The SA looks away. “We haven’t confirmed that yet,” he says quietly. “We do know that Persephone shut down the gate he used to get to the Temple of the Sleeper, presumably trapping him in a pyramid on a lifeless world with only his undead god for company. There is no evidence of him being present anywhere on Earth during the next four months. Some bits of the UKUSA intelligence arrangement still work normally for us, even though the OCCINT community weren’t wired into the treaty process, and according to our colleagues in the Doughnut his metadata logfile simply flatlined during that period. No mobile phone usage, no personal bank or credit card activity, no appointments with his visiting hairdresser, nothing to indicate he was alive.”
He clears his throat. “But then, eighteen months ago, signs of electronic life reappeared. Schiller doesn’t carry his own phone, but his social graph, the pattern of calls he places, is distinctive. For the previous four months a law firm owned by Golden Promise Ministries handled his affairs under power of attorney; as soon as the calls started, power of attorney went back in its box. Cards unfrozen, private appointments resumed. Just like returning to everyday life after a long stay in hospital or a stretch in prison.”
“Who knew?” Mo asks tensely.
“Not many.” Dr. Armstrong’s voice is softly reassuring. “We did not think it appropriate to spread the knowledge far and wide. A cell was established with a watching remit, Johnny and Persephone leading, the Reverend Peter Russell supplying specialist analysis on request. He wasn’t briefed,” the SA adds. “By the time Schiller reappeared Bob was already fully occupied by the OPERA CAPE project.”
I resist the impulse to groan and clutch my head theatrically.
Mo says it for me, with quiet vehemence: “Schiller didn’t come back from the Sleeper’s Temple under his own power. So we’ve known for—what, at least eighteen months?—that the Sleeper in the Pyramid was, if not fully engaged, then at least able to act through a proxy in our world?”
“Yes,” says the SA regarding her with a saintly calm that would amount to suicidal daring if he was a lesser mortal. I know what the tightening around her lips and the warning glint in her eyes means, and if I was in her sights I’d be diving for cover. “We’ve been rather overstretched lately,” he says, as if making a huge concession. “We are in a time of crisis after all. Would it have helped to give you more things to worry about while you were dealing with Lecter, or while you”—he’s looking at me—“were tidying up after James?”
I stare at him in disbelief. “I might have rebalanced my priorities accordingly,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Yes, well, water under the bridge, spilled milk, and so on.” (Imperturbable, yes, but dismissive isn’t like the SA at all. Is he getting a trifle defensive, perhaps?) “We don’t have enough high-level resources to allow ourselves to be distracted. In the absence of clear evidence about Schiller’s purpose in coming here we are not in a position to act directly against him—yet. He has, you will note, cordial relations at the highest levels of government.”
Johnny snorts.
“Be that as it may,” the SA continues, “we have a known agent of an external threat who is now in our backyard with an invitation to a private reception at the Prime Minister’s country residence this weekend. We are not in a position to get close to him at that event”—the shadow of a frown crosses his face—“insufficient cleared assets of the right profile, I’m afraid. But we are in a position to keep an eye on the guest list and monitor comings and goings to the apartment he has rented for his stay in London. And if circumstances demand it, to mount an intervention.” He flashes his pearly choppers at me in something not unlike an impish smile: “I intend to determine the enemy’s objectives and then neutralize him once and for all, but only after we have acquired sufficient evidence to convince even the Cabinet Office that he’s an unsuitable playmate for Number Ten.”
Mo is looking at him as if mesmerized. Finally she speaks up. “Excuse me. By what authority do you act?” She adds, hesitantly, “This sounds to me as if you’re taking on operational responsibility.”
“Indeed, and normally that would be a breach of the Chinese wall between audit and executive arms.” Now the SA’s imperturbability slips, at least enough to allow a slightly waspish note to sneak into his voice: “Need I remind you that we are currently overstretched? Also that the nature of this investigation is so sensitive that it would be inadvisable to brief additional personnel?”
