Happy joy.
I’ve been involved in field operations for over a decade, and I can tell you that there’s a single golden rule that governs these junkets, and you already know it: no plan survives contact with the enemy. A corollary of this rule is that contingency planning is, if not futile, then of questionable utility. If you let it it’ll eat up 90 percent of your planning capacity and your targets will still find some creative and unanticipated way to balls things up for you. And another corollary is that as an op grows more complicated, the number of ways it can go off the rails explodes exponentially. What Dr. Armstrong has so kindly dropped in my lap is responsibility for planning, not a single op, but an intricate three-way dance-off competition with an experienced team of adversaries (mutter grumble corporate security who subcontract for the OPA, our American counterparts) who are already engaged in a counteroperation against us, using only the resources made available to me via Continuity Operations, viz. the organizational equivalent of two blokes I met down at the pub and their whippet on a string.
This is not just asking for trouble: this is like walking up to a baby grizzly bear and punching him on the nose in order to get momma’s undivided attention. It’s so inadvisable that under normal circumstances I’d kick up an extreme stink if someone tasked me with organizing such a circus. Unfortunately the present situation is not normal, and—I am unhappy to admit this—I can’t think of a better alternative. Schiller is trailing such a very scary threat profile in front of us (fox taking over contract to provide hen-coop security services, hit squads on the street, alien crotch-worm mind parasites as door-to-door evangelists) that it’s only the red ink in his cash flow that’s suggestive of it being cover for something even worse—something that justifies a burn rate that will bankrupt his organization within months if he keeps it up.
We need to find out what he’s up to and stop it dead, and that means getting the drop on the operation he’s running. It has three obvious centers on British soil: the posh mansion where he’s wining and dining his marks, the corporate headquarters building where presumably the legwork gets done, and the apartment he’s camped out in with his retinue. The obvious thing to do is to hit all three of them simultaneously (and without warning); he can’t be everywhere at once, can he? Schiller himself is far too dangerous to confront face-to-face, so that will be a black-bag job. Given that he vanished in the Sleeper’s Pyramid and then came back, the worst case possibility is that he’s a mindhost for the Sleeper itself, a being that compares with your typical feeder in the night the way … you’ve seen Ghostbusters, haven’t you? We’re in Twinkie Singularity territory here.
So I hole up in a safe house in Hemel Hempstead and get stuck into making some pretty overhead projection charts—Lord Acton said power corrupts, but PowerPoint corrupts absolutely—then draft a Gantt chart and draw lots of dotted lines on it. Finally I think up a code name for the op. INDIGO HUMMINGBIRD seems memorable enough. INDIGO because it’s part of the GOD GAME portfolio, and HUMMINGBIRD because, well, that’s a name for an ill-omened operation that’s memorable enough to be a caution and obscure enough not to be an instant giveaway.
And two days later I take a small risk and call a face-to-face meeting of the designated team leads. The Lamplighters make it happen in public in a hotel conference room at Hinckley, of all places, everyone wearing suits and presenting as boring sales managers having a jaw-jaw about their regional targets.
“Okay, people, here’s the outline plan. INDIGO HUMMINGBIRD will hit three sites in parallel, with different objectives at each. Target One is Nether Stowe House. During Schiller’s next rave we will get people into the area his security folks have locked down and find out what’s going on inside and put a stop to it if it’s possible to do so while avoiding a direct confrontation with the Sleeper’s avatar-in-person. The Target One side of the op is open-ended and requires maximal flexibility; it might be a simple look inside a security ready-room, or … well, who knows? It’s also maximally sensitive: there will be VIPs and celebrities present, and while we want no witnesses who can identify us we can’t strong-arm them either. Because Schiller himself will probably be present, Target One is off-limits to those of us who were involved in the mess in Denver the other year—me, Persephone, and Johnny. Our current agent in place is”—I swallow—“Her very Eldritch Majesty, Cassie Brewer. So far she’s been running solo with a wire back to her off-site support team, notably Alex Schwartz.” I swallow again: the next bit is difficult. “Mo, I don’t think Alex is remotely ready to run HUMMINGBIRD, so I’d like you to take over Target One Control. Alex can stay and provide analysis support—also if you need a PHANG for backup he’s on hand and motivated.”
