“Raymond Schiller,” repeats the Senior Auditor, as Zero assists him with his raincoat. He looks suitably grim. “Or someone who claims to be the Reverend Raymond Schiller, which is not necessarily the same thing, whether or not the biometrics and the documentation matches: he hasn’t been seen in public for more than twenty months, after all.”
“Someone or something,” Persephone snarls in a low tone. Then she collects herself and raises an immaculately threaded eyebrow. “Can I offer you refreshment?”
“I wouldn’t say no.” Dr. Armstrong allows Zero to steer him towards the drawing room. Persephone stalks over to the cabinet, removes a bottle and two fluted glasses, and pads after him. (Somehow, without her ever pausing, her shoes have parked themselves neatly by the front door for Zero to deal with.) “It’s a troubling development.”
“Oh, do please go on; I love your understatement.” Zero seats the SA on an antique armchair where he waits patiently while Zero moves another chair into position by his left elbow. The SA looks tired and, for want of a better word, stressed. Persephone hands him a glass, transfers the other to the same hand as the neck of the bottle of Moët. She makes a strange gesture with her free hand and the cork vanishes, allowing a perfumed mist of vapor to rise from the bottle. When she pours into her guest’s glass, it doesn’t dare to fizz up and overflow; she fills her own flute and sits down, then raises it in a toast. “To survival.”
“To survival,” echoes Dr. Armstrong, then takes a sip.
Persephone downs a too-big swig of champagne. “Fuck Schiller and all his works.” The vehemence and venom is personal, and the atmosphere in the room chills as she curses the adversary. “What’s he doing here this time?”
“Officially, he’s here on behalf of certain powerful entities in the current US administration. Sponsors in the Department of Defense, high-end Investor Visa, funny handshakes with the ambassador in DC, and someone from the State Department hitched a ride in his Gulfstream. Apparently he’s due to attend a garden party at Checkers this Saturday afternoon. Guest list is very short, starts with the Prime Minister, and includes a couple of other top cabinet briefs.” Armstrong gives the news with the stiff-upper-lip treatment reserved for word of an execution or a terminal prognosis. Persephone is so appalled that Zero tenses, moving to clear his suit jacket from fouling his belt holster, before she blinks and nods at him to stand down.
“Fuck me, the Prime Minister, how? I thought we headed that off at the pass two years ago?”
“Insufficient data.” Armstrong’s voice is flat. “But I’d like to note that Schiller’s operation was always on the approved contractors list and for the past two years has been operating as a direct proxy for the OPA. It turns out that he’s got a current security clearance with the US government, fingers in all the right pies, and a couple of tame congressmen on his string—the K Street mob, the Family, that sort of thing. And there’s worse. There seems to be some kind of shift in the power balance between the hidden players in progress. I got a call this morning using a long-established emergency code from the Comstocks and sent Bob to investigate. Apparently they’re undergoing a hostile takeover, and our contact wanted us to know the inside scoop. Then parties unknown nearly killed Bob. He had a very close call.”
“This—” Persephone pauses. “How is he?”
“He performed acceptably.” The SA waits for her guarded nod before continuing. “I’ve got him stashed in the new safe house with Johnny to babysit for him; Dr. O’Brien is on her way to join them. She’ll take his report and we’ll have something to go on in a couple of hours.”
“Huh.” Persephone crosses her legs and leans forward, rocking slightly, deep in thought. “Was it a hit by Schiller, or an attempt to deny us intelligence?”
“Let’s not get sidetracked by operational minutiae.” He takes another sip. “We’re desperately short of friends in the current cabinet, otherwise I’d look for an off-the-record briefing with a minister who could play our corner convincingly. But the business in Leeds has poisoned the well: very nasty, difficult to get them to see past the immediate fallout to the big picture. I’m very much afraid that Number Ten is actively hostile towards us and will welcome an offer emanating from the other side of the pond without fully understanding the nature of the strings attached, or looking beyond the hand he’s shaking to ascertain whether the owner of the limb it’s attached to is human—”
Persephone sneezes champagne bubbles, hastily banishes it with a gesture before it can spray across her lap. “You cannot be serious!”
