One of the breathing bodies—clad in a dark suit, with a spreading stain of sticky blood drenching the front of its white shirt around the handle of a carving knife—slobbers incoherently at him. The other is less far gone. In fact, by born-again zombie standards he’s positively eloquent: “The sinner summoned up a demon from hell, which shot his wife before turning his weapon on himself. You are Johnny McTavish. We have a message for you.”
“You do, do you?” Johnny stares at the speaker. He looks human—as human as a missionary in his Sunday best—but his voice sounds sluggish and thick. “Stick yer tongue out, mate.”
The missionary stares at him. Writhing shadows in the shape of worms twirl endlessly in the depths of the missionary’s eyes. Then it slowly opens its mouth, revealing a laminated silver carapace. Johnny stares at it. After a moment, it extends eye stalks and stares right back.
“I should kill you right now. Like the others.”
The missionary retracts what passes for its tongue. “Then you would not find it so easy to reach your destination.”
The other missionary’s slobbering quiets. It’s nearly out of blood; even a cymothoan mind parasite can’t get much mileage out of a body that’s no longer capable of supporting aerobic respiration.
“What destination?” Johnny keeps his knife aimed at the thing’s throat. He can feel the knife quivering, eager to carry out its task. He actually has to hold it back, to prevent it from flying out of his hand. It’s difficult to hold back, not least because of the black nucleus of rage burning at the back of his mind over what they have done here to Patrick, who was, if not an old friend, then at least a sometime brother in arms.
The surviving missionary isn’t wasting energy animating its facial muscles: the hosts do not have much use for human body language. It is as unconcerned as a corpse. “We are instructed to bring you to the High Priest, if that is your wish.”
Johnny can’t help himself: he laughs incredulously. “You what?”
“Our master ordered us to serve his High Priest. The High Priest desires your presence at the service of dedication of the masses. You should come with us.” The dying missionary twitches slightly. “You must come with me.”
“You have got to be kidding.” Well, it’s one way in, Johnny thinks. And with Patrick gone, he has no way of contacting the Black Chamber: that part of this errand is a failure. If Schiller wants to see him, that’s awfully convenient. “You aren’t going to convert me and you’re not going to plant one of those things on me. If you try, I’ll kill you. Understand?”
“Come with me,” says the walking corpse. “Please, elder. Your brother commands it.”
Johnny hesitates for a moment, but curiosity finally makes up his mind for him. “All right. But you’re driving,” he says.
14. APPOINTMENT IN SAMARRA
IT’S 11 A.M. AND THE FIRST TRICKLE OF CHURCHGOERS ARE arriving at the New Life Church for today’s extravaganza organized by the Golden Promise Ministries. Pastor Bob Dawes is up front on the stage in the big sanctuary, fronting a team—there’s a light Christian rock band to get the audience energized, a couple of fire eaters with some fun parables to get across, and a bunch of other distractions to keep the audience focussed while the show builds up momentum.
They’ll have help, of course: among the fresh meat will be sitting about five or six hundred of the Saved, those who have already entered fully into the doctrine of the holy ministry and who will live forever in His Glory when the light bringer returns. They’re primed to cheer and clap at the right points; nothing will be allowed to fall flat.
It’s been a huge project to bring forward at very short notice. Schiller’s people have dropped everything, thrown themselves at the job to bring in food and refreshment stands, mobile catering kits, and a mountain of supplies. When you’re getting ten thousand warm bodies through the door you’ve got to keep them fed and irrigated. Luckily New Life expect thousands to show up for peak draws; they’ve got the sanitation and toilet arrangements to handle it, and the first aid support. They’ve had advertising airtime playing every hour for the past couple of days on all five of Colorado Springs’ Christian radio stations—begging, borrowing, and blackmailing to buy up airtime at short notice—and less frequently on the talk and music channels and the Christian stations with coverage in Denver; all this on top of the continuous roadside advertising campaign they’ve been running for the past few months. The message is urgent: “Get off your couch and dance with Jesus!” Ray has personally authorized a million-dollar spend on this project at very short notice, and another million on the support infrastructure.