The penny drops. “The Wilson Doctrine,” I say. It’s the long-standing rule that the Security Services do not spy on the communications of the government itself, in the person of the Prime Minister and the cabinet. It’s not a law, exactly, but breaking it isn’t something to be undertaken lightly—
“The Wilson Doctrine has been effectively a dead letter for some time now, because of the Five Eyes’ approach to blanket data retention, but it has not yet been formally repudiated by Downing Street, so it remains on the shelf as a stick to beat the unwilling mule with.” The SA hesitates. “After the briefing by Ms. Womack, she shared certain new guidelines that the Steering Committee has been preparing for myself and the Audit Committee.” He glances at Mo apologetically. “I believe everybody present has a need to know.”
Mo clears her throat. “The Steering Committee sets operational policy for Mahogany Row, with legal input from the Assizes’ Chambers,” she tells me, then gives the SA a questioning look.
“Yes.” He nods. “While Mahogany Row is part of a service not regulated directly by CRAG, we are constrained by the need to work within our existing guidelines and requirements. The Audit Committee’s job is to ensure that the service, and senior staff and associates who are part of MR, including External Assets”—a nod at Johnny—“comply with the regulations and laws governing the service. But if MR is to split from the Civil Service”—I startle: that’s a much blunter description than Ms. Womack used—“then we’re going to be so short-staffed that we’ll all be wearing multiple hats for a while. So there are provisions for us to operate in multiple roles, subject to crosschecks.
“So. I am taking personal control of this operation, which I’m designating GOD GAME INDIGO, on my authority as a DSS(3)”—two levels above me, one level above Angleton—“and you, Dr. O’Brien, will be my number two, in charge of both internal and external assets. Additionally, in your capacity as a staff Auditor, you are required to call me out if you think I am exceeding my remit.”
Mo looks appalled. But the SA hasn’t finished: now he looks at Johnny, and then at me. “You are all on the inside, as is Persephone. Because you are part of Mahogany Row you are already privy to GOD GAME RAINBOW and CASE NIGHTMARE RAINBOW, and I need your particular skills. But because you are known to the target we need to bring in some clean faces as well. Along with Persephone, we are the entire fully briefed team so far. I think”—he pauses—“it would be expedient to bring in at least two PHANGs; if nobody has any objections I propose to pull in Ms. Murphy and accept her recommendation for one other. We brought you here last night, Mr. Howard, because it was an emergency and in my judgment the short-term risk of direct exposure to the target was minimal. But after we find a better safe house for you you’ll be staying well clear of this installation unless you’re specifically needed here. We’ll install a surveillance team drawn from regular Laundry line personnel, but the threat surface will be kept as small as possible and the line/PHANG staff will not be given full GOD GAME RAINBOW clearance.”
“What exactly is our objective?” I ask.
“We’re going to stake out Schiller, find out what he’s up to, and stop him,” says the SA, at which point I almost jump up and hug him. He raises a warning finger: “But before we stop him, we need to find out what he’s trying to accomplish, how powerful he is, and how far his influence extends. We thought we’d blocked his attempt to influence the government two years ago but we were wrong; this time we can’t afford to make any mistakes. So it’s vitally important that we don’
t tip him off…”
* * *
Johnny and I skulk out of the rear service entrance of the apartment block wearing dark glasses and hoodies, like rock stars in rehab sneaking past the paparazzi—at least that’s the flattering version of it. A waiting police car whisks us off in the direction of Chelsea, to a row of unnaturally quiet town houses where the defensive wards are clustered so thick they make the hairs on my arms stand up. “You’ll like the Duchess’s pad, guv,” he tells me, “she does enjoy ’er bit of posh.”
(Behind us, Mo and the SA wait for the surveillance team’s first shift to move in, then leave via the front door. None of the building’s other residents have any idea who they are, so subterfuge is pointless. But the two of us are known to Schiller and his associates, so discretion is mandatory.)
Johnny shows me to the front door, which he opens—he has a key. I try to ignore the potentially lethal summoning grid under the welcome mat, but he notices my discomfort and smirks: “Duchess says you can’t be too careful in this end of the big smoke. Just last month, the chairman of Barings what lives round the corner got ’isself and ’is lady wife burgled by your proverbial blokes in balaclavas; they cleaned out half a mil in jewelry. Now, if ’e’d had security like this”—a quick jerk of the head prompts me to glance at a small framed print hanging across the lobby from the door—“been another story, right?”
