’s your poison, Mr. Howard?”
“I’ll try the Glengoyne ten,” I say automatically.
“Bill it to my tab,” says my nameless benefactor. “No ice!” he adds, with an expression of mild horror as the barman reaches for the bucket. “That will be all.” The barman, to my surprise, makes himself scarce, leaving two tumblers of amber water-of-life atop the bar. “Make yourself comfortable,” he says, gesturing at a couple of armchairs beside the empty fireplace. He makes it sound like an order.
I sit down. He sits down opposite me. “You still haven’t introduced yourself,” I say.
“Indeed.” He smiles faintly.
“Indeed.” There’s nothing I can say to that without being rude, and we in the Laundry have an old saying: Do not in haste be rude to whoever’s buying the drinks. So I raise my tumbler, take a good sniff (just to make sure it isn’t poison), and examine him over the rim.
“You surprised Dr. Tring, you know. Most of the students here are aiming to network and make connections; you might want to pick a slightly less objectionable cover story next time.”
Cover story. I give him the hairy eyeball. “For the third time. Who’s asking?”
He reaches into his jacket pocket with his right hand and withdraws a familiar-looking card. Which he then holds in front of me while I read the name on it and feel a prickling in the balls of my thumbs (and a vibration in the ward that hangs on a chain around my neck) that tells me it’s the real thing.
“All right, Mr. Lockhart.” I take a sip of his whisky and allow myself to relax—but only a little. “I’ll take your helpful advice under consideration, although in my defense, I have to say, the story wasn’t my idea. But what—if I may ask—are you doing here?”
“I’d have thought it was obvious; I’m enjoying an after-work drink and networking with a useful contact in the Highways Agency.” Gerald Lockhart, who at SSO8(L) is a stratospheric four grades above me—that’s four grades up in the same organization—replies without any noticeable inflection.
“Uh huh.” I think for a moment. “We couldn’t possibly be running an ongoing effort here to identify suitable candidates for recruitment from within other branches of the civil service—or to implant geases in up-and-coming players fast-tracked for promotion that will enable us to work more effectively with them in future. Could we?”
“Certainly not, Mr. Howard, and I’d thank you to stop speculating along such lines. You’re not cleared for them.”
Oops. “Okay, I’ll stop.” But I can’t avoid a little jab: “But you’re obviously cleared for me, aren’t you?”
Lockhart fixes me with a reptilian stare: “James warned me about your sense of humor, young man. I think he indulges you too much.”
Young man? I’m in my early thirties. On the other hand, I can take a hint that I’m in over my head: when your sparring partner turns out to be on a first-name basis with Angleton, it’s time to back off.
I put my glass down, even though it’s not empty. “Look, I don’t need this. You obviously want to talk to me about something. But I’ve had a bad day, I’m not terribly happy to be here, and I’m not handling this very well. So I’d appreciate it if you’d just say your piece, all right?”
I can see his jaw working, behind the salt-and-pepper topiary on his upper lip. “If that’s the way you want it.” He takes a sip of his single malt. “I expect you’ve noticed that there are a lot of high-flyers here. Civil servants who are being groomed for upper management roles, where in ten years time they’ll deal with members of the government and represent their departments in public. You should be making notes, Mr. Howard, because although you won’t be dealing with the general public, you’ll certainly be representing us in front of these people. You’re going to need those people-handling skills. If we all live long enough for you to acquire them. Ha, ha.”
“Ha”—I try not to look unsuitably unamused—“ha. So?”
“James is assigning you to my department for a little project—nothing you can’t handle, I assure you. I’ll see you in my office next Monday morning at eleven o’clock sharp. In the meantime, you have some background reading to catch up on.” He slides a dog-eared paperback towards me across the table before I can respond. “Good night, Mr. Howard.” He rises, and before I can open my mouth and insert any additional limbs he vanishes.
I pick up the book and turn it over in my hands. Spy-Catcher, it says, by Peter Wright. A New York Times bestseller. I stare at it. Background reading? Wasn’t he a rogue Security Service officer from the seventies or something? How bizarre. I pick up my whisky glass, and open the book.
Oh well, at least I’ve got something to pass the evenings with now…
3.
BIG TENT
A BLOCK OF SIX GEORGIAN TOWN HOUSES CLUSTER DISCREETLY together on one of the leafy avenues behind Sloane Square in London, south of Victoria and west of Westminster.
In the house at the west end of the row there lives a witch.
A man stands waiting on her doorstep. He wears a pin-striped suit of conservative cut and his hair is graying in late middle age; he might be a senior partner in a law firm, or an accountant paying a house call to a rich, elderly client to discuss their affairs. But appearances are deceptive. He is in fact SSO8(L) Gerald Lockhart, and he is visiting on business.