They’ve even rearranged the main sanctuary for it, brought in additional seating, and laid down red carpet runners on all the aisles.
It is the most expensive birthday party Alex Lockey has ever been invited to. Only he isn’t going to be taking time to enjoy the scene—as security chief he’s going to be spending the whole session in the control room. Ah well. The Lord will provide, he thinks ironically as he waits for Ray to finish with makeup.
“Not too glossy, hon,” Ray tells Judy, his makeup girl. “I need gravitas. Most of these people don’t know me well yet.” His eyes turn to Alex. “The missionaries. Any word?”
“Yes. They’ve found Elder McTavish. He’s en route.” He pauses. “There was some trouble with a spy working for the Operational Phenomenology Agency, but he’s been dealt with. McTavish led our men to him.” And a good thing too, he keeps to himself. There’s no room for loose cannon stringers in this operation. If head office were to get wind of what’s going on here before the Sleeper awakens it could cause any amount of trouble.
“Excellent.” Schiller does not smile—not while Judy is working on his forehead with a brush: the artist is not to be disturbed—but his satisfaction is palpable. “McTavish will not yet be fully committed. Don’t let him see the others after you take them in.”
“I certainly won’t, sir,” Alex assures him. “If you don’t mind…?”
Leaving the presence of his master, Alex walks around the periphery of the sanctuary. The huge church is filling up slowly, and there’s chatter among the families as they queue for the best unreserved seats; ushers from GPM, uniformed in blue smocks, are directing them towards aisles where their arrival will cause minimal disruption. Some of them clutch burgers and burritos with their bibles, hot from the booths outside. The food is free, for as Ray puts it, a full stomach is a great way to get the undecided to sit down and listen to the good news.
Alex’s two-way radio buzzes. It’s Deputy Stewart in the control room. “We need you up here now, boss,” he says. “We’ve got a situation developing.”
“Check. On my way.” Alex ups his pace. It wouldn’t do to let any unwanted interlopers kick up a fuss on the Lord’s new birthday.
Not long now, he thinks. His captive host agrees: Soon we will be reunited with the Lord. Alex basks in its warm glow of joyful anticipation. Strange to think that such a—his mind flinches from the next word—alien-looking thing could be such a source of love and consolation. But it is, and thanks to his wards his own mind is intact enough to appreciate the irony. And when you’ve worked for the Nazgûl for as long as Alex has, you learn to look beyond surface appearances.
AT THE EXACT MOMENT THAT LOCKEY IS BEING PAGED BY SECURITY in the New Life Church’s control room, it’s coming up on 6 p.m. in London. In a dingy office block above a row of shuttered shops, somewhere south of the river, most of the windows are dark, for it is far into overtime territory in a time of spending cuts. But in one particular meeting room—windowless, in the interior of the warren of narrow puce-green corridors and beige-carpet-tiled offices that make up the New Annex—the lights are burning late.
Approach the meeting room by way of the corridor and you will see that the door has no windows, and is identified only by a name plate reading M25. There’s a strip of lights above it, like a miniature horizontal traffic signal. Right now the red light is flashing.
“Tell me,” the Senior Auditor leans forward, “precisely how long ago Howard was supposed to report in.”
Gerald Lockhart clears his throat as he checks his wristwatch: “I was expecting him to be here by now,” he says mildly. “I delivered the scram instruction at eight fifteen p.m. yesterday and authorized him to use any means necessary. He should have had sufficient time to make a connection by now.”
The Auditor—sixty-ish, male, distinguished-looking, with gold-rimmed half-moon bifocals—exchanges a significant look with his colleague—female, late forties, with the twin-set-and-pearls look of a House of Lords apparatchik. She delivers the next question pointedly: “What is the communication situation at present?”