I glare at the framed print hanging on the wall opposite the front door. The insensate nodule of existential emptiness trapped in it stares back at me with ravening intent for an instant before it recognizes what I am and hastily finds something else to hunger for. “Entrapment is illegal,” I remind Johnny as I study the ward binding the demon. (It’s pretty solid, but if there’s a house fire…)
“If you’d ever ’ad a man come through the door with a gun, me old cock—”
“Been there, done that.” (Although I feel pretty safe here; only an utter idiot would try and burgle the home of London’s most powerful witch.)
Persephone Hazard’s front door opens into a small vestibule, which could easily be mistaken for a porch if not for the presence of the aforementioned trapped demon and a number of other fascinatingly lethal surprises. An archway leads through into a narrow hall, and off to one side I see that centerpiece of the classic Georgian town house, a morning room.
Johnny goes straight in, calling, “Duchess? Oh, hi Zero. It’s me and Bob. Gang’s all here.”
Zero, the butler, ushers us both into the morning room. It’s decorated in coordinated Laura Ashley prints and antique furniture. If not for the tasteful indirect LED lighting and the electrical outlets I could picture a mid-Victorian MP’s wife and her brood of daughters sitting around, drinking tea and receiving visitors. (Well, minus Johnny, me, or Zero the butler, who looks more like a bouncer at the kind of night club you don’t get into unless you have a Twitter following and a bank balance in seven digits.) “She’s upstairs, in the lab,” Zero tells us. “I’ll just let her know you’re here. Would you prefer tea or coffee?” No “sir,” I notice: he’s not that kind of butler.
Coffee is procured while we wait: Jamaican Blue Mountain. A few minutes later Persephone emerges. This morning she’s dressed down, wearing jeans and an old army sweater with shoulder and elbow patches: her lab gear, going by the burn marks. She looks my way and smiles, not unpleasantly. “Bob, because of the circumstances—Schiller and his movable circus being in town—the SA asked if I could put you and Johnny up in the spare rooms. If you’ve got luggage in a lock-up somewhere, give Zero the tickets and he’ll collect it while you’re in the office.”
“Wait,” I say, then stop. I had some vague idea about actually staying in my own spare bedroom, if Mo and I can clean it out: that’s warded too. But then my brain catches up. “Are your wards certified by Facilities?” I ask doubtfully.
“Who do you think chaired the working group that drafted the common criteria for safe houses?” Her smile takes some of the sting out of the put-down. “Anyway, you shouldn’t go home just yet. If someone’s hunting you, you don’t want to lead them to Dr. O’Brien.”
She’s right, dammit, but she didn’t answer my question. “Are you sure this is safe?”
“Mr. Howard.” Her expression is that of a particularly long-suffering primary school teacher towards a very slow learner. “You know what you are. You know what I am. And you’ve seen Johnny in action. If you’re worried about civilian casualties in event of a rumble, I own the properties to either side. And?” She points to a discreet plastic clamshell on the wall by the doorway: “That’s a panic button. I have the Diplomatic Protection Group on speed-dial; we’re less than a hundred yards from embassy row. You’ll be more exposed entering and leaving the New Annex for meetings, but while you’re under my roof you’re very welcome to ask Zero for a ride.” Persephone likes her cars. She has a Bentley Mulsanne turbo and her name is on the waiting list for a Tesla as soon as they begin selling them over here.
I swallow. “I don’t want to be too much trouble, but—”
“Nonsense.” There’s that smile again: fey, slightly manic. “This house was a hotel for a few years before I moved in and renovated it, did you know that? It’ll do us good to open up a couple of the guest rooms. And anyway, it’s a much better location than your place—you live too far out in the sticks for what’s coming.”
“What’s—” Uh-oh. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re on the public radar and your hands are completely clean—you weren’t even in the country when things went to pieces up north. So you’re one of the public faces of the organization, like it or not, Mr. Howard. Which means when you’re not working on your own projects or helping out Dr. Armstrong in his executive role, you can expect to be summoned to testify in front of the Commons Select Committee on Intelligence. Who I gather will begin holding closed hearings this afternoon. You’re on the list for later this week and you need to begin getting your ducks in a row right now.”