Armstrong shrugs. “We have to be realists. It wouldn’t be the first time we’ve—our—this government has—reacted inappropriately to a situation they are unfamiliar with. I suppose that’s where Schiller comes in, on the other side. He was here a couple of years ago and laid the groundwork, with his missionary circus: some of the cabinet actually like him.”
Persephone lowers her glass and looks at him thoughtfully, eyes narrowing. “You suspect the Nazgûl sent him for us.”
“If not the Nazgûl or their master, then the Sleeper.” He inclines his head. “Schiller’s kept such a low profile for the past couple of years—why move in now? I think the answer’s obvious. Everything points to it.” He swallows. “If the beings directing the Black Chamber these days deem that the situation has settled in their favor, then, well, we’re a logical follow-on target. They are moving into some sort of endgame, taking over all OCCINT operations in North America as a prelude to consolidating power over the entire government, and our current crisis is the perfect opportunity to expand into Europe. And that’s the best case. Because otherwise, the Sleeper is coming for us.”
“Yes.” They sit in silent contemplation for a minute. Schiller’s Church harbors an inner circle that worships the Sleeper in the Pyramid, and indeed Persephone was instrumental in preventing him from awakening his alien Lord a few years ago. The Laundry believed that Schiller had died, but now he is back, with unknown but presumably greater capabilities … “Do we have a plan for that? For what to do if the Sleeper came through when he returned and has taken over the OPA?”
“Not really: we’d be screwed,” the SA says flatly. “But I don’t think the situation is necessarily that bad yet. Schiller may be a puppet, the Sleeper may be stirring; but if the Sleeper were fully awake and present then its effects would be visible from orbit. As that doesn’t appear to be the case we might as well focus on what we know how to fight: inadvisable political initiatives and all-too-human cultists. Which is a very good thing, because there’s no force on Earth I know of that can stop the Sleeper except another Elder God.”
Persephone’s expression is stony as she raises her glass, drains it in one swig, and refills without offering her companion any. She’s so badly rattled that she forgets to suppress the consequential burp. She has met Schiller, heard him preach his variant theology, seen the consequences. “You remember my report about the, the clinic? I still have bad dreams about that.” Even though her earliest memories were forged during the Balkan War and she has survived many traumatic incidents, the combined spinal injuries/forced maternity ward for Schiller’s victims in the clinic in his mountain compound was a standout. “About not being able to do anything for them. Or worse, about waking up there myself, paralyzed like one of those caterpillars that parasitic wasps lay their eggs in.” She gazes into an inner distance. “Speaking entirely hypothetically, assuming he isn’t in fact the living vessel of an ancient evil, would anyone at Head Office be terribly upset if a grand piano fell on him? Because I am so very tempted.”
“A grand piano.” Dr. Armstrong smiles faintly, and slowly swirls his glass. “I wish.” He raises it to his lips. “I disapprove of wet work on principle, but I believe I could find a way to make an exception in his case, if appropriate circumstances emerged.”
They sit in tense silence for nearly a minute, both lost in thought, before Persephone speaks again: “So let’s go back to basics. It seems to me that our proximat
e objective is to establish what we are dealing with. Identity, intention, and execution: who is the enemy, what they want, and what their capabilities are.”
The SA nods wordlessly.
She looks at him sharply. “This lack of input isn’t like you, Michael.”
He carefully removes his gold-rimmed spectacles, pinches the bridge of his nose, and takes a deep breath. “You’re absolutely correct.” The kerchief in his suit pocket is a lens cloth, and he busies himself cleaning his glasses for a few seconds. “I’ve been a little overwrought lately. On the back foot.”
She waits.
“Ever since that terrible night when we lost Judith, and so many others”—he wheezes unhappily and replaces his spectacles—“we’ve been thrown into a succession of crises while woefully understaffed. One damn thing after another, all of them Never-Happen events, culminating in last month’s disaster in Leeds. I’m sorry to say I’ve been reacting without thinking. And that’s always a mistake.” The SA visibly pulls himself together. Persephone watches, fascinated and appalled.