Lockhart grimaces as if he’s just been asked to swallow a live toad. “In a word, poor. Phone calls are not connected. Email is not downloaded. SMS messages are not delivered. To determine whether this was specific to our people, I tried contacting various businesses in Colorado. Denver and Colorado Springs and all points between might as well have dropped off the map. The last information I could independently verify was that there is an anomalous snowstorm sweeping down the Rockies, that all flights in and out of those cities and their environs are grounded, and there’s some kind of problem with satellite phones.”
The female auditor makes a note on her pad. “Have you enquired through formal channels yet?”
“No.” Lockhart stares down his nose, refusing to be intimidated. “As I already noted at the last oversight meeting, local law enforcement is believed to be compromised.”
“Have you contacted the Black Chamber, directly or indirectly?”
Lockhart takes a deep breath. “That’s what we’re here to discuss. The answer is ‘no,’ by the way. Not without your authorization.”
The male Auditor speaks again: “So we have established a baseline for this situation.” He looks at Lockhart sharply. “Denver. Tell me about its geography.”
“Geography? It’s on a plateau.” Lockhart shrugs. “West of it, everything goes crinkle-cut. East, it slopes gently down to the Mississippi.”
The fourth occupant of the meeting room finally speaks. “A plateau.” His tone is wintry.
“Thank you, Doctor,” the female Auditor is snippy, “unless you have anything to contribute…?”
“Yes, it’s a plateau,” Lockhart snaps waspishly. “With a couple of cities in the middle, and a big temple. The parallels to the layout of a certain other plateau in a location formerly subject to regular photorecon overflight did not pass me by, James.”
Angleton nods. He rests his elbows on the arms of his chair, fingers steepled; beneath the harsh fluorescent light from the ceiling tubes, his face looks sunken, cadaverous. “I see.” He turns to stare at the auditors. “You are aware of APOCALYPSE CODEX?”
The male Auditor nods. “That is the document that…” He glances at Lockhart.
“Yes,” says Lockhart, surly at having his work exposed to hostile eyes and critical minds. “The one that was copied during the black bag job at Schiller’s hotel. And that Howard so casually emailed to an uncleared social contact—” His icy disapproval is profound.
“The, ah, doctor of divinity,” Angleton notes with relish, “whose thesis was a study of variant Essene apocalypse cults.” He returns Lockhart’s glare with a blandly satisfied expression. “Do we have one of those on payroll? I seem to recall Donald Hiller retired nearly twenty years ago without any decision as to a successor being made. How long would it have taken us to locate and vet a suitable consultant if Howard hadn’t cut the Gordian knot?”
“But he shouldn’t be—”
“Mister Lockhart.” Angleton leans forward like an angry rattlesnake: “You picked Howard because he can think outside the box and improvise solutions in the field. And you sent him out into the field to support BASHFUL INCENDIARY and JOHNNY PRINCE, without showing him the PRINCE dossier or explaining the relationship between Hazard and McTavish and our organization. You are the one who decided that the best way to evaluate his performance under stress would be to handicap him in that respect. You chose your cake. And now you are complaining about the flavor?”
“Dr. Angleton!” The female Auditor sits up. “If you please.” She glances at her colleague. “Should we action HR about this external contact?”
“Hmm, I don’t think so. Not yet. A vicar.” The other Auditor picks up a pen and twirls it between his fingertips. “Too public a figure. Background checks only, for now. We can reel him in if he begins to ask uncomfortable questions.”
“So.” The female Auditor raises a hand and starts ticking off finger joints: “Mahogany Row suggested BASHFUL INCENDIARY and JOHNNY PRINCE investigate a location that has unfortunate resonances with GOD GAME BLUE, not to mention PRINCE’s background. Howard was sent to monitor them and provide top cover while they were underground. He acknowledged a scram instruction but is now overdue, and there appears to be a communications blackout over most of populated Colorado. However, he transmitted documentary evidence that confirms GOD GAME VIOLET. The anomalous meteorological conditions suggest that GOD GAME YELLOW is in effect, either now or imminently. INCENDIARY and PRINCE are also unaccounted for. Is that a reasonable summary?”