* * *
As I learn when I finally get to check my calendar, the Commons Select Committee hearings are indeed due to kick off that afternoon. I’m not going to be called to give evidence for another two days.
It’s late morning when Zero drops me off outside the New Annex, but work waits for no man and I’ve got a ton of admin to catch up on before I can start working out what exactly I’m going to tell the MPs. Luckily there are no murderous cultists or tabloid photographers waiting to doorstep me outside the office, which is a mercy. The cops are back on door duty with their mirror-visored helmets and matte body armor, but they pay no particular attention as I enter. I head for my office, sit down, sigh loudly, and poke at my inbox and schedule. It’s nearly twelve o’clock, I have a mild headache, and after a minute or three I diagnose an excess of blood in my caffeine stream, so I head to the break room. People get out of my way, either because I have become a giant cockroach overnight or, less unreasonably, because I look like death and I will reap the soul of anyone who gets between me and my coffee.
I grab a mug of institutional paint-stripper and stalk back to my den, just in time for my monitor to ping. It’s the SA: he wants me to drop by his office for a, a—what the fuck is a media performance review? I wonder irritably. It’s in my Outhouse calendar, though, along with other flagged attendees: Mhari and Vikram. And that’s my evening fucked, because it’s blocked through until 8:00 p.m. tonight. Then I spot the start time and swear. I have twenty-five minutes to dash to the canteen, swallow whatever’s on offer, and get to Dr. Armstrong’s office.
I luck out. There’s no queue in the canteen when I get there and they’ve still got some food on the hot counter. I wolf down a steak and kidney pie with baked beans, and at least my stomach isn’t rumbling when I dash for the staircase to Dr. Armstrong’s office on the fourth floor.
“Ah, good afternoon, Bob.” The SA himself answers the door. I enter and collapse on his sofa. The SA’s office is like the den of a somewhat eccentric Oxford d
on, his sole concession to modernity being an antique 1990s green-screen computer terminal perched on one end of his blotter. (Angleton doubtlessly chewed him out in his own inimitable way for courting disaster through Van Eck phreaking, but hey: that was long ago and in another country, and besides, the barrow-wight is dead.) The office itself is slightly disturbing. It occupies a four-meter-deep slice of the New Annex floor plan but is at least seven meters long, and Dr. Armstrong keeps the window bay permanently shrouded with blackout curtains. It’s no weirder than Angleton’s office, which swapped buildings once while nobody was looking, but this is the sort of thing that leads sane Laundry employees to give DSS-level practitioners a wide berth. I’m probably heading that way myself, come to think of it.
The door opens again and Vikram Choudhury enters. Vik doesn’t have an occult bone in his body unless you categorize management as a black art. “Bob.” He nods. “Dr. Armstrong.” He’s staggering slightly under the weight of a huge armful of stuff; after a moment I realize it consists entirely of newspapers. He wheezes slightly as he deposits them on the SA’s coffee table. “I thought we could—oh, hello.” An otherwise unremarkable section of the wall opens and Mhari steps out. She closes the panel and straightens her jacket, as if it’s perfectly normal to enter the SA’s sanctum via a secret door that can’t possibly lead anywhere inside the building’s real-world floor plan. “Bob.” She smiles impishly. “Dr. Armstrong, Vik, is this us?”
“Yes,” says the SA. “Please make yourselves comfortable. Mr. Choudhury, what do we have here?”
Vik folds himself into the middle of the sofa, Mhari bags the visitor’s chair, and the SA himself pulls his ancient wooden banker’s chair out from behind the desk so that he can loom over the occasional table like an amiable thundercloud.
“The Daily Mail, Daily Express, and the Daily Mirror.” Vik separates the tabloids as he unfolds them. “Also the Sun, the Metro … and that’s all the significant tabloids.” He starts a new pile: broadsheets this time. “The Scotsman and the Yorkshire Post, to represent the regionals. Finally, the big four: The Times, the Independent, the Guardian, and the Telegraph.” He looks as serious as a heart attack. “If we each pick three, this will go faster.”
The Delirium Brief Page 10