Finally he regains his composure. “If I don’t give you any explicit instructions, I won’t have to lie about them or otherwise mislead a Commons Enquiry. So. What were you about to say?”
Persephone retrieves the champagne bottle and fills up his glass. Then she begins checking off points on her fingertips. “Item: Adversary, returned from the dead, presumed either a stalking horse for the Black Chamber or a genuine independent player—which could be worse—shows up with a gilt-edged ticket to visit the PM at home. Other capabilities unknown but presumably he won’t be any less of a nuisance than he was a couple of years ago, not with CASE NIGHTMARE GREEN in train. Item: The agency’s profile is so deep in the ordure that we need a periscope to see daylight right now. So we’re vulnerable to power plays and short on friends in the administration. So I have to ask: is there a domestic political threat you’re not telling me about?”
The SA raises an eyebrow.
She takes a deep breath. “Let me rephrase. Did you see Bob’s performance the other night?”
“On television?” Dr. Armstrong nods. “Do go on, please.”
“According to Bob, Paxo was heavily warded and knew far too much about us.”
“The Cabinet Office has a bottomless drawer full of high-level wards,” Dr. Armstrong remarks, deceptively casually. “Ever since the Mandate tried to brainwash the Chief Whip, all ministers, senior civil servants, and spads are supposed to carry one at all times.”
“You should watermark them.” Persephone is carefully non-judgmental. “So we know who to look at next time one goes missing, along with the classified briefing papers. Or to check that the ward in question is one of our own and not, for example, one supplied by a rival organization.”
“Duly noted. Please do continue…”
“So: the Intelligence Select Committee will be starting its closed-door hearings on Q-Division SOE next week. And the cabinet reshuffle is continuing incrementally. There are rumors—” She swallows. “—that a ministerial portfolio will be created with authority for the supernatural, in view of the significant threat to national security exposed by recent events. Not to mention the recent outbreaks of superheroes, rains of frogs, beer casks full of blood, and other tabloid end-of-the-world headlines.”
The SA nods reluctantly.
Persephone closes her eyes, then opens them again. “Get me a guest list for that garden party,” she says abruptly.
“A guest list—are you planning to send someone? You don’t mean to go yourself…?”
“No, that would never do. Someone might create a scene, you know. But we do need to know who else is attending. That’ll tell us which direction to keep a weather eye on.” She shrugs minutely. “Could black-bag Schiller’s base while he’s there too, but that’s another caper entirely.”
“What do you suspect?” The SA leans forward, holding his glass by the stem. “Tell me, Persephone.”
“Never attribute hostile action to the enemy when even your own side want you dead.” She frowns furiously. “You’ve been Civil Service almost all your career, and consequently insulated from what’s going on in the private sector. You’re looking for threats from the Black Chamber and the Sleeper. But that’s not the only problem we’ve got right now. I go to the same gallery openings as those people, and I know how they do business. I need that guest list because it will tell me at a glance whether we’re in the sights for privatization and outsourcing.”
* * *
Dinner is a stack of takeaway pizzas, escorted to the doorway by an apologetic cop. Johnny pays for it. Mo and I take time off from writing our reports to eat, hunched like vultures around a breakfast bar the size of an aircraft carrier in a kitchen that’s all Italian marble and chromed steel. We gossip uneasily and try to avoid speculating about the evening’s events. But eventually Johnny’s phone rings and after a brief call he tells us that ’Seph isn’t coming round to brief us after all: we’re to finish the reports and he’ll see they get to the SA by midnight. So we do just that, and after I turn in I spend a couple of sleepless hours staring at the ceiling before somehow my eyes close and it’s morning again.
Mo, as was pretty much inevitable, took the spare bedroom. When I surface for breakfast I’m chagrined to see she’s drawn an alarmingly comprehensive ward on the door in conductive ink, augmenting the already-more-than-adequate defensive grid embedded in its frame. Mo’s boundary issues with the Eater of Souls raise their ugly head: she’s terrified of me sleepwalking and mistaking her for a midnight snack. I wish I could say this was unreasonable of her. She’s left a circle labelled KNOCK HERE, so I do, and ask, “Coffee?”