Lockhart runs a hand through his thinning hair distractedly. “Yes.”
Angleton peers out across a bony cage of interlaced fingers. “The black bag job,” he says smoothly. “It was deniable, yes?”
Lockhart bristles. “It was a journalist from the News of the World, if you must know. He bribed a cleaner. We used a cut-out in the Met to suggest he investigate Schiller—Freaky Fundie Preaches Polygamy at Number Ten, that sort of thing.” He shrugged. “Our friends at the Doughnut were good enough to send us his cameraphone contents. Totally, utterly hands-off, you may rest assured.”
“Ahem.” The Senior Auditor interrupts. “I’d like to get back to the situation in hand, which has evidently spiraled out of control in the last day. Thank you for drawing it to our attention.” He glances at his colleague. “Do you think we have time to send this back up the ladder to board level? Will it keep overnight?”
Her expression could chill liquid nitrogen. “No.” She glances at her watch. “If there’s any risk whatsoever that Schiller is attempting to raise the Sleeper I think we should act immediately on our own cognizance.”
Lockhart looks as if he’s about to say something, but freezes at a glance from Angleton.
“This isn’t a regular external operation anymore,” the Senior Auditor tells Lockhart, not ungently. “Nor is there any need for it to remain so. You can let go, if you want. A more collegiate protocol is called for.”
“Collegiate?” Lockhart pales. “But Hazard and McTavish are at that level.”
“He’s talking about the reciprocal monitoring provisions of the Benthic Treaty,” Angleton points out. “Someone has to tell the Black Chamber. Stands to reason, old man.” Angleton looks at the Auditors. “Well?”
“Doctor Angleton.” The older Auditor pauses to push his bifocals up the bridge of his nose. “I believe you have dealt with those entities in the past. Would you mind…?”
“What? Right here and now?” Angleton, normally imperturbable, for the first time sounds taken aback.
“Can you suggest a reason not to? As this is a
matter of some immediate urgency…”
Angleton looks round. “Well, we should ward the documentary evidence first. Anything that’s not cleared for sharing under these admittedly irregular circumstances. And we should ward ourselves thoroughly. And have suitable backup in place to contain any hard contact. Otherwise, no.”
“Then so be it.” The Auditor looks at Lockhart. “Gerald. When called upon, you will give an account of the inception of this operation, the direction of the external assets, and the status of Agent Howard as their monitor, and a concise report about what they found. You may mention the motivation for this operation, but should not identify the participants in the black bag job. You may discuss material classified under GOD GAME color codes freely—the Black Chamber will already be fully aware of their content—but may not refer to those codewords directly. Do not discuss McTavish’s background unless the Black Chamber show prior cognizance of it. If you wish to vary these constraints you may request it of us, but not in the presence of the other party. Am I understood?”
Lockhart swallows. “Yes, I think so. Am I to negotiate?”
“No.” The Auditor peers at him over his spectacle frames. “That’s Angleton’s job. He knows what we’re dealing with.” He puts down his pen. “I wish we had time to send out for a longer spoon, though…”
“I THINK THEY’RE ONTO US,” I SAY.
I have been sitting in the passenger seat for the past hour, as Persephone flogs the rental coupé down the interstate in weather only a homesick penguin could love—it’s so cold I’m shivering inside my anorak just from looking out the windows—when I realize what’s going on.
“Where?” she asks, instantly focussed.
“Not in sight right now.” I pause, and glance down at the pizza box. “But we keep passing cops on the shoulder with light bars going. Every ten minutes or so. If you knew you were tracking someone on this highway, wouldn’t that be how you’d do it if you had the resources? Station observers every five to ten miles to radio in a sighting, instead of putting a car on their tail which they might spot.”
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