There are many types of self-identified witches. The common or garden variety is generally harmless—women of a certain age who wear purple disgracefully, have two or more cats, run a new age shop, recycle fanatically, and sometimes believe in fairies at the bottom of the garden.
The witch who lives in this particular house doesn’t wear purple, can’t be bothered with pets, prefers wholesale to r
etail (but quit both trades some years ago), pays a cleaning firm to take care of the recycling, knows several demons personally, and is not even remotely harmless.
Gerald Lockhart puts his finger on the doorbell and, with an expression of grim determination not obviously warranted by such a trivial action, pushes it.
Somewhere behind the glossy black door, a bell jangles. Lockhart relaxes his finger on the button after a second, then glances up at the discreet black golf ball of the camera above the door. A few seconds later he hears footsteps approaching. Then the door opens.
“Good afternoon.” The man who opens the door is in his late twenties, with shaven head and a slacker goatee; however, he wears a suit so funereal in cut that he could be taken for an undertaker, if undertakers wore black open-necked shirts with their weeds. “Ah, Mr. Lockhart? I believe Ms. Hazard is expecting you. If you’d care to follow me, sir? I’m sure she’ll only be a minute.”
Lockhart follows the butler across a tiled hallway and through a side door that leads into a parlor at the front of the house. There are side tables, armchairs, and a sofa, the latter items recently re-upholstered but clearly dating to an earlier century. The butler leaves him; as he turns to go, Gerald notes with interest the earring, the tattoos on the back of his neck, and the cut of his jacket, tailored to draw attention away from his broad, heavily muscled shoulders. Ms. Hazard does not employ household staff solely as an affectation of personal wealth. Lockhart makes a mental note to have the fellow’s background checked. It’s always useful to have a little extra leverage.
Somewhat closer to three minutes later, the parlor door opens. “Good afternoon,” Lockhart says, rising reflexively. “And thank you for making time to see me at such short notice.”
“It is a pleasure, as always.” Persephone beams as she steps closer. Her diction is very slightly stilted, with the echo of an Italian accent lending it a musical trill: her elocution tutor is clearly first-rate. “How are you, Gerald? And how are the children?”
The witch wears an understated gray wool dress with black tights and kitten heels; with her hair pulled tightly back and minimal makeup, she exudes a gamine charm. She moves fluidly, as if only loosely bound by gravity. Lockhart thinks she carries herself like a dancer; but he notices the hardened skin on the backs of her hands—deftly obscured by a smudge of concealer across her knuckles—and the loose sleeves that conceal her shoulders and upper arms. The Nutcracker ballet, for Karate and Krav Maga, perhaps.
“Polly is fine,” Lockhart says gravely. “Darren is recovering from a bug he brought back from play group, and we’re watching in case Nicky comes down with it too—”
They make small talk for a few minutes as Persephone listens, nodding. To an ill-informed observer she could be a thirty-year-old ballet dancer who has married a man with serious money, a man of the very highest rank—seats in the country and the House of Lords, on a first-name basis with minor royalty, reserved place at Eton for the firstborn male issue, that sort of thing. And Lockhart might simply be a family friend, a senior civil servant of the old school, filling her in on the gossip.
Of course, appearances are deceptive: their official relationship is that of a controller and the intelligence officer they direct. But they keep up appearances in semi-private, to ingrain the habit, lest their paths should meet in public.
After a while, Lockhart runs out of pleasantries to spin around his family life. “But enough of that,” he signals. “I’m wasting your time.”
“Oh, hardly.” She half-smiles, then reaches for a device resembling a TV remote control. “All right, we can talk now. Within the usual limits.” A thin mosquito-whine from the windows behind her hints at the presence of transducers in the frames, designed to defeat laser mikes or other snooping devices.
“Good.” Lockhart pulls a notepad and pen from his jacket pocket. “Did you have anything to add to the agenda…?”
“Not at this time.” She pauses. “Okay. The LUDWIG NIGHT outcome—that’s positive, as per my report, although it was closer than I’m happy about. I take it the asset has been returned to inventory?”
“Yes.” Lockhart nods. “The valuation committee have been asked to report on it but I don’t think there’s going to be any problem authorizing full payment of all your expenses. A job well done, after all.”
“Good.” She watches while Lockhart flips the page.
“Next item. There’s a candidate from within the organization—”
“Within the organization?” She leans forward, suddenly attentive.
“Yes,” says Lockhart. “He’s been tapped for advancement on the basis of his track record in general operations, but he really needs a spin around the block and an evaluation by…well, someone like yourself. I gather Mahogany Row want to know if he’s got the right stuff. So he’s been assigned to me, and I was thinking, if you don’t object, of assigning him to you as liaison on the next suitable excursion?”