“Did someone say coffee?” she mumbles.
“It’s in the kitchen,” I tell her, then shuffle through the living area to the breakfast bar, where I start hunting for the wherewithal to deliver on the promise.
Typical. This furnished flat, renting for something north of £2000 a night, comes with a cheap filter machine and no coffee or other supplies in the spotless walk-in refrigerator. Luckily there is a Caffè Nero across the street, so after checking on our guards Johnny nips out. Breakfast consequently consists of reheated bacon and egg rolls, coffee in cardboard cartons, and stomach acid. I’m rubbing my itching chin and cheeks (furnished flats don’t come with shavers either) and Mo is futilely trying to fix her bed hair when my phone rings.
“’Lo,” I say.
“Mr. Howard.” I sit up: it’s the SA. “Are Dr. O’Brien and Mr. McTavish with you?”
“Yes”—they’re both looking at me—“they’re here.”
“Good. I’ve read your report and the briefing Mr. McKracken gave you. I’ll be round shortly to explain what’s going on. In the meantime, please don’t leave the flat.”
“What?” demands Mo as soon as I hang up.
“It’s the SA. He’s coming here.” Why does she look momentarily appalled? It’s a sign of yet more history we don’t share: is it something dodgy about the Auditors, or else a deeper unease…? “We’re to stay indoors until he arrives.”
“Right…” Johnny regards the Caffè Nero paper bag and the remains of its contents with distaste verging on resignation. “Like that’s going to work. Ah well.” He drains his coffee cup. “I made sure the neighbors didn’t see me, anyway.”
“Neighbors?” Mo asks.
“Neighbors.” Johnny grimaces. “I didn’t want to worry you last night and I’d rather leave it to ’isself to fill you in this morning.”
The entryphone buzzes for attention, and Johnny marches off to negotiate with building security and the armed guard on our front door. Mo looks at me looking at her. “What?” we ask each other simultaneously. I shrug, and she looks archly amused. It’s one of those marital telepathy moments that you start getting after a few years together, and I feel a sudden pang of acute isolation. “Johnny’s holding out,” I say, just as she tells me, “We’re about to find out.”
She’s right:
Dr. Armstrong marches in, and he’s carrying a Caffè Nero paper bag too. “Good morning!” He smiles and places it on the breakfast bar. Then he sees the detritus: “Johnny?”
“Before you rang, guv, I took precautions.” Johnny, padding after him, slides onto a leather-topped barstool.
“Jolly good.” The SA manages to sound like an absentminded head teacher when he does that; it makes me wonder how deep Angleton’s influence on the organization ran, but he doesn’t give me time to woolgather. “I brought croissants and coffee, so dig in,” he says. “All right. You’ve probably worked it out already, haven’t you?” he asks Mo.
“What? The reason for this unaccustomed … luxury?” An ironic shoulder waggle (she’s holding a fresh coffee cup) takes in the apartment as a whole.
“I’m guessing a room in the Ibis was out of your price range,” I joke.
It falls flat. “Not exactly.” The SA glances at Johnny. “Incursions? Probes?”
“Nothing. It’s as if ’e ain’t even here.”
“Well then.” The SA stares at his coffee cup as if he can’t remember what to do with it. Then he glances at me. “We leased this apartment in a hurry yesterday, when we first learned Schiller was in London. We had no indications his people—or anyone else—would attempt to snatch you. But”—he’s watching Mo, I realize—“it was the logical place to put you under the circumstances.”
“Wait. What circumstances?”
Johnny recoils slightly and Mo’s eyes widen; the SA looks as imperturbable as ever. “The entity identifying itself as Raymond Schiller is very unlikely to suspect that you are in the very same building, two floors up, wouldn’t you say? In a secure, heavily warded apartment with another empty secure suite between your floor and his ceiling.” The old bastard actually looks pleased with himself.
“How is this a good thing?” I ask tensely.
“Well”—Johnny raises an eyebrow at the SA, who tips him the nod—“seems to me, guv, that what we’re dealing with probably isn’t exactly the same old Raymond Schiller, is ’e?”
The Delirium Brief Page 9