Mo nods thoughtfully. I’m not sure whether it’s the plan she’s holding judgment over, or me. I move swiftly on.
“Our friends from the Artists’ Rifles are badly shorthanded right now thanks to the business in Leeds, but they’re still talking to us on the down low, and given the size of Target One I’ve asked the SA for a full OCCULUS team. They’re the backup if it turns out there’s something in the basement that wants killing with fire. They’ll be deployed in police drag rather than fire/emergency on this occasion and it’ll be spun as an exercise if anyone asks, and they’re nothing to do with us … but at least they’ll be there. Oh, and you get to ask for any other warm bodies you think Target One requires, once I get through divvying up the rest of the work.”
Now she smiles in my direction, and I’m very glad it’s the notion that the gloves are coming off that merits this particular smile rather than something I’ve done, because if otherwise I’d be clutching my wedding tackle and looking for a window to jump through.
“Target Two is the GP Services office compound out at Heathrow,” I announce. “Schiller almost certainly won’t be there, but it’s got solid security and it’s where we’ll find his backup resources. If we’re going to black-bag his office we need a pretext to get inside without alarming the airport police. I’m going to lead this one, with Johnny riding shotgun. We’re going to look like an HMRC customs inspectorate team serving an Anton Piller order—a court-ordered no-knock search to prevent the destruction of evidence. Our cover story will be that we’re investigating a tip-off about VAT fraud and we’re there to seize IT equipment and accounting records, but there’ll be a second-level cover story: someone in his organization is believed to be using GP Security’s internal post system to smuggle cocaine. This will justify a quiet poke around the rest of his facility. I’ve asked for another OCCULUS team, but if only one is available it’ll be allocated to Target One.”
Mo nods. Johnny, who has been sitting silently but intent throughout the briefing, snorts quietly and leans back.
“Target Two is high-risk,” I add, trying to keep a slight tremor out of my voice, “because there is a risk that it’ll draw the attention of the police.” Which, in this context, does not mean a friendly community constable, it means hordes of guys in body armor with automatic weapons who train daily for shoot-outs with terrorists. Which in turn is why I have assigned myself to it, and just one of the reasons why I’m having trouble sleeping nights in view of how everything went pear-shaped on Dartmoor: it’s more than possible for an operation to be both a technical success and an utter blood-drenched clusterfuck.
“Target Three,” I announce, “is a bit different: it’s Schiller’s luxury apartment in Docklands. Unlike the other two, it’s not public and it doesn’t call for high-end force. We have a monitoring operation two floors above it. We want to get in, take a look around, and get out clean while Schiller is busy at Target One. Ideally they’ll root any electronic devices on the premises and scan any documents. There’s a safe, and we can get the manufacturer’s schematics and see if there’s a maintenance backdoor while we’re at it. Now, the problem with Schiller’s pad is that it’s got security suitable for a visiting head of state—sparrowfart territory, remote-controlled sensors on all the approaches—and some really nasty booby
traps on the in-building approaches. Yes, I know booby traps are illegal: nevertheless. This is going to call for social engineering skills rather than the blunt approach or infiltrating a catering company.”
The people in the front row are looking thoughtful, except for the one I’ve picked to lead this particular hit, who just seems sleepily amused. “Persephone, I believe you have a little bit of experience with this sort of thing? Great, because you’re running Target Three and your main job is to figure out how to get Mhari inside.”’Seph looks pleased; Mhari looks startled.
“But I’m not a covert ops asset—” She stops, then looks around apprehensively. Right. The vampire has just realized she’s in a meeting populated exclusively by spooks and people who go bump in the night. (What she hasn’t clocked yet is that she’s not out of place in this company.) “What?”