“You want me to test-drive your new assistant?”
“Yes, more or less. I don’t think you’ll find him a spare wheel, I hasten to add, although first appearances can be deceptive: he’s a poor fit within the regular civil service framework, too prone to picking his own targets and going after them unilaterally—but he gets results. So the promotion board thought it might be worth trying him out on a more, ah, independent command, as it were.”
“Really? Well, hmm. If you could send me his HR file, that would help me make my mind up. But we can always use a bit of free-thinking in this line of work. If you want to saddle me with a field liaison officer, it’d be best if you pick one who doesn’t expect me to file reports every sixty minutes.”
“Noted.” Lockhart pauses to jot down her request. “I’ll have it seen to later today.” He folds his notepad and slides it away.
“Are we done, then?” she asks.
“Mostly. There’s another job I’d like to talk to you about, but not here. It’s urgent, I’m afraid.”
“Really?” She looks at him sharply. “Do you have a tight schedule?”
“Yes; it’s a rush job and we need to get the ball rolling by close of business today. Most hush-hush.”
“I see. Well, depending on how long it takes…I’ve been summoned for jury service next month, did I say? Terrible nuisance. Perhaps we should continue in the studio?”
“Of course.” Lockhart follows her out into the hall. “And I shouldn’t worry about the jury duty; these things have a habit of falling through cracks. Unlike other types of public service I could mention.”
Persephone walks back into the house, past the broad staircase and the dining room and kitchen, into a narrower, stone-flagged passage obviously designed for servants’ use. She opens a narrow wooden door: there is a spiral staircase, ascending into brightness.
At ground level the house appears to be the residence of a society lady: afternoon tea at Fortnum & Mason’s, dinner parties for Ruperts and Jocastas, season tickets to Glyndebourne. But as he climbs the staircase the illusion falls away. And as ever, Lockhart can’t quite shake the feeling that he’s entering the wicked witch’s tower.
They ascend a long way—almost fifty steps, clearly passing through the first and second floors of the house. There are no exits below the top, but daylight bulbs behind tall frosted glass panes like arrow-slit windows provide illumination.
Lockhart has seen external photographs of the house, and the floor plans on file with the council planning department, and he knows there’s no spiral staircase from the former pantry to the attic according to the official deeds. Nor would a casual intruder even be able to see the entrance to the stairwell. Persephone Hazard is not the kind to skimp on security.
The staircase ends at another door. Persephone waits for him at the top, looking as cool and collected as ever; Lockhart is breathing more heavily than he likes to admit. “Come on in,” she says, and turns the handle. “You haven’t been up here recently, have you? I’ve made some changes.”
T
he space on the top floor is open plan, and huge. It appears that the attic spaces of the entire row of town houses have been combined into one enormous room, rafters boarded over with a sprung floor, roof beams replaced in situ with steel girders to provide an unobstructed space fifty meters long and ten meters deep. There’s a clear space at one end big enough for a dance floor or a dojo; the rest is broken up by movable partitions. “Welcome to my workshop. It’s why I finished buying up the entire row of houses—just so I could build this,” Persephone explains, a note of quiet pride in her voice. “I rent out the other units, so I can vet my neighbors for security.”
Lockhart swallows. “Very impressive,” he says. Previously he’s only seen the interior of the town house she lives in. She doesn’t invite social callers up here, as a rule, and he can see why.
There is a metal ring in the middle of the eight meter by eight meter square of open flooring at the far end of the room. Cables connect it to a pair of nineteen-inch racks that would not be out of place in a server room. Tool cabinets and other equipment, including a pair of backup generators, are positioned around it.
She walks towards him until they are standing nose to nose. “So, Gerry. What really brought you here today?”
“I like to get out of the office from time to time.” He nods at the huge summoning grid at the far side of the room. “Is that in proper working order? The new job really does require containment rather than just a sweep for bugs.”
Persephone stares at him for a moment, then turns and walks towards the grid. Lockhart hurries to catch up with her—she’s a tall woman, and she moves fast. “This is a class six grid,” she explains over her shoulder. “Kimpel-Ziff deflectors and four different safety interlocks. The control module”—she points at the first equipment rack, which is full of shiny server blades—“is three-way redundant and has two separate power supplies, two UPSs, and two different generators. Just in case. It also has a secondary containment grid around the outside, just in case. Which is to say that it is as secure as anything your organization could provide. So the answer to your question is yes, it’s in proper working order.” She stares at Lockhart, nostrils flaring. “Will that do?”
The Apocalypse Codex Page 4