“Short of widening the magic circle, Bob’s running short of bodies,” Persephone points out. “Continuity Ops is already almost fully committed—at least, the part of it the SA has given me to play with while he’s busy doing other things. If we hit a billionaire condo in London’s Docklands with an OCCULUS team, somebody might notice, not to mention the other parallel ops going shorthanded. So we’re going to work out how to get you in and out under cover. Don’t worry, if it goes off the rails I’ll come and fetch you.” She grins. “It’s going to be fun.”
* * *
Q-Division SOE was not the Prison Service. While we sometimes had to detain people subject to our terms of operation, and sometimes provided security for the Black Assizes, who are called upon to rule in criminal cases dealing with the occult, we didn’t actually run any prisons as such. (Camp Sunshine was a special case—it’s a detention center, but most of the people there are theoretically on remand until they can be deprogrammed and released. And Camp Tolkien is less than a month old.) But sometimes needs must, and when that happened, when it became necessary to lock up someone who we can’t simply bind to silence with a geas and place in the general prison population, we have access to a very special facility indeed, operated by the Prison Service with staff trained by us. And even after Q-Division’s windup, this particular lockup is still in business.
Let me give you a clue: it’s the oldest still-functioning prison building in the UK, if not Europe. (Built in the thirteenth century, in fact.) It has hosted a number of extremely famous prisoners, although it fell out of regular use in the 1950s; its last inmates were the Kray twins, who were banged up in 1952 for a couple of days for ignoring their national service papers. While it has a bloody reputation, only a couple dozen people have been executed on the premises since 1900—most notably spies and traitors during both world wars. Today, it’s mostly preserved as a museum (and the headquarters of the Royal Regiment of Fusiliers), but Her Majesty’s prison in the Tower of London still has a couple of cells tucked away in Beauchamp Tower, for our occasional use.
For the past six months, Cell Block Q (as it is unofficially known) has been occupied by a single guest. He’s in solitary confinement, on lockdown twenty-three hours a day, no visitors allowed—and if you think that’s harsh, it gets worse. The prisoner is guarded by four very special Prison Service employees. They’re not youngsters (one of them is over seventy), and the one thing they have in common is that they’re profoundly deaf. Two of them have cochlear implants; but they’re required to physically remove their microphones and leave them at the door before reporting for work. Our prisoner is not allowed paper or writing materials, or internet access, or any way of communicating more complex than a board with carefully preselected words to point to: food, water, heat, light, toilet paper, TV remote, batteries.
Communication is a basic human need. Deprive us of the ability to make a connection with our fellow people and we become depressed or upset within a day or two. Solitary confinement prolonged for more than two weeks is viewed as torture in many enlightened nations. We don’t keep the special prisoner in Cell Block Q incommunicado and under lockdown lightly. But if we don’t, he’ll slip through our fingers within hours, and questions will be asked.
So it causes no little consternation when, one evening, Dr. Armstrong signs himself in and communicates to the shift supervisor his intention of visiting with the prisoner.
“I’m sorry, sir, but you can’t do that.” The senior prison officer crosses his arms uneasily. “We’ve got strict orders here that direct communications aren’t permitted under any circumstances. I’m sure you know why that is.” Prison officers are trained to be assertive, to own any confrontation just as police officers are, but Mr. McCubbin—midfifties, graying, a veteran of Wandsworth and Pentonville—clearly finds the Senior Auditor an intimidating figure. “No exceptions, I’m afraid.”
Dr. Armstrong nods. “The segregation order was made at my suggestion, and signed off by Mr. Justice Gilpin. As you can confirm from the prisoner’s file, if you double-check it. Now, unfortunately a situation has arisen in which it is necessary for somebody to ask the prisoner some questions. I’m here because I have some, ah, natural resistance to the prisoner’s wiles.” He pushes his warrant card across the tabletop, in the direction of Prison Officer McCubbin, who reacts to it as if to a bird-eating spider. “I propose to go in there under your officer’s supervision, for a thirty-minute period, after which I shall leave. Your officer will ensure that I do not pass anything to the prisoner and that I leave alone.” He touches the legal document he brought to back up his warrant card. “As you can see, Mr. Justice Gilpin has signed off on this waiver, as has the Intelligence Services Commissioner. So an exception does exist—for me, and me alone, for a period of half an hour.”
McCubbin picks up the court order and sighs heavily as he rereads the first page. “I’ll need to read this all, and verify its authenticity,” he warns Dr. Armstrong.
“Take your time.” The SA smiles faintly as he picks up his warrant card. “I believe there’s a cafe adjacent to the gift shop. Will an hour be sufficient, do you think?”
(The court order is indeed genuine, although the signature on the ISC waiver is somewhat questionable; it’s certainly the Commissioner’s scrawl, and a copy is on file at the MOD, but if asked he’d swear blind he can’t recall signing it. But in the absence of an actual operational OCCINT agency, it is distressingly easy for a former SOE Auditor to walk in off the street and charm the right executive assistant, literally as well as figuratively—especially with the extraordinary powers vested in him by virtue of his oath under Continuity Ops.)
An hour and a half later the visitor’s cafe has closed for the evening and the lights are on in the supervisor’s office as Dr. Armstrong returns to a more obliging reception. “Good evening, sir. You’ll be pleased to know that it all checks out. If I can see your ID again…? I’ll log you in, then Barry can show you to the visiting room. We’ll still have to search you, I’m afraid…”
Eventually Dr. Armstrong is admitted to the visiting room. Which, Cell Block Q having but a single occupant, doubles as a dayroom. There are two cell doors at the opposite side, one of which gapes open. The dayroom is furnished with an elderly floral three-piece suite, a coffee table, and a smallish TV with built-in DVD player. Prison Officer Hastings positions himself to one side of the entrance and adopts a relaxed, waiting posture. He’s profoundly deaf, but from where he stands he can trigger the wall-mounted alarm button instantly in event of trouble.
As the SA enters, the prisoner is leaning over the coffee table. A gridded board lies open atop it, dotted with rows of black and white stones, and the prisoner is studying them intently from the sofa. It’s a game of Go, and as Dr. Armstrong watches, the prisoner places a black stone on the board, completing the encirclement of a line of white stones; he scoops these up and replaces them, then looks up. “Ah, Michael! To what do I owe the honor?”
“Fabian.” The SA nods affably, then perches on the edge of the armchair. “Are you free to talk?” As he speaks the prisoner’s name he feels a prickling in the fine hairs of his arms,
and a stinging from the ward around his neck: the prisoner is probing, of course, restlessly seeking an advantage. It’s in his nature, of course, which is why the SA has taken additional precautions.
“Oh, I have plenty of time these days.” Fabian leans back and stretches, then smiles lazily. “As you should know.”
The weird thing about the prisoner’s smile is that Dr. Armstrong recognizes the expression but can’t be certain what it looks like: whether Fabian is displaying a pearly white row of teeth or keeping his lips sealed, whether his eyes are blue, green, or brown, whether his hair is curly or straight. He can look at the prisoner and try to memorize his appearance and an instant later all the details will have slipped his mind. “Well, yes.” Dr. Armstrong crosses his legs and matches the prisoner’s recumbency. Mirroring posture is a trick human interrogators use to put their subjects at ease in their company, although whether it’ll work on this particular prisoner is anybody’s guess. “How are you keeping?”
“So-so.” The smile slips away like spring rain. “The lack of communication is a little frustrating, if I may say so. But this, too, shall pass.” He gestures towards the board, and a white stone hops neatly out of its wooden tub and lands a couple of grid intersections away from the nearest black eye. “Hmm. White resigns in sixteen points, I think. It’s a long game,” he adds conversationally. “I find those are ever so much more stimulating, don’t you think?”
“That’s not the word I’d use … but I take your point.” The SA nods. “Is there anything I can get you? Anything to make life more comfortable?”
The prisoner chuckles. “A by-election in a three-way marginal would be most amusing, but I don’t suppose that’s on offer yet, is it?”
“Not yet, no.” The SA pauses. “But you never know. Questions are being asked. Do you have access to the news on that thing?” His glance takes in the TV set.
The Delirium Brief Page 25